#broca street tales

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca street: The water-tap fairy

This story, "La fée du robinet", is one of the most famous stories of Pierre Gripari, most notably because it is, to this day, the most well-known parody of Charles Perrault's fairy tale "Les fées" (The fairies), also known in English as "Diamonds and toads" (or "Toads and diamonds"? I can never recall the order).

Once upon a time, in Ancient Gaul, there was a tiny good fairy who lived in a spring, and the people of Gaul regularly brought her offerings of flowers, cakes and fruits, and danced around her domain during celebrations. However, one day Gaul was Christianized, and a priest came to the area: he told everybody to stop giving offerings and dances to the fairy, he claimed she was a soul-stealing devil. The villagers knew this was a lie, but they feared the priest: so they mostly stopped... outside for the oldest of them all who continued their practices in secret. When the priest discovered this, he became mad with anger: he had a huge cross of stone built over the spring, and he used Latin magical formulas to banish the fairy. And everybody believed it worked, because the fairy stopped appearing, and that for 15 centuries!

However the fairy was still there: she was trapped in her spring, due to the cross of stone. But since she could not appear anymore, slowly everybody forgot about her existence... The fairy was however very patient: she knew that the time of the Christians would eventually pass, just like the time of the fairy ended, and she knew that one day the cross-stone would fall into pieces and she would be free. [Note: I know this all sounds like some serious modern epic fiction but trust me, it is a very simply-written children story of the 60s].

One day, two engineers passed by the area, discovered the spring, and immediately decided to use it to bring fresh water to the town nearby. So they destroyed the cross, and placed pipes that sucked the water... and the fairy. The poor tiny fairy wandered for a very long time in the endless maze of dark pipes, wondering "What is going on? Where am I? How did I get there?" But finally she reached the end of the tunnel... a water-tap in a kitchen.

[Gripari humourosly notes that the fairy was quite lucky she didn't end up in a toilet, and that as such our story wasn't the one of the "Toilet fairy"]

The kitchen was part of a flat in which lived a low-class workers. There was a mother and a father, who worked very hard all day long, and two daughters who went to school for most of the day. As such, they usually were all asleep by 10 PM and didn't use the tap of the kitchen during the night... which prevented their encounter with the fairy, since fairies never appear during the day, but always at night, usually after midnight.

As I said, there were two daughters. One, named Martine, was a gluttonous, lazy and very rude girl. One night, around two in the morning, she got up to steal food from the fridge - a piece of chicken meat, a tangerine, some jam... Feeling thirsty she opened the water-tap to drink some water when, surprise! The fairy appeared. A tiny, tiny woman with a mauve dress and dragonfly wings, holding a wand with a golden star at the tip. With a musical voice, the fairy said hello to Martine (already knowing her name) and asked her for a bit of jam. Martine, seeing that she was a "well-dressed lady", and knowing you must always be polite with well-dressed ladies to get out of trouble, immediately gave her the jam. The fairy, to reward her kindness, gave her the gift of spitting a pearl for each word she said.

The following day her parents discovered the gift. Immediately they tried to have her spit larger pearls. They thought that by having her say the longest words possible they would have bigger pearls, so they tried to have her tell the longest word of the French language (anticonstitutionnellement), but it only created a twisted and crooked pearl. Forgetting this idea, her parents simply had her speak all day long in front of a bowl to make their fortune. Martine, who loved to gossip and hated to work, was delighted with this new life... Until she realized she was fed up with being all alone, sitting all day long. So, after three days of this new life, she started cussing... And suddenly the pearls she was spitting were MUCH larger.

As such the parents discovered how to make her create big pearls. This is a French pun: in French, cuss words, "dirty words" and other swear words and insults are called, in a neutral (if not a tad bit childish) way "gros mots" (large words/big words). As such, when the girl says "big words"... she creates "big pearls". Now Martine was told to insult and swear and curse all day long, and she loved this even more than before... But after one week of being scolded by her parents every time she stopped cussing or swearing, she got fed up and ran away.

She wandered in the streets of Paris (because yes, we are in Paris), but by the evening she was tired, hungry and homeless. As she stopped by a bench to cry, a beautiful, sweet-faced, curly-haired, white-handed young man asked her what was wrong. She told him her story (while spitting a lot of pearls) and the man declared he was in love with her, and wanted to take her home to live with her... Except that the young man turned out to be a greedy abuser: he locked Martine up in his house, and forced her to spit a salad-bowl full of pearls every day. If she didn't... he would beat her up. Thus began a very sad life for Martine...

But let's return to the flat, and let's take a look at Martine's sister Marie. Marie was the younger sister, and the opposite of Martine. She was kind, well-behaved, polite, very wise. She had also been deeply affected by what happened to her sister, so when her parents tried to have her open the water-tap at night to receive so she could "replace" Martine, Marie refused. Her parents had to use of all sorts of tricks to force her to open the water-tap, including giving her a LOT of salty food before going to bed. Eventually, she HAD to go fetch some water past midnight... and of course the fairy appeared.

The fairy asked for some jam... And Marie straight up went "No! You did the misfortune of my sister, this is not going to happen to me too! And anyway, I can't just take food out of the fridge while my parents are asleep: it is forbidden!". The fairy was quite angry at this answer (and as the narrator says, she had been cut off from humanity since 1500 years, and wasn't really in-tune with modern civilization). So, disappointed, she cursed the girl: spitting a snake for every word she would say.

After trying to speak and spitting a grass-snake, Marie had to tell her night adventures to her parents by writing it down. Her parents immediately brought her to a doctor who lived two floors above them, in the same building. The doctor was a young and kind man who had a promising career in front of him. He asked Marie to come to the bathroom, and to speak above his bath-tub, so as to perform some tests. He asked her to say a random word: "Mother" created a grass-snake. He asked her to say "a big word", and Marie was a bit shy, since she was a nice girl, but she whispered a cuss word - and a young boa was created. Then the doctor asked for a "nasty word", or "wicked word", and she had to force herself to come up with something since she was not used to say mean things. Ultimately, "Dirty cow" created two small vipers. The doctor's conclusions: "big words" create large snakes, and mean words create venomous snakes.

The doctor's solution? To marry him! The parents, confused, ask him if this will cure her. The doctor answer is "No, and I do hope she will never be cured!". He explains that he works for the Pasteur Institute, and that they are in dire need of snakes to create anti-venom serums. A snake-spitting girl like Marie would be a treasure for the advance of science. So the parents married Marie to the doctor, who proved to be a very kind and gentle husband to her. They had a very happy marriage, even thought she often had to say truly horrible things to him to create cobras, vipers or other coral-snakes. But he didn't mind, and Marie stayed a very simple, modest and kind woman.

Now, the story does not end here, far from it. The fairy in the water-tap was wondering what happened to the two girls, so a Saturday night, after midnight, she appeared in front of the two parents (they just returned from the movie-theater and had a late-night snack). She asked them what had been the fate of the two daughters, and the fairy was VERY surprised and confused by the answers. Not only did she learn that she had cursed the good girl and gifted the bad one... but that ultimately the gift caused disasters and the curse happiness. The fairy, disappointed, declared that she is lost into this modern world, and is not accustomed to how things work anymore: she has a false judgement on things, and doesn't prepare the consequences of her actions. Her solution? (Beware, slight 60s misogyny here) She needs to find an enchanter wiser than her, so she would marry him and obey him. (Yep, casual 60s France... Women were only allowed to have their own bank account, separate from their husband's, in 1965. Mind you, the rest of the tale does nuance the misogyny as you will see, but still)

However, where to find an enchanter in modern-day? Simple! The fairy will just create him. She flew into the street, and then quickly ended up... Yes, in Broca street, by the épicerie-buvette of Papa Saïd, as papa Saïd was closing the shop. The fairy flew in discreetly, and found there the large notebook and the color crayons that belonged to Bachir. She ripped a page out of Bachir's notebook, took a black crayon (the narrator points out two things: 1) this is the reason Bachir's notebook has so many ripped pages an 2) Fairies have such good eyes they see colors even in the dark) and draw an enchanter with a large pointy black hat and a black houppelande, before reciting the rhyme: "Enchanteur noir, Couleur du soir, Je t'ai dessiné, Veux-tu m'épouser?" (Black enchanter, Color of evening, I drew you, Do you want to marry me?). The drawing comes to life, but the enchanter refuses, saying the fairy is too fat. In anger, the fairy removes his life, and he turns back into a simple drawing.

She repeats the process using the brown crayon (and in the rhyme it is "Enchanteur brun, Couleur de rien", Brown enchanter, Color of nothing). But the brown enchanter claims she is too skinny - so he too loses his sort-of-life. Having only one last attempt, she rips a third page, uses the last crayon, a blue one, and once she is done, she is quite happy with the result because he is more beautiful than the other two. "Enchanteur bleu, couleur des cieux, Je t'ai dessiné, Veux-tu m'épouser?" (Blue enchanter, color of the heavens, I drew you, Do you want to marry me?)

The enchanter agreed, the fairy took him out of the paper so he would become a real enchanter.

Immediately, the enchanter said they had to remove the spells on Marie and Martine. With one magical formula, Martine stopped spitting pearls - and after being beaten up one last time by her abusive tormenter, she was kicked out in the street. She returned to her parents, but the experience had turned her sweet and nice, having lost all of her flaws. Marie also lost her talent at creating snakes, but it didn't change anything, since her doctor of a husband had grown very fond of her, and they had developed a mutual love.

The enchanter and the fairy disappeared: nobody knows where they went, though they are still alive. They are very, very careful with their magic, and in general refuse to make themselves noticed in any way.

And the following day, madame Saïd, Bachir's mother, scolded him for how the shop as filled with ripped paper pages, used crayons and enchanters drawings. Bachir told her it wasn't his fault... But nobody believed him.

[eshinix]

This kind of reminds me of a story in the french books/animated Les Contes de la Rue Broca (Tales of Broca Street), about a human prince who falls in love with a mermaid, who gives him a spell to communicate with her as long as he's near water, and he wants to become a merman to be with her. The king sends him away to a landlocked country, but he still talks with his beloved, even just through a bathtub or a glass of water. Eventually, the king is told by his advisor of a wizard who casts a spell on the prince to turn him into a postage stamp, but only until he comes into contact with water. One day, there's a fire and the king is forced to throw water onto the stamp to protect it from fire, because he'd rather have his son far away but alive than gone altogether. The prince goes to his mermaid, becomes a merman, and the king doesn't see either of them until years later, when the kingdom is at war and a massive enemy fleet arrives. The king is desperate on the beach, when his son and now daughter-in-law appear to him and tell him not to worry, as massive tentacles grasp, tear and drag under the whole armada like they're just toys. The king and his son then part again.

This is how the golden age of piracy ended.

[atrixfromice]

Sketches August 2020, early september.

Hey hi there folks! Hope you’re doing well this week!

My back pain has been increased very much in this last month, so it’s been a bit difficult to do art in these times. Sorry I’ve been doing mostly sketches!

I feel bad cos as much as I have a lot of cool ideas in mind and I'd like to make them, my physical energy and endurance to be sitting in front of the computer for a long time it's very scarse in these moments. If to that you add the fact that my tablet is giving me trouble, then you have a recipe for this! A lot of sketches and no finished drawing.

