HALLOWEEN POST for #WEPFF - Edgar Allan Poe - Annabel Lee and my fan fiction, Beauty and the Beast

Incredibly, two months have passed and it's time for the WEP October Halloween challenge!  

Part A:

          share a favorite frightening tale, movie, novel, photograph or painting that will leave us quaking in our boots, then  in a short paragraph describe how it scared you, and why it did and or still does today

Well, I like my creepiness subtle, so Edgar Allan Poe's poem (to his dead young bride), always creeps me out as the image of the broken-heated lover laying with her in her tomb by the sea is so strong. The atmospherics are to me, completely awesome. And if you read it aloud, the rhythm sounds like those 'highborn kinsman' galloping by. Not to mention the beautiful language and the fairy tale feel created by the first line...

Annabel Lee

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Now Part B is my own creepy tale...not exactly subtle. You'll see it's full of questions as promised in a previous post, How to Boost our Creativity by Asking Questions.

Beauty and the Beast

Once upon a time there lived a man with a beauty fetish. 

Each day he asked God why some people were born so blessed physically, while others had faces that looked as if they had been savaged by a beast.  He oft-times pondered the expression: ‘kissed by an angel.’  He’d been kissed by the Devil when he tore, kicking and screaming, from his mother’s womb.

His life lacked beauty from that moment. Many years later he learned the truth from the birthing attendant, Marjorie. “Take this Devil’s spawn from me!” his mother had screamed. “Leave him on an anthill far inside the forest. I hereby name him ‘Beast’. Let him be ravaged by his fellows.”

Marjorie saved his life, but his mother’s rejection turned him into a beast. Every time he saw his monster face--eyes black as the pitch he collected from the bog lands, his hands grossly stained with inky sludge--he hated.

As Beast clumped along the muddy laneways delivering his pitch to the rich men’s fires, he studied his features in the smudgy glass shop windows. He was thankful that his hair had been overlooked by the same Devil who had seared his face with a pitchfork. His hair was long, curled and glossy, washed by the rain and snow which fell upon him as he huddled by night in the abandoned garden near Grimwade Bridge.

***

Beast wakes to another day. Without rising from his damp bed, he knows the state of the weather. Real books are denied him, but these are his books, free for the taking--the colour of the sky as day dawns, the cries of seabirds as they call each other over the icy river, the noisy crackle of waves in the tide’s ebb and flow.

He runs his work-wrecked fingers through his hair and leaves his bed. He shrugs into his black leather greatcoat, stolen from some toff who lurched in a drunken dance beside the river before plunging into its icy depths. It protects him against the night freeze, but does nothing to warm his soul. 

Will he ever know warmth? 

Will he ever know the sweetness of a pure woman? 

The whores of Grimwade aside, what woman would ever welcome his cracked hands on her soft body? He needs a sweet woman to release him from the prison to which his witch of a mother sentenced him thirty years hence. 

Beast shakes snowflakes from his hair and shoulders, kicks a dead rose, then walks the icy path to the door. He salivates at the vision of hot gruel and bread from the kind mistress's hand.

He lifts gnarled fingers to the gold lion’s head and raps the bright yellow door. Clump, clump, clump. 

The vapour from the warm kitchen embraces him. However, the kind mistress is not standing at the doorway.  Instead…a vision…Beauty…stands before him, dressed from head to toe in silk spun from sunshine.  He beholds a wondrous face wreathed in smiles, laughing eyes and perfect white teeth. But he asks himself what lies beyond that perfect face. Sweetness? Cruelty?

He steps closer, all the better to inhale her feminine sweetness--a memory of summer strawberries in an abandoned garden.

“Good morning, kind sir.” She addresses him in a voice that transports him to the Opera House where he eavesdrops on the melodies, well hidden in the cobwebbed rafters. “My mother did speak of you, but is currently abed. I greet you in her stead.” She takes his hand and hers is soft within his rough stiff claw. Beauty blesses him with a sweet smile, one dimple dancing in her cheek as if her face itself winks at him.

Perchance she is confusing him with another. He looks behind, but sees nothing but the violent wind-tossed leaves rustling along the path, slapping around his legs. He speaks in a voice raspy with longing. “I have but pitch for sale, Mistress.”

“Yes, indeed. Our supply is low, but my mother has waited on you. She said you would return and that you never steal from us.”

She misinterprets his extended silence as he imagines by what trickery he will steal Beauty from her mother.  

“Oh dear sir, do come in. Shelter inside awhile. You must be chilled to the bone in this snowstorm, while our furnace rages day and night. When I lie in my warm bed it is like I have died and gone to heaven; I’m in a fairytale world. I never want to wake up.” She looks upon his hair. “I am too enraptured by my dreams.”

He watches as thoughts dance beneath the surface of her skin, wondering at her dreams of fashionable gentlemen astride black stallions. He flicks his long tresses so they cover the lower half of his face, hoping she will be enraptured by his glossy mane.

He follows her into the grand foyer, his hungry eyes ravished by alluring sights--tall ceilings trimmed in gold leaf; walls of green silk, the hue of the forest; furniture of the deepest mahogany, like tree branches. He wonders at the single yellow rose in a crystal vase on the windowsill. Fury rises within him at the thought of a suitor.

He drops his load beside the crackling fire while thinking--how can people live like this while I, the Devil’s spawn, live with no walls to enclose me?  His ceilings are the underbelly of Grimwade Bridge, his furniture crafted from scraps of timber he rescues from the river. Why does God choose to give all to some and nothing to others?

“Please, kind sir, stand against the fire. Warm yourself. I will bring coffee and food.” She holds out an apple. He snatches it from her and crunches it with his sharp teeth.

Soon Beast feels uncomfortably hot. He is not accustomed to a roaring fire, within or without.  It becomes just another ordeal he must suffer. But, be damned, he is done with suffering. He deserves to live. He deserves to wear splendid clothes. To sleep with a full belly each night. To bed this sweet woman.

He strokes his hair, capturing a curl with a thick finger and tugging it in anticipation. Beauty will know the Beast.

He will teach her.

Life is no fairy tale.

©DeniseCCovey2015

FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME

WORD COUNT: 1,000

This story was written for the WEP Halloween challenge. You are welcome to post something creepy and link up in my sidebar or go to the WEP site. Click on the link on my sidebar or the WEP site to see other entries...

And on Sunday night, I became a self-published author when my 15,000 word novella, a paranormal romance, hit the Amazon shelves worldwide. If you like Dracula-ish stories with a soft touch, you may well enjoy it. To bring this book together I had a lot of blogger-love help. More on that later. So, if you're in the market for a Halloween tale, here are some links:

Amazon.com

Amazon.uk

Amazon.au