Another of my stories has been accepted in an anthology. It is titled “The Angel.” It is different than my usual stories. How is it different?
Here are the guidelines given for the anthology: the story must based on a fairy tale, have something “undead” as one of the characters (i.e. ghost, angel, zombie, etc.), and it had to have a happy ending. My stories don’t always have a happy ending. In fact, I’ve been accused of writing dark fiction. I’ve been accused of worse too, but that’s another story..
My story is based on the less known fairy tale “The Angel” by Hans Christian Anderson. He based that story on his poem “The Dying Child.” My characters, of course, are angels. So far, everyone who has read the story has wept.
So I decided quite awhile ago that if the story was accepted, I’d donate half of the proceeds from my royalties from this story to a children’s charity.
This is where I need your help. I’ll take suggestions, we’ll narrow it down with a survey or two, and we’ll take a vote. Comment with suggestions and website links, or e-mail me here.
T-shirts, prizes, and fun will accompany the release and the charity choice. An event page is coming to Facebook, but for now follow my author page here, and I’ll post the details there. Follow me on Twitter, and share with your friends and family.
Below is the poem, “The Dying Child.” Stay tuned for more!
The Dying Child
Hans Christian Anderson
Mother, I’m so tired, I want to sleep now;
Let me fall asleep and feel you near,
Please don’t cry–there now, you’ll promise, won’t you?
On my face I felt your buring tear.
Here’s so cold, and winds outside are frightening,
But in dreams–ah, that’s what I like best:
I can see the darling angel children,
When I shut my sleepy eyes and rest.
Mother, look, the Angel’s here beside me!
Listen, too, how sweet the music grows.
See, his wings are both so white and lovely;
Surely it was God who gave him those.
Green and red and yellow floating round me,
They are flowers the Angel came and spread.
Shall I, too, have wings while I’m alive, or–
Mother, is it only when I’m dead?
Why do you take hold of me so tightly,
Put your cheek to mine the way you do?
And your cheek is wet, but yet it’s burning–
Mother, I shall always be with you . . .
Yes, but then you mustn’t go on sighing;
When you cry I cry as well, you see.
I’m so tired–my eyes they won’t stay open–
Mother–look–the Angel’s kissing me