Thread 24657566

Write a small folktale about the picture. Can be in prose, poetry, whatever: as long as it fits in the comment box. No time limit. Fitting with folktale tradition, all submissions must be anonymous: tripfags will be ignored. Winner will be crowned /lit/‘s reigning raconteur.

Whomst shall the winner be selected ?

>>24657573
When I want to.

Long ago, before the Sun found the Earth, all lived in everlasting night. The only light was that of the Moon, which hung over everything like a great white egg.

On the Earth, there lived three animals, and each were alone.

The Bear, who was half-blind, looked up at the moon and said, “That thing looks just like me: big and fuzzy. I think I’ll call it the Bear.” And from that day, that is what he called it.

The Heron, who was always flying about restlessly, looked at the moon and said, “That thing looks just like me: long and thin. I think I’ll call it the Heron.”

The Crow, who lived deep in the forest, and only ever looked at the moon through the cracks in the branches, said, “That thing looks just like me: small and jagged. I think I’ll call it the Crow.”

And so, the three each found a friend.

One day the monkey fell from the sky. He rode on a big comet, and its tail lit up the sky. The three animals, who had never seen such a thing, decided to leave their homes to go and see what had come down.

The Heron, being very fast, was the first to find the monkey. He looked at the strange furry creature and asked, “Where did you come from?”
“Why,” the Monkey said, “I came from the moon!”
The Heron was very confused.

In time, the Crow arrived, and finally the Bear. Each asked the same question, and each time the Monkey gave the same answer, and so the three animals were very confused.

After a long silence, the animals discovered they had nothing in common, and each returned to their homes.

The Monkey made his way to the sea, where he lived amongst the tall fruit trees. There he spent his days eating sweet fruit, and counting the waves, until he forgot all about where he had come from. But sometimes, despite all he had, he felt terribly lonely.

Until one day, while he was sitting on the highest branches of the highest tree, he looked at the Moon from behind a bunch of ripening fruit and said, “That thing looks just like me: small, with a curling tail. I think I'll call it the Monkey.”

And so, all the animals had found a friend, and they were never lonely again.

Don't do this. /lit/ doesn't need a glut of contests, and one poorly managed one reduces the credibility of them all.

>>24657750
There’s only one other contest going on, and a thread about a contest that closed and isn’t arriving till September.

>>24657750
You make a point but surely more creative writing threads are better than the 100th "Have women written any books", "What am I in for", "I love my booktuber wife", "What should I read I'm bored" type threads.

>>24657750
Not everything needs to be pompous, grandiose and organized. Let creativity and spontaneity flow, nigga

>>24657710
Is this style applicable OP? Is too much of a children's tale?

>>24658065
It is applicable, and quite nice! I enjoyed it a lot.

>>24658071
Thanks chum.

>>24657750
>credibility
What credibility, retard? The other "contest" is literally just an excuse to have some fun with a writing exercise

>>24657710
This doesn't have much meaning or significance, like what I'd expect out of a folktale. The overt message is pretty basic (finding comfort through personal understandings of things greater than ourselves), and the source of conflict---the monkey showing up---is where I would have expected some challenge to the original idea. But all the animals remain the same after, and the monkey ends up that way too. There's no real lesson or warning or wisdom, and no connection between the animals. It just repeats itself.

>>24657566 (OP)

Somebody post some /lit/ folktales from your country, all I can think of is Fairy tales or Arthurian legends.

The legend of La Llorona, Spanish for the Weeping Woman, has been a part of the Southwest’s Hispanic culture since the conquistadores’ days. The tall, thin spirit is said to be blessed with natural beauty and long flowing black hair. She wears a white gown and roams the rivers and creeks, wailing into the night and searching for children to drag, screaming to a watery grave.

No one knows when the legend of La Llorona began or where it originated. Though the tales vary from source to source, the common thread is that she is the spirit of a doomed mother who drowns her children and spends eternity searching for them in rivers and lakes.

La Llorona, christened “Maria,” was born to a peasant family in a humble village. Her startling beauty captured the attention of the area’s rich and poor men. She was said to have spent her days in her humble peasant surroundings, but she would don her best white gown in the evenings and thrill the men who admired her in the local fandangos.

The young men anxiously waited for her arrival, and she reveled in the attention that she received. However, La Llorona had two small sons who made it difficult for her to spend her evenings out, and she often left them alone while she cavorted with the gentlemen during the evenings. One day the two small boys were found drowned in the river. Some say they drowned through her neglect, but others say they may have died by her own hand.

