The Stories | My Site 1

UGLY
Short Stories by Rosy Adams

Here are some extracts from a few of the stories in my collection, which will hopefully be published in the not too distant future! Many of these stories are inspired by myths and fairytales. Mostly, they are set in our current world, but with greater or lesser degrees of magical happenings. Many of the characters exist in liminal spaces, neither here nor there. One of the characters is a liminal space. There is a siren, a dragon, a dryad. There are witches. There are dogs, and all of them live because there are some things I can't bring myself to write. More than anything, there is transformation, sometimes positive, sometimes not.

Below the extracts is a full length story, Red Hot Riding Hood, preceded by Who is Red Riding Hood?, originally an introduction to four pieces of writing, two of which are still in the collection as it stands. These pieces didn't quite fit so I'm publishing them here, for you.

Otherworld

Her boots sink into black mud. The ground is waterlogged from weeks of downpours. It stopped raining early this morning but when she stands still, she can hear water trickle and drip everywhere as it makes its way to the river.
She startles at a rustle in the undergrowth. It’s not a usual sound. She knows the noises of the woods. Rabbits and squirrels, birds and foxes, wind and rain.
It sounds like something big.
She can hear twigs snapping and leaves rattling.
Macsen watches the undergrowth, hackles lifting the length of his spine. She sinks her fingers into the thick ruff of fur around his neck for reassurance, although she’s not sure whether it’s for him or for her.
The rustling gets louder and closer, and then a hound bursts out. There are broken pieces of bramble snagged in its rough white coat. Russet ears prick and its tail curves up and over its back. Orange eyes fix on Macsen and it curls up its lip to show yellowed teeth. Macsen holds his ground, a growl starting deep in his chest. She can feel the bass vibration under her hand. More hounds appear, flowing from between the trees until a full pack is surging and yammering and yelling, filling the path in front of her.

The Bone Woman and the Old Man of the Woods

There are threads, silvery-fine, and she thinks they might be only in her mind, but she follows them anyway. Each one belongs to a lost child, and there are so many of them. She doesn’t dare stop in case they disappear. They are converging on one place. All together, as she knew they must be.
She comes to a vast tree, hollow, but still alive. Its leaves have turned but only a few are fallen and they lie on the ground, yellowy hand-shaped things. She picks her way through. It feels wrong to step on them. One branch is bare, lightning-struck, and it reaches up like a finger, the moon balancing on the tip.

Pixel Princess

She’s walking up the street, fancy little handbag clamped under one arm, phone cradled in her hands. He watches her leaving, agile as a deer, tiptoeing in skyscraper heels. He’s dog-tired and there’s a pulse of pain travelling up his leg, a white hot needle jabbing him repeatedly.
He hobbles after her, aiming to lie down in the first available shelter.
Ava reaches the end of the street. Only five minutes from home. As she turns the corner fat drops of summer rain land on her bare arms and make polka dot patterns on the pavement.

Into the Woods

Caught in a froth of white lace, bodice so tight she could barely breathe. Alone, holding the red bouquet like a shield. The guests muttered, a low sound all one, like the breeze through the tree canopy.
He wasn’t coming.
She collapsed.
Assumptions were made. The shock. The shame of being left at the altar. Really, what she felt was relief. That, and being unable to take a deep breath, while balancing on high heels (not a thing she was used to) and wanting very much to sit down.
The dress did not allow her to bend in the middle so she lay on her back on the stone floor. She closed her eyes and imagined she was in the woods green leaves and birdsong, moss and larch needles under bare feet, the smell of blood and pine resin but voices demanded she open her eyes, and rough hands grasped her shoulders, shaking her into the present, fighting the dress to get her into the recovery position.

Foxglove

He whispered the names she had taught him, the ones he could still remember. Blodyn menyn, meillionen, pys y ceirw. Glas y gors and glas yr ŷd. Pabi and llygad y dydd were the only ones he knew in English too. Poppy and daisy. Those, and ffion, foxglove, because that was her name. They grew tall on the hillside, like spears, and around them summer-green bracken made a hiding place.
Afterwards, lying together and watching clouds, she told him all the other names she knew for the foxglove: bysedd y cŵn, cleci coch, gwniadur Mair, dail y llwynog. The Latin name, digitalis purpurea, and how it’s the oldest known heart medicine too. He told her she was medicine for his heart, and even though it was a cheesy thing to say, she laughed and kissed him anyway. Take too much and it’ll kill you, mind.

