I'm behind on everything. Christmas shopping and decorating. Writing. Job hunting. Answering emails. All except going shopping and to movies with my kids. That's the extent of my single fatherhood. Their mother, bless her heart, provides the roof over their heads.
Like just a week ago--Going to a random flick like Zombieland on discount night at the mall--$1.50. Going with my kids--priceless.
I'm even behind on my Kim Possible stories. I was inspired to turn out this little thing after seeing Beauty And The Beast---The Enchanted Christmas.
All char's taken from and plot based on Disney's Beauty And The Beast.
Vaya con Dios, my brothers and sisters in the Body of Christ and Family of Man. Blessed and joyous Christmas.
AN ARDENT ADMIRER
The Beast prowled. And stalked. And brooded.
Part of the night was spent like a human, sitting in his great chair before the roaring fire--and brooding. Part of the night was spent like a animal prowling the ramparts of the castle--and brooding
At sunrise, Belle always awoke. The Beast heard the sounds of bustle and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen.
He ate like a beast, lapping and slobbering his dish. She ate like a genteel lady, spooning from her dish and sipping from her cup.
He tried to watch her with without her noticing him. She moved so silently. It wasn't stealth, like a beast. It was with grace, like a ray of light--or an angel.
Some days, he watched her as she finished her dressing--not violating her modesty--but the way she brushed her hair, and tied her ribbon--the way she put on her shoes. He looked her hands and feet. So dainty.
He longed to help her--to be close to her--to gather that gossamer hair back and tie that hair bow--even as small a thing as to stand behind her and tie her apron strings.
He stared at his own paws. They were a predator's claws, fit for grasping prey and slashing it to death--and unfit for grooming a lady. He was convinced that she would cringe at the very touch.
He watched her profile; the outline of her forehead, nose, and chin. He would watch her as she walked through the garden. She would glance up at a bird in the tree. Or gaze down at a flower on the ground. He would watch her smile at some small thing. And his heart would twist. Sometimes she would lift her head, close her eyes, and just sing to herself--or hum. Some melody she heard within her. Her voice was like a caress on his ear. No bird ever sang more sweetly. He was entranced by every detail. How her throat trilled. How those gentle eyelashes lay upon that smooth cheek
He would watch her as she read the few books she had brought with her. Her limpid brown eyes would move back and forth as she read the page. The only sound was the rustling as she turned to the next page. Sometimes she would look up, close her eyes in bliss, and sigh. And when she had finished the chapter, she would close the book. It was a small sound--a thump. She would hug the book to her bosom, close her eyes again, and sigh deeper, smiling a soft beatific smile. What sights did she see in her mind and heart? He longed to ask--but dared not.
The book was old and worn. It was evident even on the corners of the pages from being turned so many times. Doubtless the hand that had turned the pages was hers.
The night of his frightful change was a Christmas Eve. He had been given the gift of a book from his loyal servants. At the time, he had despised the gift. As if a book could hold his interest even for a moment. Once upon a time, he had wondered with contempt how anyone could read the same book time after time. It was now evident, as plain as the sun in the sky. She herself was a book for any to read who had eyes to see. Her face, her hands, the way she sat or stood or held her pose. Each movement was a page, and he never tired of reading her. To take the book in hand? To brush the hair back from her forehead, as she often did herself, the better to see her sparkling eyes? He would not begin to dare imagine doing such a thing
One day, she even turned to him. He was afraid she would turn away in disgust . But she smiled. That lovely little mouth. Those perfect lips. His heart thumped like a rumble of thunder--like a mighty tree falling in the Forest--like a boulder rolling off the mountain.. His breath stilled like the sky before a summer storm. His strong hind legs, that with a single bound propel him to the topmost wall of his castle, felt as weak as a blade of grass.
She stays here willingly--by her own promise Could it be? It there really someone in the world who could possible love me for myself? Could the curse really be broken? She's like a rose. She's too beautiful to be real--and yet she is. No doubt she had a dozen admirers in the village where she was from. She should be someone's wife. She was someone's daughter--that old fool who broke into my castle.
The Beast watch Mrs. Potts and her son Chip. She would sometimes chide him. And he would sometimes gripe. But there was no denying their love for each other.
The Beast watched Cogsworth and Lumiere. Those two bickered and disagreed. Cogsworth was so fussy. Lumiere took such joy in irritating him. Yet they were such steadfast friends.
The Beast thought. Could he not somehow learn to be less angry? Less abusive? Could he and Belle somehow become at least friends?
No, he told himself. I was a spoilt brat. Now I'm a tyrant--a cruel taskmaster. That's why the enchantress changed me into a beast. She only gave the outer appearance of what was in my heart.
Lumiere was such a affable rogue. Always shamelessly flirting and trying to make love with the maids
Could there be love between Belle and the Beast? Or even friendship?
The Beast sighed. He could be content to live this way forever--content to be her guard dog--defending his mistress He could even be content to be her lapdog.--to be petted and fed and spoken endearingly to.
The fact remained. The Beast was a thistle--a thorn bush. And Belle was a rose.
But there was another rose--the rose under the bell jar--whose leaves seemed to wilt--and whose petals seemed to seemed to drop--almost daily.
Soon it won't matter I'll be a Beast forever.--and she'll be free to return to her people. I'll wander off into the Black Forest--to hunt my food. And one day to be eaten by the wolves. The only thing I would regret is that my loyal servants are still under the enchantment. I wonder--would they revert to being human if I were a mindless animal?
The way they sometimes seemed nervous showed that they, too, felt the encroaching hour when the spell must would remain fixed and unalterable--and it only added to his sense of despair.
And without realizing it himself, he also was watched. Cogsworth, Lumiere, and Mrs. Potts gazed sadly at him as he stood by the window, shoulders slumped in dejection. They guessed at his deepest yearnings and thoughts. They also watched Belle gazing at him. But they too knew the conditions of the enchantment. They could not interfere. They could only hope and fervently pray.