Also the mood, the mood counts a lot! Well, in my case at least. And I've been discouraged after that last drawing of the lifeguard clothes. I've been told that my lineart is messy and the background is bad cos it has nothing to do with the drawing, and I should draw a foreground on it instead. And on top of that, that I don't know how to draw foregrounds.

It was so cool to make this clothes desing, and it was fun to do it! But now I feel a bit morally and physically down.

Although I don't give up so easily! I've tried to finish a couple of drawings on artflow for android, cos it's a bit less tiring it is less tiring to lie down on bad than to sit in front of the computer.

I feel bad for Antoine and Jacquimo, cos I haven't made a single decent illustration of any of them yet.

Also, the mood I've had these days have been...peculiar...

Well, I will let my sketches to speak for me, hehe. The most recent sketches I've done includes, yes Antoine d'coolette!

My heart fills with iimmeasurable joy when I hear him saying "Mon dieu" in my mind, or talking in french in general, cos I hear him with Rob Paulsen’s voice! :D So that's why the dialogue, hehe.

And a Sasha Nein pinup, because I felt inspired with the news of Psychonauts 2 release.

He is supposed to be taking a shower, but I'm not sure if it looks like him, so let me know what you think. I think the most fun thing of this was drawing his hair.

Also I have been drawing a lot of sketches of Monsieur Pierre from the french cartoon show Tales of Broca street. 

I've been wanting to make a pinup of him, so I did this one where he is supposed to put on his clothes. Because I like more casual pinups rather than when characters look to the camera. Characters looking at a camera looks a bit fake and artificial.

But is always an oddisey when I try to draw male anatomy! I don't know why! But I've been practicing a lot lately. I would really like to be able to draw male anatomy better, and not only from one side like it happens in these moments.

And the saddest thing, you know what is it?

Is that I've been in the mood for it and I've always liked this art genre, but I can't draw pinups nor nude art...Or I can't share it at least. I fear people will be bothered or angry at me, because my work is for all the public. There are artists I've seen though, who have drawn pinups, nude characters from rated G cartoons and nude pinups of their original characters, and some of them even work or have worked for disney or another family entertaining enterprise. And their art is loved and appreciated and phraised, and they are allowed to do both pinups and normal work because they are gay or well know illustrators. I am not going to generalize, but the majority of the illustrators people allow to do this and are ok with it, they are gay.

And my heart breaks to realize I can't give myself this opportunity...cos I'm not lesbian, nor a famous illustrator either.

I am a nobody...in fact.

Just a speck of dust on the universe of freelance illustrators field.

And I feel this is a big injustice that some people are more indulgent with some artists more than with others because of such trivial reasons.

 I think...I think people should appreciate and phraise artists for having talent and goodness in their hearts. Or at least that is what I appreciate the most from an artist, and with people in general.

Also this. This frustrates me! The fact nobody, literally nobody knows Monsieur Pierre from Les contes de la Rue broca! And I have no idea why! XD

So I am almost obliged to keep the most possible his facial features and hair like on the original cartoon, cos he is an obscure character. I  can't draw him on another style and this is, aaghhh! It drives me nuts!!! XD This is only sketch I did of him that I think it was more or less good looking. So I colored it on artflow for android.

Again, I can only share the upper part. And again, without background cos, why to make the effort to add a background with my back ache If I' m not going to be able to share it?

Is a bit dissapointing...

Although I feel very pleased with the facial features and the chest, the coloring. And I it makes me so happy to see him talking in french here! :D it was not a waste of time I guess :)

I think I’ll think about the posibility of making a blog for the few nude pinups I’ve made. Because is rare, I don’t do that kind of art very often, but I still would like to have a place to share these art pieces if I feel inspired to draw them. Without making anyone uncomfortable or something like that. I think they deserve to exist, to be shared and be admired as well.

A separate place, cos I wouldn’t like to bother the rest of my folks who aren’t interested on cartoon characters pinups. But I know a few of my friends and followers enjoy them, they have told me. So maybe a wordpress or blogger blog? Or another deviantart? What do you recommend me?

[mask131]

Tales of Broca Street: The Good Little Devil

The Good Little Devil

 It is one of the two most famous tales of the « Fairytales from Broca Street”, alongside the “Witch from Mouffetard Street”. In fact, this tale is often studied in primary school (I was given a work about it myself when I was a pupil).

Here is the story.

Once upon a time, there was a cute little devil, red with two black horns and two bat wings. His father was a green devil, his mother a black devil and they lived in Hell “at the center of the earth”. In Hell, everything is the opposite of Earth, meaning everything good is considered bad and everything bad is considered good. That is why the devils are stupid, wicked and evil, because for them to it is good to be stupid, wicked and evil.

However, the Little Devil only wish for one thing: to be good. He goes to school, does his homework, learns his lessons, has good grades. It saddens his parents, who shout at him and punish him for being a good little student while all of the other little devils are unruly brats and pranksters.

One day, the father, asking himself why did “Earth” cursed him with such a child (a joke given Earthlings rather curse “Heaven” for their troubles), and chastising his son for not caring about the “bad education” his parents try to give him, asks the Little Devil what he wants to be later. “I want to be good.” His mother cries, his father punishes him severely and then takes a drastic measure.

“Since I can’t make you into someone, I will pull you out of school, and send you to an apprenticeship. You will never be a great, big, wicked devil, you’ll always be a small imp, only good at heating boilers and furnaces. But you brought that upon yourself!”.

Thus the Little Devil stopped going to school was sent to work at the Great Central Furnace, where he was tasked with keeping the fire lit under the great cauldrons where the damned were boiling.

 However, the Little Devil quickly disappointed his bosses: he befriended the damned, talked with them, made them laugh with jokes, and dimmed the flames so that the cauldrons wouldn’t be too hot. The damned shared with him their stories, about how they were sent to Hell for thievery and murder. The Little Devil suggested that they should “think really hard of the Good God”. The damned mock him, explaining that Hell is for all of eternity and you can’t escape it. But the Little Devil answers that it doesn’t hurt to think of God and that they should do it while the cauldron isn’t too hot. As a result, some damned started thinking about God, whenever the Little Devil lowered the flames to make them more comfortable, and some of them ended up popping in the air like sopa bubbles – because they had been forgiven by the Good God.

[ Note: I’ll explain why I talk of the “Good God” and not God. In French, you have God, “Dieu” and “The Good God”, “Le Bon Dieu”. The Good God is a folkloric, familiar, popular way of calling the Christian God. It is how the peasants, the old grandmothers, the small children, and the non-liturgic prayers call him. A sort of nickname to make him less scary/imposing and more benevolent.]

However, one day the Great Inspector of the Central Furnace checks on the Little Devil’s cauldrons, now near cold and with a lot of damned missing. The Great Inspector fires the Little Devil (no pun intended) and declares that, since he is unable to take care of the boilers, he will be sent to the mines to fetch coal.

This time, the Little Devil does his job right, and pleases his bosses. Because, while he knows that the coal is used to burn the damned in the furnaces, the Little Devil is still an obedient, hard-working little fella that isn’t the kind to do a sloppy or unfinished work. So, he worked extremely well, became a very good miner, and had a promising career in the mines.

 Until one day… The Little Devil dug too much, and found a breach leading to an underground room filled with lights and humans: a subway station! The Little Devil was delighted to meet humans, hoping that they would help him become good. But when the humans saw the Little Devil, they fled in horror, causing a riot. The narration even describes babies being smothered and women trampled down. The Little Devil tries to calm them, but they scream too loudly to hear him. Ten minutes later the station is empty “except for the wounded and the dead”. The Little Devil gets out of the station, but in the street some firemen use their water hose on him. He tries to flee, but street policemen arrive armed with “big sticks” to hit him. The Little Devil tries to fly away, but helicopters are approaching. So, he decides to hide in the sewers.

He spent all of his day exploring the underground tunnels filled with dirty water, and only dared to come out at around midnight, in a dark and empty Paris.

He wondered how he could make people understand that he was a good little devil, and as he was wondering so a little old lady arrived in the street. The Little Devil asked for her help, and at first she thought he was a little boy, saying that it was time for him to go to bed and that he shouldn’t be here. But once she put her glasses on, she realized who exactly she was talking to and she fled in horror, screaming “God, don’t punish me, I won’t do it, I won’t do it anymore!”. The Little Devil, confused, tried his luck with someone else.

The Little Devil soon arrives at Broca Street, and he meets Papa Saïd who is about to close his shop. The Little Devil knocks on the door and explains his quest on how to be good, but Papa Saïd doesn’t care the slightest about what the Little Devil says: “We’re closed!” he says “Come back tomorrow!”. He doesn’t even realize he is speaking to a devil.

The Little Devil, now desperate, starts wondering if he shouldn’t just go back to Hell and learn how to be bad. That’s when he sees another human come nearby and he says to himself “Okay, that’s my last chance. All for nothing.”

He is puzzled by this third human, that is “like a woman” but “walked like a soldier”. The narration explains that the Little Devil doesn’t recognize a priest in his robe. When the priest sees the devil, he shouts prayers, exorcism rituals, and other stuff. The Little Devil, “since he was polite”, waits for the priest to finish before speaking to him. He explains his quest to become good. The priest, confused and not knowing if he should trust the Little Devil, says “To be good, you have to obey your parents”. The Little Devil answers that his parents want him to be bad. The priest, considering the extremely unusual peculiarity of this situation, decides that he isn’t one able to judge such a case, and advice the Little Devil to go see the only one who can sort out such a moral dilemma: the Pope, in Roma.

 The Little Devil flies all night long, and arrives at the Vatican in the morning. He finds the Pope in his garden, praying. He tries to talk to the Pope, only to be answered “Go away, you’re not the one I asked for.” The Little Devil explains once more his quest to become good, but the Pope doesn’t believe him, thinking the demon is here to tempt him. The Little Devil convinces the Pope to help him by saying “Why are you rejecting me before even knowing me? And what would you lose at giving me an advice?”. The Pope decides to hear the Little Devil’s full story, and by its end he has tears in his eyes, thinking that all of it is “too beautiful to be true”. The Pope also realizes that he doesn’t have enough power to help the Little Devil – as he says, “I am but a man, and I take care of men”. Since the Little Devil is not a man, he suggest that he goes to fetch the help of God himself, in Heaven. To access Heaven, he teaches him a little song, a short and simple song that only the Pope knows and that is called “the song that makes one find Heaven”. Even the narrator doesn’t know the song because the Pope whispered it into the Little Devil’s ear (as the narrator mentions, “If I knew about the song, I wouldn’t be here telling the story to you, I would already be in Heaven”). Now, the Little Devil only has to fly away in the sky, as high as he can, while singing the little song – and he should find Heaven.

The Little Devil, used to learn poems and songs, sings the little song perfectly as he flies away in the sky – and after singing it three times in a row, he finds himself in Heaven!

 Well, not exactly. He is in front of a great white door, with an old bearded man wearing a blue toga, keys at his belt, and an aureole on his head. It is Saint Peter. At first the saint refuses to let the Little Devil in, until he hears that the Pope sent him; Saint Peter mumbles a very funny line, that could be translated in English as “The pope, the pope… Who does he think he is?” or “What’s his problem?” or “Why does he has to meddle with everything?” or even “He’s really nosy”. Saint Peter decides to let the Little Devil pass “the exam”, asking him if he knows how to “write and read”. The Little Devil says yes, Saint Peter thinks he lies, because devils don’t go to school, and he asks him what’s two plus two. When the Little Devil answers correctly, Saint Peter thinks it’s just pure luck, but he lets him enter in the “great yard”. He tells him to go to the “first door on the right”, that is the office of the Little Jesus, where he will pass the ��reading exam”.