Willow and River

River flows over stones, under low hanging branches. Willow dips yellow-green leaves in River’s top-water. Willow’s roots dig through earth to drink River’s cool deep-water. Willow likes to keep her feet and fingers wet. Sun soaks Willow’s leaves, drips through in dapples, rippling and refracting down to River’s bed where the pebbled caddis larvae crawl amidst leaf litter and broken branches.
Willow dreams of time before. Dreams of walking, running, swimming, dancing; before legs fused and thickened, skin grew rough and grey. Before arms reached out into branches, yellow hair lengthened and unfurled into yellow-green leaves.

Cuckoo

I am four walls. A ceiling. A door. A window.
I have had many tenants but no-one stays long.
I am a step on the way to elsewhere.

You arrive with a shiny-heeled estate agent bearing a glossy tablet. You barely glance at my interior before making up your mind. The agent is quick to close the deal. I am not an appealing room. I have no en-suite. My kitchen corner is cramped and the view from my window is a brick alleyway strewn with rubbish.
You finger paint a signature on the glass of the tablet and the agent hands you the key. There are no paper contracts any more. Everything has already been sent to your e-mail address.

This Drowning Land

In the distance I can see the bobbing head of a swimmer, one of those mad hardy souls who go out year round. I keep my eyes on them, a focal point, until Cam shouts he’s all done. Wavelets chase up the sand behind me as I rush for my towel. The tide is turning.
‘Let’s call it a day.’ I can already see the morning parade of dog walkers advancing across the beach. Cam agrees and starts packing up. I’m dried and dressed long before he’s ready so I wait, watching the solitary swimmer come closer, then emerge from the surf. With her hooded wetsuit she appears like a selkie in mid-transformation, human-shaped but still wearing her sealskin. She nods to me as she passes, and I nod back, a fellow sea-wife. A môr-forwyn with scandalously loose hair, my comb and mirror hidden away in my bag, signifiers of my vanity.

Hand me down

My reflection is dumb. Who is she, anyway? Where was she last night when I (whoever I am) was lying in a hospital bed, staring at a stranger’s hands. Moving the fingers, feeling the shape of the bones which were not my bones in the hand which was not mine. But here I am again, looking at my old familiar face in the mirror.
Does someone else put it on when I’m gone? Would anyone have noticed? Or would this stranger have pretended to be me? After all, that’s exactly what I did last night. I peer at myself, so close that my breath makes a fuzzy circle on the glass. Is she hiding something from me? She looks secretive. Close-mouthed and blank-eyed, she gives nothing away. But perhaps that’s the way I always appear to others.

Bad Neighbours

I’ve put a lot of time and energy into this garden. Money too! My hanging baskets are looking truly magnificent this year, the trellises are heavy with clematis and honeysuckle, and the herb beds are lush and fragrant. The lavender is thick with honeybees, and in the rare quiet of early mornings I can hear the droning hum through my kitchen window.
I used to spend all my free time out there. It’s where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for that thing. Now, I only go outside in the early morning, before they wake up and let it out. The only exception is when Rita comes over and we sit out so she can smoke her hideous French cigarettes. The first time Rita saw the dog it was racing up and down their path all yaps and growls, scrabbling and snuffling at the base of the fence.
I gripped the seat of my chair and tried to ignore it but Rita went and peered over the fence. The dog responded with a torrent of barks that increased in pitch and tempo until they became one continuous howl.

The Firebird

While she dances, the belt of her cardigan comes undone. She leaves it that way. She’s too hot to care what anyone thinks. She shrugs it off between partners, leaves it draped over a bar stool, a shed skin. As she spins and dips, the handkerchief hem floats. Petals in the wind.
Somehow, in the middle of a song, it all comes together. The beat and the steps and her head and her feet.
Unison.
As she dances she becomes lighter, a feather, a flame, a fire. Her feet tickle and when she glances down she sees little flames curling around her ankles. They grow bigger, entwine her calves, her thighs, a loving snake round her waist, sliding up, engulfing and enveloping until she is consumed, and still she dances.

Tower Block Rapunzel

This is how it begins. She sits on the balcony, among the washing lines and plant pots. She is brushing her hair. It soothes her. The long, firm sweep of the brush. The tug on her scalp as it drags out the tangles. Her hair is glossy and reddish, like the skin of a conker. When she stands it reaches the backs of her knees.
When it rains she watches TV. Mama brings her books from the library and magazines from the corner shop. She doesn’t really like to read but it makes Mama happy when she tries. Mostly she sits on the balcony and talks to the birds.
Seagulls and starlings, pigeons and sparrows, jackdaws and crows. She feeds them and talks to them, and they talk to her in turn. The crows bring her gifts: pennies, pebbles, pieces of glass, a single silver earring. She keeps them all in a jewellery box in her bedroom.

