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    Rapunzelmother
    Rapunzelmother
    Rapunzelmother
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    Rapunzelmother

    By Joseph Burgo

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This updated fairy tale by the author of SNOW WHITE AT THE DWARF COLONY takes us inside the mind of a woman so deeply possessive that she locks her adopted daughter in a tower to prevent her from having relationships with other people. Dark and disturbing, this tale presents a vivid portrait of a witch struggling with borderline personality disorder, who shifts between idealization and hatred and can't see Rapunzel as truly separate from herself. It shows the emotional damage borderlines inflict upon those they live with but cannot truly love.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoseph Burgo
    Release dateFeb 22, 2016
    ISBN9780997165012
    Rapunzelmother
    Author

    Joseph Burgo

    Joseph Burgo, PhD, has practiced psychotherapy for more than thirty years and held licenses as a marriage and family therapist and clinical psychologist. He earned his undergraduate degree in English Literature at UCLA and both his masters and doctorate in Psychology at California Graduate Institute in Los Angeles. Dr. Burgo has been quoted or featured as an expert on NPR and in publications such as USA TODAY, Glamour, The New York Times, and numerous other publications. As a writer on mental health topics, he is a regular contributor to The Atlantic and a frequent blogger for Psychology Today.

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      Book preview

      Rapunzelmother - Joseph Burgo

      Rapunzelmother

      by

      Joseph Burgo

      New Rise Press

      1818 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, Suite 294

      Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27514

      Copyright © 2016 by Joseph Burgo All rights reserved. Published 2016.

      Published in the United States by New Rise Press. No part of this 
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher.

      ISBN: 970-0-9971650-1-2

      New Rise Press

      1818 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., #294

      Chapel Hill, NC 27514

      www.afterpsychotherapy.com

      Author’s Note

      This novella is one of several updated fairy tales in which I explore some of the darker aspects of human psychology. If you enjoy Rapunzelmother, you might also like to read the other two: Cinderella and Snow White at the Dwarf Colony. They’re widely available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes and other eBook distributors.

      In April 2016, I will release all three tales in a single volume entitled Grim, available in both print-on-demand and eBook formats. In its appendix, Grim will include an essay in which I discuss some psychological themes that unite the tales.

      Information about all of my books, fiction and non-fiction, can be found at the conclusion of this work.

      Table of Contents

      Author’s Note

      Part One

      Part Two

      Additional Works by Joseph Burgo

      Part One

      Even here behind my high garden walls, the chill wind cuts through me. Nature’s hostile little jest, to send such cold this late in spring. My poor old joints ache so. And this shawl doesn’t keep me warm enough, not nearly.

      It would be so very pleasant inside by the fire. But I mustn’t. The rampion plants need tending. If I don’t thin them soon, the leaves might start to grow bitter. The crowded roots won’t thicken properly, or develop their full power.

      That noise… what do I hear?

      Nothing. Only an old woman’s fancy, misled by the wind in the trees. No one comes to visit me. No one from the village ever travels this way, not since I quarreled with the carpenter’s wife from across the lane and they disappeared.

      I’ll stay outside and thin the plants, then reward myself with two rampion pickles. I’m a little worried about running out, but I should have enough in my pantry to last until this new crop matures. Two pickled rampion roots, a cup of herb tea, and the pain in my joints will vanish. Perhaps these budding plants will prove even more uplifting than the ones from last season. My spells seem to grow stronger with every passing year.

      There it is again!

      Not my imagination, but the certain rumble of wheels along the road. The hollow clip-clop of hooves. The landlord may have finally found replacement tenants for the carpenter and his wife. I would be the last to know, of course. Nobody in the village ever tells me anything. Nobody talks to me.

      My eye at the wall chink, I can barely see through dense ivy on the other side. A dray. One horse in harness. Two shapes seated in front… a man and a woman? If I poke one of these plant stakes through the wall chink, it might just… there! Now I have a better view.

      The dray pulls to a stop in front of the small cottage, and the man looks up at the roof shingles, scratching his neck. Crates and a few sticks of furniture fill the back of the wagon. A bed frame and mattress. Not much… they must be very poor.

      The woman seems to study the shuttered windows, the twin chimneys, plaster in need of repair. I can’t see her face. She has flaxen hair, I think, tucked into a checkered blue kerchief. Not fat like me. Not ugly like me. Her coarse woolen skirts spread around her on the bench.

      Later when I’m sure they’re asleep, I’ll slip out and trim back the ivy.

      * * *

      A wisp of blue smoke is rising from one of their chimneys now. It disperses in the wind above my garden wall. She must be in the kitchen, tending to their supper. A bubbling pot suspended in the fireplace. I could bring her a jar of something from my pantry.

      No, not yet. You’re always too hasty. Wait a few days until they’ve settled in. A jar of pickled rutabaga might be just the thing.

      But not the rampion pickles. I’ve never shared my rampion.

      One more look through the wall chink. The man has already emptied the dray and unharnessed the horse. He’s leading it toward the small barn behind the cottage. Brown woolen breeches and a white linen shirt. Tall and well built, although he has lost most of his hair. As he removes his cap and drags a sleeve across his brow, his pate glistens.

      He’s a long time inside the barn. When he comes out, he closes the twin doors behind him, dropping the crossbar into place. He looks up at the sky where dark clouds are shutting out the sun. A storm is coming – he sees it.

      Better hurry if you’re going to finish thinning the rampion plants before the rain begins. Not much more to do now, only one row. The sprouts that I have culled, lying there in my basket – they’ll make a nice salad. Not potent like the fully-grown root but pleasant enough. Rampion salad always makes me feel drowsy and warm, like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight.

      All finished now, at long last. My toes and fingers ache from the cold. And I’m so hungry! Some cold mutton with the rampion pickles might be nice, and a slice of pumpernickel with butter. I’ll save the sprout salad for tomorrow.

      Does she set his dinner plate on the table and hover over him like a serving wench? I always hated the way the carpenter treated his wife. He deserved what came to him.

      * * *

      They’ve opened the curtains in their sitting room window. My old neighbors always used to keep them closed. They knew I could look down upon them from up here in my bedroom, though I always took care not to be obvious about it. Tonight I’ve left my candle unlit and I’m concealed now within the darkness. The rain has passed and the breeze from the window feels wholesome.

      The new tenants have placed two wooden chairs close to the fireplace. Otherwise the room is bare, and dark but for the firelight. The wife extends her hands toward the heat. I’m almost certain now her hair is flaxen in color. She has removed the kerchief and loosened her tresses so they trail down her back. Very long, almost to her waist.

      I hate my own hair! Coarse and gray, fit only to be tied back in this bun.

      The husband seems to be smoking a pipe. The wife drops to her knees before him and places her head in his lap. Too far away and not enough light… I can’t tell if she’s crying. He strokes her long hair. A kind man, not like the carpenter. She lifts her head to look up at him. He places his hand upon her cheek and even from this distance I can feel his gentle touch.

      Maybe it’s the lingering effects of rampion, but my heart suddenly swells with emotion. I could love these people. This kind man, this beautiful woman. I haven’t yet seen her face, not in full

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