[ Note: Just like how the Good God is an alternative, common, familiar name for “God”, in French you have “Le petit Jésus”, “The Little Jesus” or “The Small Jesus” for, well, Jesus.]

 The Little Devil passes a great porch and enters a great yard that looks like a school playground. Behind some arcades, there are green glassed doors (an obvious reference to the French elementary schools of the 60s).

The first door has a copper nameplate saying “LITTLE JESUS / Son of God / Enter without knocking”. In it, a room with the little Jesus sitting on a pulpit, a blond child with a big aureole “more beautiful than that of Saint Peter”. The reading exam is simple: the Little Jesus hands the Little Devil a book and asks him to read the text. However, there is nothing in the book. The Little Devil says “But there is nothing written! These are just white pages!”, and as he says so, his words are magically written into the book. When the Little Jesus takes back the book, he declares that the Little Devil knows how to read, and passed the first trial.

He is then sent in the next room, to Little Jesus’ father. There, a silver nameplate say : “GOOD GOD / Open at every hour / Enter without knocking”. Behind the door, a room bigger than the previous one, with the Good God, a beautiful old man with a red coat, a long white beard and two aureoles piled up on his head. There, the Little Devil has to pass the writing exam, which seems simpler: it is a normal dictation. However, when the Good God speaks, no sound or word comes out of his lips. The Little Devil, puzzled, decides to write what he feels:

“Dear Good God, I am sad because I cannot hear what you are saying. However, since I have to write something, I want to tell you that I love you very much, that I want to be good, to stay by your side, even if I have to be only the lowest and smallest of your angels. – Little Red Devil.”

When the Good God reads the Little Devil’s sheet, he laughs and says he passed the test. However he has one more exam: the mathematic one. It’s in the next room, and hosted by the Good God’s mother. “She is very strict”, the Good God warns him.

The next door has a golden nameplate saying “VIRGIN MARY / Mother of God / Queen of Heaven / Knock before entering.”. Behind the door, not a bigger, but rather a smaller room, in fact so tiny it can only house one desk and the Virgin Mary herself, wearing a blue dress and with three aureoles piled up on her head. The Little Devil is quite afraid to see such an impressive figure. She gives him a sheet, with all sorts of pens and asks him to find “A number of three digits, that can be divided by three, that has blue eyes and a leg shorter than the other”. The Little Devil makes the list of all the numbers of three digits that can be divided by three, and realizes that a good number could be 189, because 1 and 9 could be the number’s legs, one shorter than the other, while the 8 could be a head on a belly. So, he draws on his sheet a stylized 189, with the 8 higher than the others and given a tiny face. When the Virgin Mary takes the sheet, she shakes it and the number comes alive before running outside of the classroom, “for Heaven hosts everything: men, animals, objects… and even numbers!”. The Virgin Mary announces that the Little Devil passed the entrance test, and thus begins his makeover session.

 The Virgin Mary takes the Little Devil to a shower, where he is washed of his “small sins”. After that, he goes to a shop to exchange his bat wings for beautiful swan wings. A hairdresser tries to cut his horns, without any success, so he just puts a “brand-new aureole, as white as milk” on top of them. Once the Little Devil is ready, the Virgin Mary introduces him to all the other angels in Heaven.

Upon seeing him, an old and pink angel comes forward, saying “You can’t have a red-skinned angel with horns! It never happened, never was before!”. The Virgin Mary simply points out that it’s not because something never happened before that it can’t happen now, and that it is not the first time they saw something they never saw before. The old angel, realizing the silliness of his words, backs up as the Little Devil is welcomed in Heaven.  

The narrator explains that the Little Devil is now an inhabitant of Heaven, “and if heaven wasn’t heaven, the other angels would have envied him because of his red skin and black horns”.

When the father of the Little Devil heard about that, he merely said “I knew it would happen! Being so silly and stupid, he went to God! Well, too bad for him! That will teach him! I don’t want to hear from him again!” [Once more, a joke about how usually parents threaten their disobedient children by saying “You’ll end up in Hell!” or “You’ll be caught by the devil!”).

The narrator ends his tale with: “If you ever go in Hell, don’t speak of the little red devil! He is considered a bad example for the youths, and if you speak of him, they will quickly make sure you won’t speak any more”.

[ao3feed-yurionice]

The witch of the Mouffetard Street

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2uDxxIT

by FdLotus

Once upon a time, in the Gobelins neighborhood of Paris, lived an old witch. She was awfully old and even more ugly. She had a solution for this problem, all she had to do is to eat a little girl whose name begins with the letter s...

Words: 1340, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Broca street tales

Fandoms: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Sara Crispino, Michele Crispino, Celestino Cialdini

Additional Tags: Fairy Tale Retellings

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2uDxxIT

[strawbxrryidiot]

31 minutes/ALF/The Big Bang Theory/Courage the cowardly dog/Sex and the city/Gravity Falls/Wander over Yonder/Girl from nowhere/Yo-kai watch/The tales of Broca street

I don't know who to tag

❝ your top 10 favorite tv shows can say a lot about your personality ❞

🤔🤔🤔 okay let’s do this then

mine:

1. Harrow

2. Stranger Things

3. Forever

4. Chicago Med

5. 9-1-1: Lone Star

6. Bates Motel

7. The Alienist

8. The Resident

9. New Amsterdam

10. Hannibal

show me yours if you feel like joining 🫶🏻💗

no pressure random tags 🏷️

@queereldritch @okilokiwithpurpose @mobius-m-mobius @foodiewithdahoodie @ohfallingdisco @elsbianism @josephandjamie @josephfakingquinn @bloodstained-laughter @can-of-pringles @jufferingx @mike-queerler @eddiemunsons-missingnipple @sillylittlerock @stopitbehaveyourself @jcbowerssmile @highwarlockofphilly @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @multifandomheathenannie @bladethevampier @cf56 @queenspinoodle @lokisgoodgirl @harringroveera @cuethemulti @mirilyawrites @bloodstained-laughter @pinupcitizen @scarie-carrie @a-book-of-lost-things @a-crumb-of-whump @junedbuggg @junggoku @fracturedarkness @all-things-fandomstuck @queer-in-a-cornfield @apocalyptic-byler @chaos-monkeyy @daydreams-in-the-moonlight @worstloki @pansexualdisasterr @lewissoul @microwaveonwheels @loki-hargreeves @steves-yellow-cardigin @lovely0painter @cultofsheep @samisnotlegend @cringetownusa @sumi-sprite

— if I didn’t tag you and you’d love to join, please do. everybody is welcome xx

[miajc]

Una cuestión de identidad - Robert Bloch

Mis miembros eran de plomo. Mi corazón era como un reloj que pulsaba en vez de latir, muy lentamente. Mis pulmones eran como esponjas de metal, mi cabeza un cuenco de bronce lleno de lava fundida que se movía como mercurio, atrás y adelante, en ardientes oleadas. Atrás y adelante... mientras la conciencia y el inconsciente jugaban entremezclados contra un fondo de lento y sordo dolor. Sentía eso, nada más. Tenía corazón, pulmones, y cuerpo... pero no sentía nada externo; mi cuerpo no "tocaba" nada. No estaba sentado, ni de pie, andando o tendido, ni haciendo nada que pudiera sentir. Sólo tenía corazón, pulmones, cuerpo y cabeza en las tinieblas que estaban llenas de la pulsación de una muda agonía. Esto era yo.

Pero, ¿quién era yo?

Me asaltó la idea: la primera idea real, ya que antes sólo había estado enterado de existir. Me pregunté cuál sería la naturaleza de mi ser. ¿Quién era yo? Era un hombre. La palabra "hombre" evocó ciertas asociaciones que lucharon por surgir de entre el dolor, de entre la pulsación del corazón y la sensación jadeante de los pulmones. Si era un hombre, ¿qué estaba haciendo? ¿Y dónde estaba yo?

Como respuesta a la idea, mí conocimiento aumentó. Yo poseía un cuerpo, por tanto, tenía manos, orejas, ojos Debía pues, tratar de sentir, oír y ver. Pero no podía. Mis brazos estaban agarrotados como masas de hierro inamovibles. Mis oídos sólo captaban el sonido del silencio y la pulsación que resonaba dentro de mi torturado cuerpo. Mis ojos estaban sellados por el peso plúmbeo de mis enormes párpados. Comprendí esto y sentí pánico. ¿Qué había sucedido? ¿Qué me pasaba? ¿Por qué no podía sentir, ver y oír? Había sufrido un accidente y me hallaba tendido en un lecho de hospital bajo los efectos del éter. Esta era una explicación. Tal vez estuviese tullido: ciego, sordo, mutilado. Sólo mi alma existía débilmente, como el susurro de las ráfagas de viento por entre las ruinas de una casa muy antigua.

¿Pero qué accidente? ¿Dónde me hallaba antes del mismo? Claro, debía haber vivido. ¿Cuál debía ser mi nombre? Me resigné a la oscuridad mientras forcejeaba por aclarar estos enigmas, y la oscuridad era grata. Mi cuerpo y la oscuridad parecían hallarse igualmente separadas, pero mezclándose entre sí. Era sosegado... demasiado sosegado para los pensamientos que zumbaban en mi cerebro. Los pensamientos luchaban y gritaban, y finalmente atronaron mi mente hasta que me desperté. Sentí la sensación que recordaba vagamente de tener "un pie dormido". Pero ahora esta sensación se extendía por todo mi cuerpo, de forma que una ligera picazón me dio la sensación, poco a poco, de tener unos brazos, unas manos, un pecho y unas piernas y pies. Sus líneas fueron "emergiendo", quedando definidas por aquella picazón. Algo taladró mi espinazo, como si la broca del dentista la estuviese atravesando. Simultáneamente, tuve conocimiento de que mi corazón era un tambor congoleño dentro de mi pecho, mis pulmones hinchadas calabazas que se elevaban y descendían a un ritmo frenético. Me gocé en el dolor, ya que por él sentía. La sensación de separación desapareció y comprendí que yo, completo, intacto, yacía sobre algo blando. Pero ¿dónde?

Esta fue la pregunta siguiente y de súbito tuve las suficientes energías como para solucionar el problema. Abrí los ojos. No vieron nada más que la continuación de la negrura que se agitaba tras mis entornados párpados. Si acaso, una oscuridad más profunda, más mórbida. No podía divisar nada de mi cuerpo y, sin embargo, tenía los ojos abiertos. ¿Estaba ciego? Mis oídos no captaban otro sonido que el de la misteriosa inspiración de mis pulmones. Mis manos se movieron tan lentamente en mis costados, rozando una tela, que me dijeron que mis miembros estaban arropados, pero no abrigados. Unos centímetros... Mis manos tropezaron con superficies sólidas, seguras, a cada lado. Alcé las manos hacia arriba, impulsado por el temor. Veinte centímetros y otra sólida superficie de madera. Extendí los pies y a través de las puntas de los zapatos toqué madera. Abrí la boca y surgió un sonido. Fue sólo un estertor, aunque yo había querido gritar. Por entre mis ideas giraba vertiginosamente un nombre..., un nombre que se abrió paso a través de la bruma y se elevó como un símbolo de mi irrazonable miedo. Yo sabía un nombre y quise proclamarlo.