>>24658412
Yeah, I agree. But no conventional plot trajectory appeared to me that did not feel contrived. Couldn't help but make it a child's analogy for solipsistic perception. I felt that the animals flying to the moon, sharing a common experience, becoming fast friends, the United Tribe of Earth, would have simple been another stale clichè in a world of stale clichè. But I agree it needs more.

>>24657566 (OP)
Bear and Crane were good friends, and each day they would meet at the riverbank in the woods. These were the days when all creatures spoke in one language, before men lived in cities. As Bear washed her fur coat and Crane fished with his long beak, they would gossip and share stories about the other animals in the woods. One day, they noticed a lone hawk soaring high in the sky. They thought nothing of it, but when they returned to the river the next day, the hawk was still circling above them. After three days of the hawk circling the woods and saying nothing, finally Bear called out, "What are you doing up there?"

The hawk replied only in a sharp, high pitched cry which made Bear jump.

Crane ruffled her feathers. "Who taught you such bad manners, Hawk? Speak properly."

The hawk just shrieked again, this time in a forlorn manner. He swooped down low and wheeled in a tight circle several times, edging toward the east.

"I think he wants us to follow him," Bear said.

"He must need our help, let us see what he needs," Crane said, being a good hearted neighbor.

So Bear and Crane, out of their kind souls, followed Hawk through the wild woods. From time to time, he would let out another strange shriek and swoop down to check that they were still following. They walked all afternoon and evening without stopping to eat, wondering where Hawk was leading them. Bear tried talking to Hawk again, but each time he could only make unintelligible noise. Finally they left the woods, and under the light of a full moon they walked across the golden plains. The moon lit their way through the whispering grass. Grasshoppers sang lullabies, and frogs chanted their night-songs in the distance. Bear chatted with a nightjar for a short while, who told her something puzzling.

"Beware of a mountain just across that stream. It may be a mountain but it's too steep, it's too flat, it's sides are too smooth. Men are on that mountain, and act strangely. Animals, too, when they approach the mountain, are so frightened that they become speechless. I have only heard this from rumors - I do not dare see it myself."

Bear and Crane were frightened by this news, but decided to keep following Hawk. Just before dawn, they saw fires in the distance, hovering in the sky. They heard voices, too, but distorted and meaningless. The closer they got to the fires, the stranger noises they heard. The grasshoppers quit singing, and made a droning rasping sound. The owls stopped their witty conversations and asked pointlessly, "Who? Who? Who?"

Finally, the fires become torches on the side of a mountain. The mountain wasn't a natural mountain at all, but an alien thing with impossibly straight edges and and smooth surfaces to walk on. They were in the sight of men, and one of them yelled something when he saw Bear. Bear was so frightened, when she tried to speak, her voice leapt out of her throat and ran away forever. Bear roared, Crane squacked and Hawk shrieked.

>>24657566 (OP)
There was a boy whose mother was sick, who was sent to draw water. The road to safe, for many travelers used the road. The road was rough and worn, but the sky was bright and the weather was fair. When the boy reach a third of the way to the well, he saw two figures carrying baskets. As the boy approached, he recognized them now for his aunt and uncle. "We spent the morning collecting herbs along the road, but when we filled our wagon the wheel broke and we were forced to carry them". The boy took a third of the baskets and carried it with them back to town. They offered him a meal, but the boy refused "My mother is sick and needs me to fetch her water, perhaps you can give her a meal in place of me, that would repay me greatly", and the boy set off back on the road to the well.

The day progressed and the clouds became overcast. Upon the road, two thirds of the way to the well, the boy met an old man. The man was carrying a bucket of water. The old man, exhausted, beckoned the boy to sit with him as he rested. "I am a wise man" said the elder, "and yet wisdom of the mind prevails not in matters that require the wit of the body". The boy sat with the old man, and the boy's stomach growled for he hadn't the chance to eat. "Would you help me to carry my bucket in to town? I offer my wisdom as payment". The boy refused his offer, but took up his bucket anyways, and traveled back into town with the old man, carrying his bucket to his old home. "Wise old man, you offered me wisdom, but I cannot use it. My mother is sick and needs company while I travel to the well to fetch her water, perhaps you can give her your wisdom in place of me, that would repay me greatly", and the boy set back on the road to the well.

The day grew late as the Sun grew old. Now he was starved, but still he walked on. Coming to the well, a boy spotted a small glint in the corner of his eye. The glint came from a bush just off of the road. The boy stopped. "It could be treasure" he thought, "It could be gold or jewels". But the boy was good and loyal, for what would gold prevail without water? The boy passed by the glinting bush, and filled his bucket, and turning back to the path home, saw that the glint was that of a beartrap, and was proud that he had resisted temptation.