Who is Red Riding Hood?

Your first thought will be the little girl with the red cloak who is tricked and eaten by a wolf, and you would not be wrong. The Brothers Grimm called her Rotkäppchen, and earlier than that, in 17th century France, she was Le Petit Chaperon Rouge, written by Charles Perrault and commonly considered to be the original. In the later German story, the one which is closest to the modern fairy tale for children, she was rescued from the beast’s belly, along with Granny, but Perrault’s version ends with her being consumed by an urbane and charming wolf after taking off her clothes and climbing into bed with him. It was a thinly veiled warning to aristocratic young women about the dangers of extra-marital sex, an admonishment to be virtuous and well-behaved. It’s understood now that Perrault was likely borrowing from an oral folktale in which a girl meets a wolf on her way to her grandmother’s house. He asks her if she is taking the road of needles or the road of pins. After she answers, he speeds ahead on the other path, kills the old woman, and disguises himself. He tricks the girl into eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the grandmother. Then he tells her to take off her clothes and get into bed with him, but instead of being eaten up, she tells him she needs to pee, eventually persuading him to tie a rope to her leg and allow her to go outside, upon which she escapes by tying the rope to a tree and running away. As well as being a warning against the dangers of wolves, both real and metaphorical, this story can be interpreted as a rite of passage, the roads of needles and pins indicating needlework (both a profession and an essential skill before the Industrial Revolution), and the consuming of the flesh and blood of the old woman as symbolic of the younger woman taking the place of the elder. Perrault twisted this to his own purposes: warning well-bred women to behave themselves appropriately or face the consequences (and in 17th century France they were severe, but only for the women, naturally). The Grimm’s continued this a century later with a passive and somewhat naive protagonist. The message is that she gets what she deserves for straying from the path and talking to strangers, although she is given a second chance by the woodcutter as a patriarchal saviour figure. Henceforth she is a good little girl who does what she’s told. During the 18th century fairy tales were increasingly adapted for children, thus getting the cultural conditioning in nice and early. I first met her in Grimm’s fairy tales and in Ladybird books, but then I discovered the delightfully subversive Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl, in which she shoots the wolf and turns him into a fur coat. I think that was the first time I realised you can change the story, reshape it, retell it to suit yourself. I was a literal child who believed everything she was told, so finding out stories are malleable was a revelation. After that, I read all the myths and legends and fairy tales, and all the adaptations and retellings I could get my hands on. So why am I drawn to this particular story? The truth is, I’m angry. Despite wonderful parents who brought me up to accept everyone as equal, including myself, I was still conditioned by the stories all around me, the Disney remakes, all the films and books aimed at women in the 20th century which culminated in marriage as the ideal ending, the obsession with the big white wedding. I fell for the dream, more than once. It didn’t go well. Red Riding Hood is a part of me, and every time I rewrite her story it expresses my rage and my sadness. Over and over I retell her, and I give her fury, and resilience, and above all agency. They are not all happy endings, but they are the endings she makes for herself. Here is my Red Riding Hood twisting and turning her way through poetry, script, interview, and prose.