"Edgar Alan Poe".

Entonces, mi ronca voz susurró lo que yo temía estaba en relación con este nombre: -¡El entierro prematuro! -susurré-. Poe lo escribió. ¡Yo soy... un ser vivo!

Estaba en un ataúd de madera, con el aire viciado de mi propia corrupción penetrando en mis pulmones, quemándolos, a través de mi olfato. Me hallaba en un ataúd, enterrado en la tierra y, sin embargo, estaba vivo. Entonces hallé fuerzas. Mis manos comenzaron a arañar y empujar frenéticamente la superficie que tenía sobre mi cabeza. Logré aferrar los costados de mi prisión y empujé con todas mis fuerzas, en tanto mis pies golpeaban el extremo inferior de la caja. Pegué puntapiés, vigorosos puntapiés. Una nueva fuerza, la fuerza de los locos, penetró en mi sangre. Con salvaje frenesí, en una agonía nacida del hecho de no poder gritar y darle expresión, golpeé con ambos pies el extremo del ataúd, y por fin sentí cómo cedía la madera, astillándose. Los lados también crujieron, mis ensangrentados dedos se aferraron a la tierra y rodé sobre mi mismo, escarbando la húmeda y blanda tierra. Seguí escarbando hacia arriba, en una especie de desesperación y anhelo incontenibles mientras trabajaba. Sólo el instinto combatía el insano horror que se había apoderado de mi ser y lo transformaba en la actividad que sólo podía salvarme.

Debieron enterrarme apresuradamente, ya que había poca tierra sobre mi tumba. Medio asfixiado y sofocado, me abrí camino hacia arriba después de interminables siglos de delirio, durante los cuales el polvo de mi sepultura me cubrió, en tanto yo me escurría como un gusano hacía la superficie. Mis manos lograron por fin formar una cavidad. Ascendí vigorosamente y salí al exterior. Me arrastré a la luz de la luna que inundaba un mundo compuesto de hongos de mármol, que surgían abundantemente de los montones de hierba que me rodeaban. Algunas de las fantásticas losas tenían forma de cruz, otras lucían cabezas o grandes bocas como urnas. Eran las lápidas de las sepulturas, naturalmente, pero sólo las veía como hongos, gordos, bajos, de una palidez mortal, que extendían sus raíces bajo tierra para buscar su alimento. Me quedé tendido, mirándolo todo, así como el pozo por el que acababa de pasar de la muerte a la vida nuevamente. No podía, no quería pensar. Las palabras "Edgar Allan Poe" y Entierro prematuro, habían asaltado imprevistamente mi cerebro y ahora, por un desconocido motivo, empecé a susurrar con una voz ronca, rasposa, que por fin sonó más clara:

-¡Lázaro, Lázaro, Lázaro...!

Gradualmente, mi jadeo cesó y logré aspirar grandes bocanadas de aire fresco que cantó al hundirse en mis agotados pulmones. Volví a contemplar la sepultura..., mi sepultura. No tenía lápida. Era una tumba miserable, en un sector miserable del cementerio. Probablemente un Campo de Alfarero. Estaba cerca de los límites de la necrópolis, y la maleza asediaba aquellas míseras tumbas. No había lápidas, lo cual me recordó mi pregunta. ¿Quién era yo?

Era un problema único. Antes de morir yo había sido alguien, pero ¿quién? Seguramente se trataba de un nuevo caso de amnesia. El retorno a una nueva vida en el verdadero sentido de la frase. ¿Quién era yo? Era gracioso que pudiese recordar palabras como "amnesia" y, sin embargo, no pudiese asociarlas con algo personal de mi pasado. Mi mente estaba completamente en blanco. ¿Era el resultado de la muerte? ¿Era algo permanente o mi mente despertaría al cabo de unas horas, lo mismo que había sucedido con mi cuerpo? De lo contrario, me vería en un terrible apuro... Ignoraba mi nombre, mi estado, lo que había sido. A través de mi cerebro pasaron alocadamente los nombres de diversas ciudades: Chicago, Milwaukee, Los Angeles, Washington, Bombay, Shangai, Cleveland, Chichen Itzá, Pernambuco, Angkor Wat, Roma, Omks, Cartago... No pude asociar ni una sola conmigo, ni explicar cómo conocía tales nombres. Recordé calles: Mariposa Boulevard y Michigan Avenue, Broadway, Center Street, Park Lane y Champs Elisées. Nada significaban para mí. Pensé nombres propios: Felix Kennaston, Ben Blue, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Studs Lonigan, Arthur Gordon Pym, James Gordon Bennet, Samuel Butler, Igor Stravinsky... y no forjaron ninguna imagen en mi cerebro. Podía ver todas las calles, visualizar a toda la gente, imaginarme todas las ciudades, pero no podía asociarme con ninguno de tales nombres.

Comedia, tragedia, drama: era una triste escena para ser interpretada en un cementerio a la caída de la noche. Me había escurrido de una tumba sin lápida, y lo único que sabía era que yo era un hombre. Pero ¿quién? Mis ojos se pasearon por mi persona, tendida en la hierba. Bajo el barro y el polvo distinguí un traje oscuro, desgarrado en varios lugares, y descolorido. Cubría el cuerpo de un hombre de alta estatura; un cuerpo delgado, poco musculado y un pecho aplastado. Mis manos, al recorrer mi persona, eran largas y extrañamente delgadas; no eran manos de campesino. No pude saber nada de mi cara, aunque pasé mis manos por todas sus facciones. De una cosa estaba seguro: fuese cual fuese la causa de mi aparente muerte, yo no estaba físicamente mutilado. La fuerza me impulsó a levantarme. Me puse de pie y me tambaleé sobre la hierba. Durante unos minutos sentí la ebria sensación de flotar, pero gradualmente el terreno se tomó sólido bajo mis pies, y trabé conocimiento con la frialdad de la noche y del viento que azotaba mi frente, al tiempo que escuchaba con indecible gozo el chirrido de los grillos en un próximo lodazal. Di una vuelta por las tumbas, contemplé el encapotado cielo y sentí caer el rocío y la humedad.

Pero mi cerebro estaba solo, separado, luchando con los invisibles demonios de la duda. ¿Quién era yo? ¿Qué iba a hacer? No podía vagar por las calles en mi desordenado estado físico. Si me presentaba a las autoridades me encerrarían por loco. Además, no quería ver a nadie. De pronto comprendí esto. No quería ver luces ni gente. Yo era... diferente.

"Tenía en mi la sensación de la muerte". ¿Estaría aún...?

Incapaz de soportar esta idea, busqué pistas frenéticamente. Traté por todos los medios de despertar mi dormida memoria. Caminando incansablemente durante la noche, combatiendo el caos y la confusión, batallando contra las nubes tenebrosas que rodeaban mi cerebro, anduve arriba y abajo por los más apartados rincones del cementerio. Exhausto, miré el iluminado cielo. Y entonces mis ideas se alejaron, y también mi confusión. Sólo estaba seguro de una cosa, de la necesidad de descansar, de tener paz, olvido. "¿Era un deseo de muerte? ¿Había salido de la tumba sólo para volver a ella?"

No lo supe ni me importaba. Movido por un impulso tan inexplicable com6 arrollador, me arrastré hacia las ruinas de mi sepultura, entré, envolviéndome en las tinieblas como un agradecido gusano, y la tierra me cayó encima. Había suflciente aire para permitirme respirar mientras estuviese tendido en mi ataúd. Mi cabeza cayó hacia atrás y me instalé en mi ataúd para dormir...

Los rumores y ruidos de mis sueños murieron sin poder recordarlos. Se alejaron de mis sueños y volví a la realidad hasta que me incorporé y empecé a empujar la tierra que me oprimía. ¡Estaba en la tumba! Otra vez el terror. Había albergado la esperanza de que todo fuese un sueño, y que el despertar me traería a la bella realidad. Pero estaba en la tumba, y la tormenta reinaba en lo alto. Me arrastré al exterior. Todavía era de noche, o más bien, el instinto me hizo comprender que volvía a ser de noche. Debí dormir todo el día. Esta tormenta mantenía a la gente lejos del cementerio y por esto no habían podido darse cuenta del estado de mi tumba. Me icé a la superficie y la lluvia me azotó desde el cielo con inusitada furia. Y sin embargo me sentí feliz; feliz por la vida que ya conocía. Bebí la lluvia; el trueno me maravilló como si fuese una sinfonía. Me admiró la esmeraldina belleza del relámpago. ¡Yo estaba vivo!

A mi alrededor, los cadáveres corrompidos y putrefactos no podían, a pesar del furor desencadenado de todos los elementos, alimentar una chispa de existencia o de memoria. Mis pobres pensamientos, mi pobre vida, eran infinitamente preciosos en comparación con aquellos desdichados. Yo había engañado a los gusanos y las larvas. ¡Que aullara la tormenta! Yo aullaría con ella, compartiendo aquella cósmica majestad. Vitalizado en el verdadero sentido de la palabra, eché a andar. La lluvia se llevaba las manchas de mis ropas y mi cuerpo. Singularmente, no sentía frío ni la humedad que me rodeaba. Estaba enterado de todo ello, pero no penetraban en mi cuerpo. Por primera vez comprendí otra cosa extraña: no estaba hambriento ni tenía sed. Al menos, no parecía tenerlos. ¿Habría muerto mi apetito con mi memoria? Reflexioné. Memoria..., el problema de la identidad todavía me apremiaba. Seguí andando, impulsado por la tormenta. Aún meditando, los pies me condujeron más allá de los confines del cementerio. La galerna parecía guiar mis pasos por la acera de una calle desierta. Anduve, casi sin darme cuenta. ¿Quién era yo? ¿Cómo había fallecido? ¿Cómo podía revivir? Anduve bajo la lluvia, por la oscura calle, solo en el mojado terciopelo de la noche. ¿Quién era yo? ¿Cómo había fallecido? ¿Cómo podía revivir?

Atravesé una calle, penetré en otra más estrecha, aún empujado por el viento y la risotada de los truenos que se burlaban de mi asombro. ¿Quién era...? Lo sabia. Mi nombre... la calle me lo dijo. Summit Street. ¿Qulén vivía en Summit Street? Arthur Derwin, de Summit Street. Yo era Arthur Derwin. Era... algo que no podía recordar. Había vivido muchos años y, sin embargo, sólo conseguía recordar mi nombre. ¿Cómo había muerto?

Había acudido a una sesión espiritista; se apagaron las luces y la señora Price invocó a alguien. Dijo algo sobre las influencias del mal y las luces se encendieron.

Pero no se encendieron. Y debían de haberse encendido. Sí, estaban encendidas, pero no para mí.

Yo había muerto. Muerto en la oscuridad de la sesión. ¿Qué me mató? ¿Tal vez el espanto? ¿Qué sucedió después? La señora Price había callado. Yo vivía solo en la ciudad; me habían enterrado apresuradamente en una tumba de pobre.

-Un ataque al corazón -sentenció el coroner. Nada más.

Esto fue todo. Y, sin embargo, yo era Arthur Derwin, y seguramente a alguien le habría importado mi muerte. "Bramin Street", anunció la enseña de la calle a la luz del relámpago. Bramin Street... A alguien le habría importado: a Viola. Viola era mi prometida. Habla amado a Arthur Derwin. ¿Cuál era su apellido? ¿Dónde la conocí? ¿Cómo era?