As the town was in sight, the Sun began to set, and as he reached the door of his hut, it had just descended beneath the horizon. He despaired that he had made his sick mother wait for him, what a poor son to make his sick mother wait. But as he stood the door opened, and his mother stood, with color in her face. "When your aunt and uncle came to visit, they told me of your kindness and offered me a share of the herbs they picked and offered me a meal, and we ate and spoke together, but scarcely did they leave when an old man arrived and, examining me, used the herbs to break my fever", and so the boy, gratified, wept in relief that his generosity had not hurt, but helped.

>>24658964
UGH TYPOS KILL ME

"The road was safe" not "The road to safe"

"When the boy reached a third of the way to the well.." not "When the boy reach a third of the way to the well.."

>>24658575
Aw I was hoping this was a genius metatextual invention presented as common knowledge. But it's just really common knowledge.

Deep under Lake Michigan there is a land forgotten. The Red Men brought beads and skins and offered meats and cornmeal at the great blue marble alters of the long forgotten gods of this forgotten land, the land of Gergundgero. It was named Gergundgero by the Winnebago, who found it already ancient beyond memory, a place of untold splendor, and they said the totems held the roofs of their teepees, that they were the size of two sugar maples stacked on their heads, and they too were made of that blue marble. The teepees were empty, the inhabitants were gone, but what remained were springs of sweet, fine syrup, and beds of the finest furs, and the Winnebago, and all the Red Men who came across it, found it pleasant and said it was holy and sacred.

In place of the Sun, Gergundgero is lighted by the bright trees that glow white like lamps in the day, and in place of the Moon, the sparklefins on the bottom of Lake Michigan mark the coming of night. Gergundgero is always temperate and there is no snow, nor rain, save the occasional dripping from the lake floor above. A gentle breeze sweeps the orange and blue grass and flowers of every color and variety populate not just the hills and valleys of Gergundgero, but also the walls. There are no bugs but butterflies and rockworms, neither pose a risk to men.

But, beware, for the land of Gergundgero is not a paradise. In that land beneath the lake there are many dangerous creatures. In Gergundgero the hodags hunt the teakettlers, but the hodag prefers the taste of human flesh, and will gore him instead. If you grow thirsty, there is no recourse in the lakes of Gergundgero, for the lakes are full of Cougar Fish who will strike you down in a moment. The missing people of Gergundgero never made any furniture so that any who arrive are forced to stand, and many a visitor spied a comfortable looking tree stump only to find themselves quickly eaten by a stunklebunt.

It is said that Paul Bunyan once visited Gergundgero, and he found it full of snipes. It was known that none have ever caught a snipe, but he reached is big arms and encompassed the whole land, knowing the it was small enough that he might grasp the whole place. He herded the snipes and the hodags, the teakettlers and the stunklebunts in his massive arms. When he had them corralled in one arm he sorted the others and bid them to go. He counted ten snipes, and he tried to press them to his chest so that he might boast to be the first to catch a snipe, and not just one but ten. One by one the snipes dodged him, hopping and ducking, until just one remained. He closed his hands around the last, who had been the biggest, and rejoiced that he had caught one, though he could not feel it in his hands. Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened his hands a crack to look inside. Still nobody has caught a snipe.

>>24659730
Quite intoxicating, and completely lush.

Fathers protect their sons in the old valleys of northern Mexico. When a boy reaches his manhood time, usually around 11 or 12, he is filled with desires to meet the hidden beauty. The children reported the same thing, off in the corner of their eyes, a beautiful woman who beckons them to come meet here. How? Different ways but she is always just out of reach.

This is a great problem for the fathers of the village. The boys can no longer drive the tractors, or swim in the rivers. For the hidden beauty is always just a little bit further, just a little bit beyond. She encourages the teens to drive faster around the curve or wander away in the dead of night to ramble up the mountain. To close their eyes when biking, to throw rocks at trains, swim deeper into the river’s current, till he is doing all kinds of reckless actions to meet her.

The girls of the village are allowed to roam free, as no malevolent spirit wants to hold their hands for eternity. So, they till the fields and serve the drinks at the bar to the old men, who whisper to each other how to protect their sons until grown old enough they can no longer hear the hidden beauty’s call. The General consensus was not to keep them on leashes but keep them inside.

The boys spent years in small houses, windowless rooms heated by the exhaust from older computers. Around the world people marveled that the best gamers came from remote areas, winning tournaments they could never attend, and sponsorships they could not accept in person. But even then, new rumors spread. The hidden beauty had found them online. Through mysterious profiles it whispered new words. Posts and encouragements and likes and shares that they were not boys at all, they didn’t need to listen to their fathers, they could do whatever they liked.

And the fathers continued to mourn the loss of their sons, the battle continued in the beautiful but cursed valleys of Northern Mexico

>>24658964
Fear not. Imperfektion is the mark of Soul.

