rianax (rianax) wrote in fm_alchemist,
rianax
rianax
fm_alchemist

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My first post to this group and my first FMA fic. The results of too much Comp. Lit. and a FMA overdose and too many Red Riding Hood jokes at Ed's expense.


 


An Ed instrospection. The fairy tales you remember told the truth of the lives you lead and the price you must pay.


 


 


<lj-cut text="these are not the stories your mother told you...">


 


FMA: A True Life Fairy Tale


This how the story goes-- once in a pretty little house on the hill lived a father, a mother, and two little boys and they were happy (you can remember even if your brother can’t you can remember and you are angry you are hurt you are betrayed you are so angry)


No, backtrack and rewrite-- in the house on the hill, lived a mother and her two little boys and they were happy.( you can remember and so can your brother you remember and he remembers it hurts to remember like a kick in the teeth like a thousand tiny little cuts like an ache in metal that should be flesh you both remember and it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts–)


Wrong, wrong, wrong– pretty petty words, nothing more than shiny tinsel trash and cheap holiday card sentiments (the stories your mother read to you the girl in the cinders the dreaming princess the red cape running to her grandmother’s pretty voice pretty stories not the real ones though you though they were real and they paid the price she paid the price he paid the price you paid and paid and pay)


There are older versions of the story– ones without the darkness cut away and faded to pastels: the girl in the cinders does not receive her dress for the ball from her fairy godmother but from the ash tree on her mother’s grave (you dig away the loam dirt on your hands desecration on your soul help me forgive me), the sleeping princess is not awaken by a chaste kiss, but the suckling of her two babes after the prince had his way with her and went on his way (he left he left he left in his shadow with his gifts she went to sleep and did not wake you thought you could wake her bring her back couldn’t wake her with his gifts your gifts blasphemy profanation sacrilege you didn’t understand why didn’t want to understand violation damnation yours his hers see its eyes its eyes her eyes), and the girl with the little red hood and her grandmother dear were eaten by the wolf with no woodsman to in sight to save them (you wear the red hooded jacket a child who isn’t a child but still is a child and your brother metal fleshed you both trip down the lane to where you kind of know but you can’t stay no hope no home only ashes ashes in your mouth ashes in your hands ashes in your eyes there are wolves you see them blue coated men inhuman black clad dolls kindly smiling eyed monsters that eat little girls you can’t stop them you see them too late and you can’t stop them because you are one of them want to or not in the fold feeding on the flock you try to stop them but you really can’t you have your sins your Sin you paid the price nothing in life is free you will do anything you think for him you should have paid the price not him you know the truth of the old tales but spending your life chasing after one.)


This how the story goes– once not long ago but far away in a in a pretty house on the hill lived a father, a mother, and two little boys and they were happy.


Then one day the father went away. The mother and the two little boys were sad but they had each other and soon became happy again.


Then one day the mother went away and the two little boys missed her and wanted her back and be happy again so the elder said to the younger they were going learn their father’s magic and get her back.


Now the mother did not go away like the father to some distant land but somewhere all people must go but never come back from.


And the two little boys tried to bring her back but that was forbidden and the two little boys forgot that and the first lesson of their magic: that there is always a price you must pay.


And they paid.


That is where this story ends, but there are other stories, other characters, and other places. It is best to end this tale here because there is no happily after, no neat little ending with all the loose threads tied up in a nice little bow.


Because if you listen closely to stories they always end before the story itself is actually finished. Because if you follow any story long enough it ends in death. Always.

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