"Bramin Street".

Otra vez la enseña. Inconscientemente, mis pies continuaron su camino. Estaba recorriendo Bramin Street sin pensar en la tormenta. Bien. Dejé que mis pies me guiasen. No quería pensar. Mis pies me conducirían, por costumbre, a casa de Viola... Allí sabría... Bien, no debía pensar. Sólo andar en medio de la tormenta. Anduve, con los ojos cerrados ante las tinieblas que azotaba el trueno. Me alejaba de la muerte y ahora tenía hambre. Tenía hambre y sed en la noche, hambre de ver a Viola y sed de sus labios. Por ella regresaba de la muerte..., ¿o era esto demasiado poético?

Salí de la tumba y volví a dormir en ella y de nuevo me levanté y sondeé el mundo sin memoria. Era algo grotesco, fúnebre, macabro. Yo fallecí en la sesión. Mis pies iban chapoteando en la calle inundada por la lluvia. No sentía frio ni la humedad. Por dentro estaba ardiendo, ardiendo con el recuerdo de Viola, de sus labios, de su cabello. Era rubia. Tenía una cabellera como la luz del sol, ojos azules y tan profundos como el mar, y una tez con la blancura de los flancos de un unicornio. Recordé habérselo dicho mientras la tenía entre mis brazos. Sabía que su boca era como una hendidura escarlata que producía el éxtasis. Ella era el hambre que yo sentía, ella el ardíente deseo que me conducía a su puerta a través de las nieblas de mi memoria. Jadeaba, pero sin saberlo. Dentro de mí giraba como una rueda que había sido antaño mi cerebro y ahora era sólo un volante verde que giraba dejándome ver imágenes caleidoscópicas de Viola, de la tumba, de una sesión de espiritismo, de presencias perversas y de una muerte inexplicable. Viola estaba interesada en el misticismo. Fuimos juntos a la sesión. La señora Price era una médium famosa. Yo me morí en la sesión y me desperté en la tumba. Y ahora regresaba para ver a Viola. Regresaba para averiguar algo de mí mismo. Ahora sabía quién era yo y cómo había muerto. ¿Pero cómo revivía?

"Cómo revivía". "Bramin Street”. Mis pies chapoteaban.

Luego, el instinto me condujo hacia el porche. Fue el instinto el que hizo que mi mano se dirigiese al familiar picaporte sin llamar, y el instinto quien me hizo cruzar el umbral. Me quedé en el pasillo, un pasillo desierto. Había un espejo y por primera vez iba a poder verme. Tal vez me asombraría mi completo reconocimiento, mi completo recuerdo. Me contemplé, pero el espejo se tornó borroso ante mi mirada. Me sentí debilitado, mareado. Pero esto se debía al hambre que me atenazaba, el hambre que me consumía. Era tarde. Viola nn estaría abajo, sino arriba, en su dormitorio. Subí la escalera, goteando a cada paso y andando silenciosamente, apartándome de los diminutos charcos de agua que mis ropas iban dejando. De repente me abandonó la debilidad y volví a sentirme vigoroso. Tuve la sensación de estar ascendiendo por la escalinata del Destino. Como si al llegar a lo alto fuese a conocer la verdad de mi futuro.

Algo me había traído desde la tumba a casa de Viola. Algo se movía detrás de esta misteriosa resurrección. La respuesta estaba arriba. Llegué a lo alto y me interné por el oscuro y familiar pasillo. La puerta del dormitorio se abrió a la presión de mi mano. Junto a la cama ardía una vela, nada más. Entonces divisé a Viola tendida en su lecho. Dormía, como una encarnada belleza. Dormía. Era muy joven y adorable en aquel momento. Me apiadé de ella, por lo que sabría al despertar. Llamé suavemente:

-Viola...

Repetí el nombre suavemente, mientras mi cerebro daba vueltas a la última de mis tres acuciantes preguntas.

"¿Cómo revives?", preguntaba mi cerebro. -¡Viola! -gritó mi voz. Abrió los ojos y la vida los inundó. Me vio. -¡Arthur...! -jadeó-. ¡Estás muerto! Por fin chilló. -Sí -dije en voz baja. ¿Por qué contesté "sí"? "¿Cómo revives?", volvió a insistir mi cerebro. La joven se incorporó, temblando. -¡Estás muerto! ¡Eres un fantasma! Nosotros te enterramos. La señora Price tenía miedo. Falleciste en la sesión. ¡Vete, Arthur, vete...! ¡Estás muerto!

Gimió una y otra vez. Miré su beldad y sentí hambre. Mil recuerdos de la última noche me asaltaron de golpe. La sesión, y la señora Price invocando a los espíritus del mal; la frialdad que se apoderó de mi en la oscuridad y mi súbito hundimiento en el olvido. Después mi despertar y mi búsqueda en pos de Viola para que apaciguase mi hambre. No de comida. No de bebida. No de amor. Un nuevo apetito. Un nuevo apetito que sólo conocía de noche. Un nuevo apetito que me hacía evitar a los hombres y olvidarme de mí mismo. Un nuevo apetito que odiaba los espejos. Apetito... de Viola.

Avancé hacia ella lentamente, y mis mojadas prendas susurraron cuando extendí mis brazos tranquilizadoramente y la cogí entre mis brazos. Por un instante lo sentí por ella, pero el apetito se presentó más agudo e incliné la cabeza. La última pregunta volvió a cruzar fugazmente por mí cerebro.

"¿Cómo revives?"

La sesión, la amenaza de los malos espíritus, contestaron a esta pregunta. La contesté yo mismo. Ya sabía por qué me había levantado de la tumba, quién y qué era, cuando cogí en brazos a Viola. Sí, la cogí entre mis brazos y clavé mis colmillos en su garganta. Esto contestó la pregunta.

Yo era un vampiro.

[adarkrainbow]

About "La sorcière de la rue Mouffetard", the illustrator Jonathan Bousmar shared on his website several of the illustrations he did for a recent re-edition of the tale. You can find them all here.

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca street: The witch of the broom-closet

There are two witch-based fairytales in the Tales of Broca Street, and this one is even more famous than The Witch of Mouffetard Street ; in fact, this fairytale is probably the most famous fairytale of the Broca Street collection: La sorcière du placard aux balais. The Witch of the broom-closet.

The story is actually told in the first person as it is mister Pierre himself who is the hero of the adventure. It all began when, looking in his pockets, he found a coin of cinq francs (the "franc" was the currency of France before the arrival of the euro). Thinking himself wealthy with this coin, he decided to go buy a house and went to a notary to find one. The man mistakes his offer for him having five hundred francs, only for mister Pierre to insist: he just have five francs, what house can he buy with it? And the notary is of course appaled (know that the franc was even lesser than a euro, so to have five francs is not even to have five euros). The notary is clear, the smallest amount for a house is two million francs.

But since mister Pierre insists the notary suddenly remembers something... a house he describes as a "small villa located on a big street, with a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a living-room, a pipi-room, and a broom closet". (The "pipi-room" is actually a joke. The "living-room" part is written in English in the original text, because at the time people thought it was fancier to use the English term "living-room" than the French salon, and so for the toilets Gripari wrote a mock-fancy term, "pipi-room"). And this house is only worth... three francs and a half, but with the notary's own fees, it becomes five francs exactly. Mister Pierre immediately buys the house, but he notices that the notary keeps laughing - the kind of laugh one has after playing a nasty trick... So he asks "Is the house real? Is it solid? There's no problem with it, right?" and the notary says the house is fine.

With the key in hand, mister Pierre visits the house, which indeeds turns out to be a nice, regular little house. He then goes to salute his neighbors, but on one side he only meets a man who shuts his door into his face, and on the other an old lady who keeps wailing and crying "What a misery for someone so young! But maybe you shall escape it, who knows? But it is still so sad to see someone like you undergo something like that." and she refuses to explains herself. Mister Pierre, angry with the situation, returns to the notary's office and threatens him with breaking his head if he refuses to tell him the secret of the house. And so the notary accepts the reveal the truth...

The house is haunted. But not by a ghost... by a witch. The witch of the broom-closet. Mister Pierre otes that he just saw the broom-closet and it was empty ; the notary explains the witch only comes there at night. He explains that most of the time the witch just stands quietly in her closet, not harming anybody. But if anybody sings "Sorcière, sorcière, Prends garde à ton derrière!" (Witch, witch / Beware for your bum!"), the witch will come out and the unfortunate victim wll never be seen again... Mister Pierre, who was already angry at the crooked notary for selling him the house without warning him of the witch's presence, is even angrier, pointing out if the man hadn't sung the song, mister Pierre would have been unable to sing it in turn and everything would have been fine... The notary only answers that he sung the rhyme on purpose to trick mister Pierre, but he escapes before the angry narrator can strangle him.

The rhyme is not one that goes away or is forgotten - but after living one year and a half in the house, very careful of never singing the words, mister Pierre starts to grow comfortable with the situation. He starts singing it in the street, where the witch cannot hear him ; and then in the day, while the witch is not there. After a certain time he grows bolder and starts singing the rhyme at night - but always stopping before pronouncing the last words. The door of the broom-closet shivers, creak, but the witch never comes out. However, one Christmas night, after celebrating with his friends, mister Pierre comes home slightly drunk at four in the morning. And, carelessly, he sings the full rhyme while in the house...

Immediately the broom-closet opens and the witch appears, holding one of mister Pierre's brooms in her hand. She gloats because she has been waiting for two years to punish him, patiently waiting for the day where he would finish the rhyme. Mister Pierre begs her with all he can think about: he pretends he didn't want to offend her, he carelessly sung it, that he has very good friends who are witches, that his late mother used to be a witch, that it is Christmas night and out of the goodness of her heart she can't harm him... The witch finds no pity in her, but she is amused by mister Pierre and so she gives him a trial. She leaves him three days: during these three days he shall ask her three different things, and if she is unable to give them one of these things, he will be spared and she will go forever. However if she brings him all three requests, she will "take him away"... Then the witch disappears and mister Pierre is left quite anxious for his life.

Unable to find any idea, mister Pierre goes to visit his good friend Bachir, who lives rue Broca and owns two magical goldfishes. Bachir brings his fishes (one red, another yellow with black dots), but it is impossible for regular humans to talk to the fishes directly, so Bachir has to summon a helpful mouse with a rhyme ("Petite souris / Petite amie / Viens par ici / Parle avec mes petits poissons / Et tu auras du saucisson") (Small mouse, small friend, come here, talk to my fishes, and you shall have some saucisson). A small gray mouse comes out, starts talking to the fishes with little "hip! hip! hip", and then talks to Bachir who in turn translates for mister Pierre. After mister Pierre told to the fishes all of his story through the mouse, fishes answer (po - po - po) to the mouse, and Bachir translates: mister Pierre shall has the witch for rubber jewels that will shine and glimmer like real jewels. Bachir then feeds both the fishes and the mouse, and mister Pierre returns home.

In the evening the witch appears, and mister Pierre asks her for the jewels. The witch notes that the idea isn't from mister Pierre, but she doesn't care: she gets out of her "corsage" two bracelets, three rings and a necklace, each shining like gold and glittering like diamons, but soft like rubber. The witch mocks him, saying tomorrow he should be more clever, and leaves.