There was a blueness on the night of the stars descent - when Ursa Major walked the long grass silver in the low light, quick in the silence of nature’s deep rest. It was the night the constellations wrenched free from heaven’s spread, when Grus the crane swept down from the sky lest the glittery yonder should lull with pomp and gold; when the Noctua Owl, with her furtive habits and sanctum swift, in a swoop and hoot, begged the escaped to follow eastwards. And follow they did, the straddling Owl, along the ridge top eastwards. But they did not know, swift at their rear, the swallow with the reddish stone did in secret appear. No stranger of sadness, no stranger to the frosting temptations of the spirit (why else would she fly, so far from home, so often, so deep the unknown?) The swallow watched without a sound the three constellations make up ground eastwards on the ridgeway, all believing they’d escaped the fixed night. But Her eye, the Moon, so full and unblinking - although in focus elsewhere (on the tides, on the minds of the women who watch her) – drawn now to attention, to the swallow’s cry. And the moon saw them, the bear, the crane, the owl, and opened the night in her fullness, took them up again to spread across the sky, to roll their dice once again, until the Sun rose eastwards.

>>24660732
Beautifully written. Sultry sense of rhythm.

>>24660805
thanks. tried hard not to make it twee while still keeping some folklore type of narrative.

"Are we near home?" To Sparrow spoke Big Bear.
"Are we nearby the warmth of love and care?
How far must we across the moonlit plains
Wander still – how long must we maintain
Our marching pace to find the rest we long?"
"Not much, I hope." Replied Sparrow in song.
"I see no light from up above your heads,
Not East nor West – not anywhere we tread.
My feathers shake – my claws are all but numb
I hope tonight to death I won't succumb."
"Fear not, my friend." Big bear to her replied.
"My fur may warmth to all my friends provide
And you have done your best to fly up high
To scout for home where cold the wind blows by.
Come down to me and let me hold you tight."
"I will persist." Proud Owl spoke while in flight.
"My strength remains – my sight still perseveres,
If but a spark of distant flame appears
My vision will not miss the smallest glint.
No prey escapes where direct I my squint."
"I hunger, friends. My stomach restless groans.
How long since last the sun upon us shone?"
Stork spake to them in song – how slouched his wings.
Still wandered they where dark the nights of spring
Forced friend and foe to flock as single throngs
For had they fought to right each others' wrongs
None would remain to celebrate with pride,
All would in misery struggle and writhe.
The moon their solidarity observed,
Proved they to her that they still life deserved
So shone she bright a path for them to take
To nearby woods where bonfire can one make
With twigs and moss and stones to spark alight
A friendship lasting long after that night.

A contest implies a vote — OP: what say you; how shall this be handled ?

>>24657566 (OP)
>>24662811
don't let this thing die and don't let it stagnant. shamon. name a winner already.

Since OP is AWOL, here is a poll. We can vote for top 3 over the next 12 hours or so.

https://strawpoll.com/2ayLQX1Ozn4.

>>24663314
ruined my vote cuz I didn't understand how it works

>>24663318
Yeah it's confusing at fuck first time. But to other anons: your number 1 will be the top of the list, your number 2 will be second, etc. The number to the right that descends from 3 relates to the "points" they are awarded.

>>24663329
is there a way I can just say my points or fix it? it doesn't allow me to revote but idek what I voted for

>>24663332
I think best bet is to vote from your phone to counterbalance.

Just reposting the voting link without the accidental period at the end —

https://strawpoll.com/2ayLQX1Ozn4

>>24663314
>https://strawpoll.com/2ayLQX1Ozn4

what kind of god or anon creates something then just abandons it?

>>24664091
must be an allegory for something I can't quite articulate

they wrote for you, now you'll vote for them.

https://strawpoll.com/2ayLQX1Ozn4

I scored so low despite putting so much effort into the metre
feels bad I love folklore stories in verse

>>24664636
Don’t tell me what to do. I will NOT be voting in your gay ass contest and you cannot make me. Period.

>>24664863
Did you write the "Are we near home" one ?

Results:

1. There was a blueness in the night...
2. (TIE) Deep under Lake Michigan... & Fathers protect their sons...
3. Long ago, before the Sun...

>>24665619
fuck yeah, I finally placed in one of these contests, although I don't think anyone, myself included, regularly read folktales.

>>24665565
yeppers

>>24666601
It was excellent. Really charmed me. You should be proud.

>>24666614
oh my g*sh tyy

author of there was a blueness...thank you for your votes. the story very much just unfolded as i looked at the picture, i didnt realise there was a swallow until the moment in the story when i wrote her in.