Red Hot Riding Hood

Draft introduction: I’m at Glastonbury Festival to visit The Velvet Room, a touring stage that appears at festivals over the summer months. Alternative theatre productions, experimental spoken word musical fusions, a steampunk fetish ball, and trip hop and trance DJs playing dawn sets for the early risers and the night-crawlers. These can all be found at The Velvet Room, but I’m here to see Red Hot Riding Hood, star of Flights of Fancy: the Fairytale Burlesque Show. The way in is through a narrow corridor made of sticks and branches that create and arching tunnel. The only lighting is from the green and gold fairy lights woven throughout, and the tunnel winds from side to side so it’s impossible to see the exit until you are right upon it. The impression is of a passageway to another dimension, and when you reach the interior of The Velvet Room, it is indeed otherworldly. The walls are draped with swathes of velvet; a patchwork of heavy curtains, shimmering lengths of crushed velvet, fabric offcuts salvaged from an upholstery factory. Sparse lighting at floor level makes costumed festival goers into shadowed figures of fantasy. The stage is placed at the centre, between the two supporting poles of the marquee, and the show starts with Rapunzel, an acrobatic aerialist who wraps herself in a rope made to look like a single braid of hair, climbing high into the apex of the tent, then tumbling down in a dramatic unwinding. The twelve dancing princesses stage a mock round of Strictly, with clownish judges and wardrobe malfunctions galore, and Spin-derella puts on a show as a penniless pole dancer who is transformed into a pop princess by a reality show mogul. Finally, Red Hot Riding Hood sashays onto the stage, wearing her iconic scarlet silk cape and knee high boots. From her basket she throws handfuls of novelty condoms over the audience who proceed to blow them up like balloons and bat them to and fro, a tradition much like the popcorn tossing, fishnet wearing audiences of The Rocky Horror Show. The show features a love struck wolf in pursuit of Red Riding Hood, and an amorous Granny who’s after the wolf. A hunky (but none too clever) woodcutter completes the cast. After the sparkling, tassel twirling finale Red dons her cape and takes a bow to thunderous applause, the crowd one big whistling, stamping creature demanding more, but Red Hot Riding Hood never does an encore. Other performers distract the audience while she slips away. She’s agreed to talk to me after the show in her dressing room, a small space curtained off from the backstage hustle. She sits with one foot up on a box, unlacing those spectacular boots that add to her already considerable height. Interview transcript: • So what do you want to know? • Would you be willing to talk about the events that led to the papers naming you Little Red Riding Hood, and how it influenced your career? • Straight to the point then. • Sorry, I thought you’d prefer that. I don’t want to waste your time by pretending. • You were right. So, why should I talk to you? • Well, you’ve never spoken publicly about it, and with the new Netflix exclusive coming out there’s going to be a lot of interest… I thought it would be a good time to show your perspective as the… the main character, so to speak. (pause) • Some things should stay in the past. • Well, yes, I do see your point. But there will be a lot of renewed interest for a while. (Red takes out a tin and begins to roll a joint) • Do you mind? • No, not at all. (pause while she lights and inhales) • OK. You can have your interview. What do you want to know? • Could you take me through what happened on that day you were abducted? • I’ve heard so many different versions of it now that sometimes it’s hard to remember what actually happened. First of all, I wasn’t quite as young as the papers made me out to be. I was fifteen, I had tits and periods, mood swings and bad skin, all that fun girly stuff. I wasn’t a virgin either. I don’t think any of my friends were either, it was just something to get out of the way as soon as possible, you know? (pause) I suppose I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t the age thing that was the problem, so why make me out to be younger? Did they think it was been less fucking horrible for me because I wasn’t a child? But then, nothing sells more papers than a bit of kiddy-fiddling. I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t accuse me of asking for it because of what I was wearing. DMs and miniskirt, actually, so they could have used that against me. The red jacket made it into print, of course. (pause) I miss that jacket. You when you’re a teenager, that one thing you get attached to. I wore it everywhere. I wanted it back but the police kept it as evidence. They probably still have it. • Do you think that’s why the newspapers called you Little Red Riding Hood? • That, and Nan, what he did to her. Although she wasn’t the sweet old granny they made her out to be. She was a mean old bitch. Why do you think I was the one that had to go and deliver her shopping when she couldn’t get out the house? Mum couldn’t stand being in the same room with her, and I was the youngest so that meant skivvying for Nan was my job. I had it a lot easier than mum, mind. Nan couldn’t move as fast as in her younger days. She still fetched me a few belts across the back of my head though, and they hurt like buggery. And she was spiteful, too. It was never a good idea to be too cheerful around her. She had a real talent for finding your weak spots. Not that she deserved what happened to her, though. (pause) Sorry. It gets me like that sometimes. Could you just pass me that bottle? (pause as she swigs tequila from the bottle) So, I was walking to Nan’s house. It wasn’t a ‘secluded cottage’ though. It was a new-build bungalow by the park. I picked up her prescription for her on Wednesdays. There were a half dozen or so boxes and bags of that shit . I don’t think she needed any of them. She was a tough old co, but I suppose it gave her something to talk about with all her hypochondriac friends. I had to cross the park to get to Nan’s and that’s where I met him, on the bridge by the ornamental pond. He was leaning on the railing, and he asked me for directions. He was going the same way