Mister Pierre visits a chemist friend of his in his laboratory to study the jewels and he is amazed to find out that indeed, despite looking like gold and diamonds, these things are made of rubber! Mister Pierre then return to Bachir. The mouse against has to translate for the fishes (pipi pirrippi hippi hip), and the idea this time is: to ask the witch for a branch of the macaroni tree, to plant in his garden. In the evening the witch gloats again that the idea isn't from mister Pierre but she doesn't care - and she against takes out of her corsage a beautiful flowery branch... a tree-branch on which grows macaroni, with leaves made of noodles, flowers made of coquilettes, and little seeds in the shape of alphabet-pasta. Immediately mister Pierre plants the branch in his garden, because he aske for a branc that would grow into a tree and he hopes that if it fails to do so he can escape the witch... Unfortunately by the following day, the branch had turned into an huge pasta tree with vermicelle roots...

Despaired, mister Pierre goes to Bachir to tell him farewell, he will be taken away by the witch. But Bachir refuses to give up: he summons against the mouse and brings out his fishes, and they all talk for a very, very long time. The result is a careful plan mister Pierre must follow to the letter. He must ask the witch to give him "the frog with hair". But she will be stuck, because the witch IS the frog with hair. The "witch of the broom-closet" is just the human shape of the frog with hair. So either she will refuse to give the frog to him, and thus mister Pierre won... Either she will turn into the frog to offer himself to him and win the bet. If this is the latter case, mister Pierre but tie the frog up solidly, to prevent her from growing back into the witch, and then shave all of the frog's hair. Because her magic power is located in it, and once shaved the frog will become just an ordinary animal. Bachir even sells mister Pierre a roll of string to tie up solidly the frog.

When in the evening the witch appears, mister Pierre demands the frog with hair. The witch is furious upon hearing this and asks for something else, getting very mad at mister Pierre, claiming he has "no right" to ask her for this... But mister Pierre insists, and the witch, very angry, decides to show him the frog. The witch starts shrinking and deflating and crumbling onto herself, until she becomes a large green frog with a head full of hair. Immediately mister Pierre captures the frog, ties up very tightly the beast, and shaves all of the hair.

The following day, mister Pierre brings the frog to Bachir as a gift - even adding a tiny ladder so that the frog would act as a barometer. Ever since the frog was brought in the fishes and the frog keep talking to each other (Coap coap / Po po). Curious, Bachir and mister Pierre summoned the little mouse to translate... But she refused, saying that the supernatural animals were just exchanging insults all day long. And the story concludes by mister Pierre saying that if you ever come by his house, you will be free to sing as much as you like "Witch, witch / Beware your bum!"

[atrixfromice]

Well you asked , hehe

I usually don't do memes nor tag people, cos I don't want to bother ...buuuut.... this one sounded like fun!

✨For the first one, it's not that I'm showing off or something like that...it's just I've really wanted for a pretty good while a phone wallpaper of Jacques from Finding Nemo being shy and saying "oh mon dieu" but Pixar folks never made it.

And I don't think they'd ever make it, they don't seem to care about giving Jacques fans good quality merchandising, so I had to use this one 😆

Plus, it's cool to wake up in the morning and seeing on the phone what time is it, and that the first thing I see it's jacques being adorable and saying "mon dieu" ^^

✨ The last pic I saved was a meme a friend shared with me and cracked me out! 😆 But I didn't share cos I thought it was going to be awkward, cos probably only Mexicans could get the joke 😅. But if it helps, it says "if Tales of Broca street was set in Mexico". And it's funny cos in Mexico our grocery stores have adds of Coca Cola and Sabritas everywhere.

This song it's awesome! I hear it almost twice every day ^^

I don't tag anybody cos I wouldn't like to bother people, sorry 😅

tag game: post your lockscreen pic, the last pic you saved to your phone, and the last song you listened to.

oH-! This looks fun wtf

And yes, I made that edit uwuwu

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca street: The Mouffetard street witch

Let me begin with the first Broca street fairytale I ever encountered, as well as one of the most famous of the lot: "La sorcière de la rue Mouffetard", "The witch of Mouffetard street".

Once upon a time, in the Mouffetard street, in the aptly named Goblin neighborhood, lived a very old and very ugly witch who wanted to become young and pretty. [La rue Mouffetard is a real street, located near Broca street, in fact Mouffetard street is one of the oldest Parisian streets ; and the neighborhood is really called le quartier des Gobelins, because there is a famous manufecture there called "Les Gobelins"].

One day, as she was checking the Witches Newspaper, she discovered an ad that revealed the secret to turn old and ugly women into young and pretty girls: all that is needed is to eat a little girl, with tomato sauce. There is a caveat however: the little girl must have a name beginning with N. Immediately the witch is settled: she knows a little girl with an N-name... Nadia, one of the daughters of papa Saïd from the Broca street nearby.

As Nadia was coming back from the baker with some bread, the witch stopped her and, pretending to be a harmless old woman, asked her to go fetch a box of tomato sauce from her father's shop to bring it to her. Nadia, kind-hearted, agrees, not knowing she will be bringing by herself the sauce with which the witch will eat her. However, when her father sees what she is doing he tells her: "No. If this old woman wants something, she should come by herself to the shop, don't bring anything to her." The following day the witch goes to Nadia after she made the groceries, asking her why she didn't bring the sauce: when Nadia explains why, the witch decides it is safer to go buy the tomato sauce herself.

So the witch goes to Papa Saïd's shop, and tries to ask him for a tomato sauce box - however she keeps revealing by mistake her real intentions, much to the confusion of papa Saïd ("What do you want? / I want Nadia! / What? / No, I meant a box of tomato sauce! / Okay, small or big? / Big, it's for Nadia! / What? / No, I meant... big it's for pasta! / Oh, so you want to buy pasta with it? / No, I already have Nadia! / What!"

Hopefully papa Saïd clearly isn't bright enough to understand the old woman is a child-eating witch. The witch tries to have papa Saïd send his daughter Nadia to deliver the box at her house, or at least help her carrying it, pretending it is quite heavy... But papa Saïd, simple-minded, down-to-earth merchant that he is, dryly answers "We don't do deliveries, and my daughter has more important things to do: if this box is too heavy for you, leave it here!"

The witch is disappointed, but at least now she has the sauce.

To catch Nadia she designs a new plan: since Nadia regularly goes to the market of Mouffetard street to buy food for her family, she will disguise herself as one of the market' merchants to capture her. But again the witch has no real luck. The first time she becomes a butcher-woman, only for Nadia to come to buy chicken. The next market day she turns herself in a chicken-seller... but Nadia is here to buy meat from the butcher. So the third market day the witch decides to disguise herself as a merchant of both white and red meat... Only for Nadia to buy fish.

Deeply angry at the situation, the witch then decides to use her magic to become ALL OF THE MERCHANTS OF THE MOUFFETARD MARKET! And so she turns into all of them (267 in total). When Nadia goes to buy vegetables the next market day, the witch seizes her by the arm, and locks her within her cash drawer.

Hopefully, Nadia had a brave little brother named Bachir who, upon seeing his sister not coming home from the market, understood the witch had captured her. He took his guitar, disguised himself as a blind musician, and went to the market. There he started singing a song to "earn a few coins", despite the 267 merchant-witches not liking this very much and trying to dissuade him from doing so: the song was "Nadia, where are you?" (basically just him asking "Nadia, where are you, answer me, I don't see you, I need to hear you"). Nadia screams for help from the cash-drawer, only for the witch to realize it isn't a blind musician who is singing... They try to capture him, but Bachir knocks out cold one of the merchants with his guitar, which makes all the other market-vendors drop (since they are all one and the same, the witch).

Bachir goes to the vegetable vendor's cash-drawer and tries to open it, but he is not strong enough. While he is attempting to free his sister, the witch(es) wakes up, but doesn't stand up and keeps her eyes half-closed. Slowly, slowly, the 267 fake vendors creep on the ground, sliding closer and closer to Bachir in complete silence...

Hopefully, a strong sailor happens to pass by. Bachir asks him for help, to get the drawer unstuck and free his sister. The sailor is not sure: "What would I gain out of this?". Bachir simply answers: "When the drawer is unstuck, I'll take my sister, you'll take the money." The sailor is "Deal!" and promptly uses his strength to try to open the drawer - right as the witch pounces on Bachir.

In the confusion, the VERY heavy cash-drawer drops onto the skull of the witch, which cracks open with her brain spilling everywhere (it wouldn't be a good fairytale without some gore). And this also happens to her 266 copies across the market. Under the shock the drawer gets unstuck and Nadia is set free.

And it is an happy ending, as the children return home alive... and the sailors picks up all the money he can get. Gripari adds the quite gruesome detail that the sailor picks up the coins right out of the witch's blood.

The end.

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca Street: Prince Blub and the mermaid

Now we move into some of the lesser-known tales of Gripari's Broca Street. This one, while still modernized, is a more traditional fairytale with no actual Parisian landscape involved. Note that this whole tale can actually be read as quite a twist on Andersen's Little Mermaid. (Which honestly isn't surprising at all given... well you know, Gripari was openly gay, Andersen's Little Mermaid is a famous gay allegory...)

Once upon a time there was an old king who ruled over a beautiful tropical island in the middle of the ocean. He had a young son whose full name was Henri Marie François Guy Pierre Antoine, but it was a name so long that when people asked him, as a king, how he was called, he preferred to say "Blub", and so everybody started calling him Blub. Since there was no winter on this tropical island, instead of washing himself in a bathroom the prince went every morning to wash himself in the sea by a little private beach next to the palace, belonging only to him - and there, every day, he met a mermaid. The mermaid was a good friend of the little prince Blub - she carried him on her back to go around the island, she plunged with him in the water to collect seashells, fishes, crabs and coral, she told him by the sand all of the wonderful tales of the ocean...

One day, young prince Blub declared that when he would be old enough he would marry the mermaid. The mermaid simply laughed at this idea, saying he would marry a human princess with two legs instead, as his fate was to inherit his father's throne. But the child-prince insisted, and the mermaid decided that they would only speak of this again when the prince would be fifteen of age.

The prince finally turned fifteen, and was a handsome young man. And on his fifteen birthday, he told the mermaid that he was still in love with her and still wanted to marry her. The mermaid answered that she did not doubt his feelings, but that he clearly didn't know the consequences of what he was saying: she told him that, since she could not live on land like humans, if he married her she would have to follow her to her father's Realm of Waters, where he would become an ondin (male form of "undine"), his legs turning into a fish tail. Blub is all like "Perfect, let's do this!" and the mermaid answers "No, it is not perfect!". She tells him of how these kind of weddings usually go, because Blub wouldn't be the first human man to marry a mermaid - but even putting aside the men who only marry mermaids out of interest (because turning into an ondin means gaining immortality), most of the time these new ondin come to regret their old legs and their life on land, and they are doomed to eternal boredom and endless sorrow... Blub still claimed he didn't care, and the mermaid said "When you're twenty, we shall talk of this again".

... Problem is, the young prince refused to wait anymore.

Prince Blub went to his father and told him everything about his marriage plan to the mermaid. The king at first is amused, believing mermaids do not exist, but in front of his son's insistence, he calls the priest of his court to know about these sea-maidens. And the priest tells his version of what mermaids are: according to him the mermaids and ondins are demons. His logic is: they are immortal, since they are immortal they cannot die, since they cannot die they can't go to Heaven, and since they can't go to Heaven they should be sad ; but instead they are all merry and joyful. So the only conclusion possible s that they are demons.

Blub of course refuses to believe his mermaid is a demon and claims the priest is lying ; the priest meanwhile is horrified of learning about the prince's love, and he frightens the king by pointing out how, if his son becomes an ondin (I'm going to call it a "merman" for simplicity), he won't be able to inherit the throne... The king decided it was time to split the mermaid and the prince, and asked his son to organize a meeting between him and the mermaid. When Blub announced this to his love, thinking his father would approve of the union, the mermaid simply answered: "Your father is clever, and it is all a trap! But it doesn't matter: he shall come, and I shall be there. And you, do not fear, because I am immortal, and even if we are separated, I will always know how to find you." She proceeds to explain to prince Blub how if he ever wants to see her, all he has to do is find a bit of water (any water, since all the waters in the world are actually one and the same, and the mermaid's father rules over all), and if he sings "Un et un font un / Sirène ma mie / Je suis votre ondin / Vous êtes ma vie", she shall appear. (One and one make one / Siren my love / I am your ondin / You are my life)

The following day, the meeting the king had asked turned out indeed to be a trap, as he had brought with him policemen, and fishermen, and fish-sellers, all armed with ropes and nets and revolvers, and they captured the mermaid. Prince Blub, who tried to save her, was bound in ropes and taken aay. The king ordered the mermaid to be taken by fishermen, for her tail to be cut into slices and sold as regular fish ; while his son as to be sent by an airplane to the king's cousin, the emperor of Russia.

The mermaid was sent to the largest fish-shop of the capital-city, and there a man with a large knife cut off her tail. Mind you, the mermaid didn't seem to care - she was all smiling and calm, on the cutting table. The man turned around to put the fish tail somewhere else, but when he returned, what a surprise! Not only has the mermaid a new fish tail, it also changed color. From pink it turned green, and the smile of the mermaid became a creepy grin. The fisherman, troubled but determined, cut the green tail, but the moment he turned his back, the mermaid grew a third tail. She was green now, and her face was grimacing. The fisherman was afraid but he tried one last time: he cut off the tail, put it alongside the others, then turned back... A new tail had grown, entirely black, and the face of the mermaid had turned so ugly that the fisherman ran away in terror and went to the palace to report the strange events. The king followed the fisherman to his shop... only to discover the mermaid missing. The tails were still there however: three tails, a pink, a green, a blue.

Meanwhile the prince is living in a private apartment at the Kremlin in Moscow, unable to get out and spied on by the Russian Emperor's servants. As soon as he was alone, the prince poured water in his bathtub and sang the magical song: immediately the water boiled and the mermaid appeared. She asked him if he still loved her, he said yes. He asked her to marry him, but she only answered "Wait a bit, your trials just begun." One of the servants had spied the scene through the keyhole. He reported all to the Russian Emperor, who immediately forbid the prince Blub to use the bathroom. He was just given a bowl of water to wash his face and hands - but Blub still sang the song and a miniature mermaid appeared within the bowl. The same dialogue as before happened, except the mermaid said "You are in the middle of your trials". The spies however reported this, and so the Emperor forbade Blub from ever washing himself. However they could not forbid Blub from drinking - and the prince used a cup of water to summon a tiny little mermaid, who ended up their usual dialogue with "Wait a bit more, for your trials are over." (Also, since by this time Blub had understood all the servants were spies, for this third encounter he asked actually his servant to stay in the room while he summoned the mermaid, and once she was gone he threw the water in the servant's face saying "Now, traitor, do your job").

The Russian Emperor (whose name is just revealed, Nikita the First, Emperor of the Russian Union) ends up sending back Blub to his father, explaining he can't just have the prince dying of thirst. The king, despaired, asked the priest for help, and the priest decided to undertake a drastic measure. Use magic to turn the prince into a stamp, and stick it in the driest part of the palace. The king agreed, and sent his son to the priest, who recited a comical magical formula to first turn Blub flat, then small, then into paper, finally into sticking paper and tadaa! Prince Blub was now a sentient stamp of 30 cents, printed in three colors. The king asked the prince if he still wanted to marry the mermaid, the stamp answered yes, and so the king had the stamp stuck with glue on a wall of his office, leaving it there until Blub changed his mind. The priest explicitely said to not bring any water near the stamp.

But things would not go well...

It was a terrible year. There was an earthquake, followed by a tsunami, which destroyed a part of the island. Hopefully the castle was strong and in the heights, so it was spared. The following year, there was a war, as the President of the neighboring Republic decided to attack the tropical monarchy and sent airplanes to bomb the castle. The royal family escaped the bombs by going into their sheletered basement, but then a fire started spreading out. The King, realizing his son was still in the office and would die, ran through the crumbling, smoking, flaming palace until he was in his office. Unable to turn back the stamp into a boy, he decided that only the mermaid could save him, and realized his mistake. He kissed the stamp saying "Be happy, my son", and got a glass of water to throw it on the wall... Only to discover the stamp was gone when he turned back. As he kissed his transformed son, a tear fell from his eye onto the stamp - enough water to summon the mermaid... Blub had now joined the seafolk under the sea.

Immediately, a heavy rain fell onto the palace, stopping the fire. The old king, who had passed out, was saved and healed. As soon as he healthy again that an alarm announced how the neighboring Republic had sent its war-ships to attack the island. The king summoned a war council but it all was grim: the enemy's boats were more numerous and had more powerful weapons. It was likely the island would be defeated. The king went to the beach and cried for his missing son, saying "Look, my son, in which state you leave your country!". But as soon as he said this, his son appeared - he was in the faces, entirely naked, his two legs turned into a beautiful fish tail. The merman comforted his father: "Do not cry, father. You saved my life, and you learned you should favor my happiness over your wrath. Be at peace, for you shall not regret it". Prince Blub proceeded to use his new powers as a prince of the sea to summon an army of sea monsters that destroyed the enemy's fleet in a chaos of maws and jaws and tentacles and maelstroms. In half an hour, the sea was empty and quiet again...

The mermaid joined her husband before the king, and the latter apologized to her. The king asked the mermaid if she would ever have children, only to be told immortal species do not care or want children precisely because of their long life. The king was quite troubled by this answer, and so was prince Blub, because they realized the throne was without any heir. The mermaid then said "Don't worry, I will solve everything". She asked the king to go take a swim by the sea the following day with his wife the queen, and to allow a little silver fish to play around them. If they did so, they would have an heir. The old king and the old queen did as they were told, and indeed, one week after encountering the silver fish, they had a young human prince...

All of this happened a very long time ago, but the prince Blub and his wife are still alive by the sea. Blub's parents are dead, of course, and it is currently their grand-children who are ruling over the island - and no enemy dares to attack it, knowing it is protected by the forces of the sea.

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca Street: Intro (2)

So, for some setting explanation...

I) Why "Broca Street" tales?

The Fairy Tales of Broca street are what made said street extremely famous today. The poor street literaly had nothing to it whatsoever. It has a historical past, as it is located in the old 13th arrondissement of Paris and it exists from at least the 12th century (though it was only named "rue Broca" in 1890, after the French doctor and anthropologist Pierre Paul Broca).

And yet, Pierre Gripari, when writing his modern fairytales, his pastiches and parodies of fairy-stories, decided to name the book after what was just back then a tiny, poor, unknown, dirty street, and to have the street regularly appear as a place in Paris the characters regularly go to. (Not all the fairytales take place in Broca street, some are in distant lands out of time and space... but some take place right at the heart of Paris)

Why? To understand that, we must look at another recurring element of the book: a little building at the 69 of Broca Street, that every character that crosses the Broca street end up arriving at, one way or another. It is what in French we call an "épicerie-buvette" ; épicerie being a small shop mainly about food but with some unedible every-day items also sold, buvette being a tiny place that is not a full-time bar, restaurant or pub but where you can still drink and have light meals (usually adjacent to a theater/train station).

The "épicerie" is/was an entire institution in France, as it was the sort of tiny grocery store of the neighborhood where you got most of your light everyday items - before supermarkets and hypermarkets started rolling in and killing "petits commerçants", "small merchants" as we call them in France. Now, in the Parisian area (but I think it is true for most of France), the "épicerie" in the post-1950s world is usually referred to as the "Arab", due to how for quite a long time most épiceries were owned and taken care of by families of "Arabian" descent, from the Middle-East or Northern Africa. The Broca street épicerie is no different, as it is owned by papa Saïd, who has four children (three girls, one boy). Papa Saïd and his children regularly appear throughout the tales because every time the Broca street is involved, they are in the story, sometimes as secondary characters, sometimes as protagonists.

The interesting thing is that Pierre Gripari did not invent papa Saïd and his kids. They were a real family that held a real épicerie in Broca street in the 60s, and that Gripari regularly visited and was friends with. The Broca Street tales? They were originally created by Gripari for the children of papa Saïd, hence why they appear as characters quite a lot. And this is also why Broca Street is such a central location that apparently every supernatural character of Paris ends up crossing at one point or another: the very introduction of the book is about how Broca street is a "wonder" in itself because, if you look at a map of Paris it is said to cross the Port-Royal boulevard. However, when you go by the Port-Royal boulevard you do not encounter the Broca street, and reverse if you cross the Broca street you see the Port-Royal boulevard nowhere... Because the map is in 2D, and in actually the Port-Royal boulevard was built on a bridge that goes over the Broca street.

It is a little detail, but Pierre Gripari takes this detail and turns into into a long, fascinating explanation as to why Broca street is such a bizarre, unique, and weird street of Paris - and why all sorts of wonders await there...

II) The other fairytales of Gripari

Pierre Gripari did not stop writing fairytales with his "Tales of Broca street" book. Oh, no, he wrote many more collections - though nterestingly they tend to be confused or mixed with th Broca street Tales due to how popular they were.

The most famous of these confusions is with his 1983 fairytale collection "Les Contes de la Folie Méricourt", a sort of unofficial "sequel" to the Broca street Tales, this time without Papa Saïd's family, but still mixing modern "fractured" fairytales and more traditional folktale pastiches centered around the Folie-Méricourt street (11th arrondissement). He also published in 1990, the year of his death "Contes d'ailleurs et d'autre part", his last large collection of fairytales. Though he also published single fairytales as short children novellas (Histoire du prince Pipo in 1976, Nanasse et Gigantet in 1978, etc), and he also had some fun writing parodies or deconstructions of the traditional Charles Perrault fairytales.

And that is because Gripari was obsessed with fairytales. He was in his own words a "conteur" (fairytale storyteller), and he found a deep joy in writing these stories for kids. Already during his studies he had turned towards the folktales and mythologies of the world, and this always shaped his approach to everything. For example, Gripari was known to be an a-religious person, who disliked the Church, hated Christianity and had in general a very bad relationship with religion as a whole... However he was deeply fascinated and intrigued by the Christian "mythology", all the myths and legends surrounding the religion, as well as a collector of the Christianized folktales of France. As a result, he has in his own fairytales the appearance of characters such as angels and demons, God and the devil, the pope or the Virgin Mary appear... Despite him also writing texts about why the Church should be abolished.

Pierre Gripari had two major influences when it came to his fairytale style. One was the literary fairytales of Charles Perrault: Gripari admired the work of the man, and he wanted to be considered as the "heir" of Perrault - in fact, he regularly references Perrault's classics in his various literary productions. The second was the world of Russian folktales: Gripari was in love with the world of Russian fairytales and legends, to the point he entirely rewrote several of them in his fairytale collections. A third, smaller influence, is the one of Greek fairytales: his father was a Greek man, and so his whole childhood was filled with Greek fairytales (some of which he also rewrote in his fairytale collections).