as me, so we ended up walking together, I didn’t invite him or anything, it just happened like that. Of course, now I know he was waiting for me all along. When we reached Nan’s place I said goodbye and walked in. I remember calling out to tell her I was there. There was no answer, but to tell the truth, she was going a bit deaf so I wasn’t worried. There was this disgusting smell, and that did freak me out a bit. I used to think, if only I’d realised then, maybe I could have run, but it was already too late the moment I stepped through the door. He followed me in, see. Don’t ask me to tell you what happened next. It’s just fragments, and I’ve done my best to forget those too. • Would you be willing to talk about how you escaped? (pause as she rolls another joint) • Yeah. I don’t mind telling you that. (pause to light up and inhale) I think it was a day or so later, the first clear memory. I was lying on Nan’s bed. She had one of those old-fashioned covers, you know, with the lines on it. Chenille, I think it was. Proper old lady stuff. There was a rope tying my ankles together, and another around both wrists. They were tied to opposite ends of the bed so I couldn’t move more than a foot or so in any direction. I ached like I was coming down with a bad case of flu. Everything was tender, and my skin felt hypersensitive, like everything touching me was irritating. Christ, even my hair hurt! I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t that. I was coming on. I could feel the cramps starting and I really wanted to just to curl up into a ball, but the ropes kept me stretched out. I didn’t want to attract his attention, especially after what he’d done to Nan. (pause) Just give me a moment. (She inhales deeply from the joint, and takes a large gulp of neat tequila) So, there wasn’t much left of Nan by then, and I knew I was next. He was probably saving me till later, the twisted fuck. I bet you Nan didn’t go down easily, she was hard to stomach when she was alive, probably even worse post-mortem. (Note: research dark humour as a way of dealing with past trauma. Possibly insert quote from expert) I couldn’t help moaning abit. I have terrible periods, and I was desperate to pee. That got his attention and he came over to the bed so I just shut my eyes tight and prayed it would be over quickly. And you know what? Nothing happened. I couldn’t take it anymore so I told him to go ahead and do it already, just get it over with. I opened my eyes then and I realised he was looking at the bed covers and he looked absolutely disgusted. Men! Go figure. It’s not like he had a problem with the sight of blood, that was obvious, but periods seemed to be a bit of an issue. And when I told him I was about to wet myself he looked as if he might throw up. (pause) Actually I’m really glad he didn’t considering what was in his stomach. (long pause) (Red takes a swig from the tequila bottle, then wipes the top and offers it to me. I accept because I don’t want to break the rapport. Possibly it’s because I’m finding this interview is harder than I thought it would be. I wasn’t expecting her to go into such detail, but I have to carry on and get the whole story) So after faffing about for a while he decided to let me go to the toilet. He even gave me my knickers back so I could cover up. Such a gentleman! Anyway, he untied me from the bed but kept the rope on my wrists to stop me from escaping. That’s when I started to hope. It’s painful you know, hope. When you go that low, you’re sort of numb, then a bit of hope comes along and it’s like getting the feeling back in your hands and feet. Like pins and needles in your soul. When we got to the bathroom he turned his back and stood as far away as he could and still keep hold of the rope. I sat on the toilet, clutching my tummy and groaning, stringing it out for all I was worth. It wasn’t all acting, my cramps were getting worse. I had to point out to him that I couldn’t wipe myself with my hands tied together, so he undid the rope and put it just on my one wrist, then he turned his back again. I didn’t waste time on cleaning myself up. I grabbed the bottle of bleach spray Nan kept beside the toilet and as he turned towards me I squirted it in his face. For a moment I thought it wasn’t working. He raised a hand as if he were going to hit me but then he the bleach must have got into his eyes, and then he tried to rub his eyes which of course made it worse. I had to get past him, but he was blocking the doorway so I put my head down and charged him. I couldn’t really see what happened then, I definitely hit him, and I think I winded him because he just seemed to fall out of the way. I ran for the back door, because I knew it only had a single bolt on the inside so it was my best chance of getting out before he caught up to me. I didn’t look back. That’s always a mistake, isn’t it? I got out of the house and I ran. I was stark naked, I had blood and piss dripping down my legs, and I had this weird moment where I thought – you can’t go out in the street like this! (pause) I don’t remember much after that. I must have passed out a few streets away. Somebody found me curled up under a holly bush in their garden. By the time I was capable of telling them what happened he was long gone. • Are you afraid he might come back one day? (long pause) (I feel bad for asking this, but it’s necessary for the story) Yes. (pause) I spent years trying to hide. I didn’t go out, I didn’t talk to anyone, but then I thought, living like this I may as well be dead, and that’s when I got the idea for The Velvet Room. He could be watching me every night, but you know what? I don’t give a shit. I’m going to have the best time I can, every day, and if he does turn up I hope I give him food poisoning. (There’s a knock on the door and I must be more tense than I realise because I nearly jump out of my skin. She laughs at me and offers the bottle. I accept it and take a large gulp.) Come in! (It’s a beautiful couple from the Twelve Dancing Princesses act. They greet Red with kisses and hugs and she looks over at me with a raised eyebrow) Enough of the questions. But you’re welcome to stay if you like. (End of interview)

UGLY Short Stories by Rosy Adams

Who is Red Riding Hood?

Red Hot Riding Hood

UGLY
Short Stories by Rosy Adams