III) A few more things to know

About Pierre Gripari himself... He was a quite complex man, so to say. A true "non-conformist". Especially since he was an openly homosexual man, who also very openly hated the Catholic Church, in an old France deeply homophobic and Christian. He was a dual man, always with feet in two worlds: deeply fascinated by French culture and constantly paying homage to it, while also never leaving his roots and interest for more Eastern cultures, from Greece to Russia.

He was a rebellious man whose very political ideas reflected his non-conformism: he was on the extreme-left in the 50s back when all of France was deep in the right (he was then a Communist support Stalin) ; in the 60s when the left became "in fashion" and the "popular" movement he joined the extreme-right (he participated in the racist group Europe-Action), then, clearly not finding what he wanted in any of the political extremes he became a full anarchist... before by the 80s just completely giving up on politics altogether. Gripari simply had a big problem with the "authority" so to speak, be it religious or political, and he always wanted to be on the fringe, in the extremes, where he would shock - he described himself as a Martian having a lot of fun observing the curious humans around him.

He also had a very hard time being discovered and recognized as an author - even when he was alive, he only could scarcely live off his texts, and beyond his one true peak of glory with children literature (and even then, it came quite late), his many other texts (children theater, adult short-stories, little novels) were quickly forgotten and never much talked about. As such he had a LOT of different odd jobs throughout his life, explaining his broad approach to life - as he worked as a library assistant, as a sender of letters for a notary, as a syndicate representative, as a voluntary member of aerial forces, even as a pianist for television advertisement, and many more... It is however quite a shame that he only was ever truly celebrated and famous past his death, in 1990.

Not about Gripari himself, but about the Broca street Tales: their most famous and notorious adaptation (it is not the only one, but it is the major one) is a series of cartoons (dessin-animés as we call them in French) from the mid 1990s, which not only adapted all of the Broca Street Tales, but also added several of the Folie Méricourt Tales (hence why the two are often confused as one in peoples' minds ; doesn't help that they were published with illustrations by the same artist, Claude Lapointe, who was a frequent Gripari collaborator, and the man whose style inspired the one of the cartoon adaptation).

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca Street: Intro (1)

A long time ago I started a series of posts about the Fairy Tales of Broca Street. I never got very far with them but now that time has passed, I want to give it a new try, because these modern-day fairy tales are a big part of the current French fairytale heritage.

In 1967, a not-so-well-known author named Pierre Gripari published a collection of humoristic fairy tales he had written himself called "Les Contes de la rue Broca" (The Tales/Fairytales of Broca street). Some were traditional fairytales retold in a new way, others were modern-day parodies of classic folktales, and others were pure inventions of Gripari.

To publish such a book was not at all a sure key to success, because in the France of the 60s and 70s, fairy tales were knowing their "dark age". Authorities thought of them as useless or ridicule (worse: they promoted monarchy, something unacceptable in a day of democracy and Republic!) ; parents thought of them as outdated and absurd, too old and uninteresting for their kids to enjoy ; and in term of media, Disney movies were basically the main thing we had around. Long story short: fairy tales were little obscure things that was on its way to disappear from mainstream culture... Until the 80s arrived and with them came Bruno Bettelheim's "The Psychanalysis of Fairy Tales" (the French name of his book The Uses of Enchantment).

I talked about this before in a post you can find right here, but for all the flaws and problems Bettelheim's study of fairytales might have had, they are what "saved" fairytales in France, as it proved to the political authorities in charge of the culture, and to the parents buying stuff for their kids, that fairytales could be "useful" and "meaningful" (in this case, as psychological tools for growth and development). That's the fairytale boom: suddenly every buys fairytale books for their kids, fairytales are put on the national school program... and the Tales of Broca Street are re-discovered.

The Tales of Broca Street were already doing quite well before, but from the 80s onward they became a cult classic - and then a classic, period. They were re-edited (and still have recent re-edition from the 2010s) ; several authors imitated their style or tried to do their own take on it ; they can still be found today in every kids section of bookshops ; they have been for several decades on school programs (to the point I myself performed in a puppet-theater performance of Broca Street Tales organized by my school, when I was a kid) ; they have been adapted several times for the television, AND they are regularly leading to stage adaptations and other children musicals...

Long story short: they are a dominating part of the late 20th century children literature in France, and they are a milestone in the modern manifestation of fairy tales in France. Most French kids heard about them one way or another, wether they saw it stores or on TV, borrowed it at the library, or were forced to study it in school.

And given this is a blog about fairy tales... Well you know, I'm going to be sharing and talking about them.

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca street: Preface

Before entering into the tales proper, I want to briefly share with you the content of the Preface Gripari wrote to introduce his tales.

The very preface begins with Gripari making excuses to the kids who are about to read the text: as everybody knows, kids understand everything and if this book was just for kids and no one else he would not need to have to write a preface... But since grown-ups might end up with this book in their ends, Gripari needs to write the preface down.

Next is the "magical abnormality" that I evoked before in my Introduction posts: Gripari explains how, if you follow a map of Paris you see that the Broca and Pascal streets are supposed to cross the Port-Royal boulevard, but if you down the ACTUAL Port-Royal boulevard you won't ever encounter any of these streets. To understand this anomaly one must enter "a space curved, like the one of Enstein", and plunge into a "three-dimensional universe" by discovering that the Broca street is located BELOW the Boulevard, and can only be accessed from Port-Royal by staircases descending into the "depths of the world".

Gripari disdains the Pascal street, "too straight, too large, too short to have any mystery". Rather he prefers to talk about Broca street... A curvy, narrow, twisted, burrowed street. On each of its end the street opens onto the town of Paris - but the street itself is not quite Paris. It is an "outdoor underworld", a small village in itself where all the inhabitants know each other (something Gripari notes to be exceptional for Paris). The author also highlights two common factors of the Broca street inhabitants. 1) The diversity, as they come from everywhere. You have people from Kabylia, from Spain, from Italy, from Portugual, from Algeria, and the French people form there a minority. 2) Their love for stories and tales. Gripari notes that the many misfortunes of his literary career are due to how the French person, especially the Parisian, does not like "tales". They want the truth, or at least a form of realism and imitation of truth - whereas Gripari was always interested in tales where no one was sure they ever really happened, stories without any document or proof to back it up, impossible stories. And hopefully for him, the Broca street inhabitants loved these kind of tales.

Gripari then moves on to describe the épicerie-buvette of Broca street, at the number 69 (he even goes as far as to mention how people will accuse him of being bawdy, when he just retells the actual number of the shop). He describes papa Saïd (a Kabyl man who married a woman from Bretagne), and his four children, Nadia, Malika, Rachida and Bachir (there was a fifth child but he wasn't born at the time of the tales). He also mentions how right next to the buvette there was an hotel where lived an Italian man named Riccardi, who had four children - the older was Nicolas, the younger Tina. Nicolas Riccardi was a good friend of the Saïd children, regularly going at their house to play games with them.

And one day... a strange person appeared.

He was called "monsieur Pierre" (in English it would make "mister Peter"). A tall man, with brown hair looking like a porcupine, with one eye brown another green, and wearing glasses. He always had a two-days beard, and his clothes were always worn-out. He was forty years old, single, and living at the Port-Royal boulevard. He went to the Broca street only to go to the buvette, to eat there some biscuits and chocolates, sometimes fruits, with a lot of coffees-with-cream and mint tea ; and he could go to the buvette any day of the week, at any hour. He pretended that he was a writer, an author - however since nobody had heard of his books or even seen them in shops, people were not very satisfied with this claim...

... while children all knew the truth. They knew that monsieur Pierre was not a regular man... But an old witch disguised! To break his disguises, the children started regularly dancing before him, shouting "Old coconut witch!" or "Old witch with rubber jewels!" (It sounds better in French "bijoux en caoutchouc"). This did work as one day monsieur Pierre shed his disguise and became a clawed, hooked-nose, cackling witch and threw itself on the children. But the kids were brav and fought them and hit her - which the narrator of the preface entirely agrees with. Because, as he explains, that's how you must do with witches: they are only dangerous if you fear them, but if you break their disguise and fight against them, defeat them, then they do not become dangerous, but rather funny - and they can even be tamed, like a wild animal turning into a pet. And this was the case with mister Pierre: once the lie of "I'm an author" was broken and everybody knew he was a witch, everybody was relieved and life returned to normal.

Monsieur Pierre took the habit of telling stories to the children of papa Saïd's buvette, however the kids liked them so much they kept asking for more, and more, and more. Monsieur Pierre had to dig up old fairytale books and folktales collections: he fed his little audience with the stories of Charles Perrault, of Andersen, of the brothers Grimm ; he told them French and Arab, Russian and Greek folktales... But it wasn't enough and the kids still wanted more.

After one year and a half, monsieur Pierre didn't have any more stories to tell. So he invented a game: every Thursday he would gather with the children, and together they would invent stories. New stories, and once there were enough of them, they would be turned into a book.

And this was the origin of the book...

[adarkrainbow]

Masterpost 11: End of summer

This masterpost will be quite heavy compared to the previous ones, but since I hadn't made a masterpost in a long time I had a lot to put in here.

Ogre illustrations: Gustave Doré - Sleeping Beauty - Madame d'Aulnoy

Self-reblogs: Magical summer (Beginning and End) - Fantasy read-list (classical fairytales and more classical fantasy works) - Fantasy sights (Walter Crane - William Heath Robinson) -

Some fairytale movies (lost or to come): A Japanese trailer - Lost SyFy movies - The Scary Tales documentary (part 1 - part 2)

My opinion on Zenescope's Grimm Fairytales - The list of Zenescope's references

A French fairytale

Some thoughts and talks about the unreleased Disney's Snow White live-action: A video that started it all - Some posts about the Critical Drinker's flawed approach to fantasy - A first post about the movie - My answer to a sentence in the previous post - My second post about the movie - What I consider "bad woke" plus my answer to someone's discutable words

Some fairytale thoughts: The American corpus - Jacobs' Europa Fairy Book - The Russian propaganda's use of fairytales - About ball outfits in Perrault's Cinderella - Some thoughts about Jack Zipes - A document - Andersen hated being called a children author - The French origins of the Grimm fairytales - About the time period of fairytales

The Tales of Broca Street (old reblogs): Intro - The witch of Mouffetard street - Its cartoon episode - The giant with red socks - Its cartoon episode - The good little devil

Aulnoy's famous fairytales: The White Doe (part 1 - part 2)

Little Red Riding Hood (self reblog): The Perrault version - The Grimm version - The dark roots

Fables, the Ultimate Catalogue (incomplete): Part A - Part C

Some fairytale illustrations: A first post - A second post - A third post - A fourth post - A fifth post

An interesting video about "Into the Woods"

Hansel and Gretel: Why was Hansel to be the meal? - The "wolf in the house" variation - Analysis of the fairytale - Why I don't think the story of antisemitic - More variations - Johnnie and Grizzle - About the character dynamics - Neil Gaiman's Hansel and Gretel - An upcoming book - The Onion joke - Stephen King's It's Hansel and Gretel - A final important post

The Land of Make Believe map - England Under the White Witch - Tangled's conflicting Mother Gothel - Disney's The Princess and the Frog is NOT what you think