Hey guys, this is probably rated NC17, I don't know what it'll turn in to, but there will probably be sex drugs and violence, and some horror somewhere. I did create my characters, but I stole the sembelences of Scheherazade from the Arabian nights, as with her sister, her father and the Sultan, and I don't own them, they are ancient and don't belong to anybody.

The basic idea of this is I write a short story, or part ofa story every night for a thousand and one nights, there shall be stories within stories and many many anachronisms.
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First Night (Not the Movie)

I know she held the small brass cross bow, concealed in her cloak, through the ceremony. I know she would rather kill me, rather I died now in honour than to be executed later, in disgrace. Another hand and skull in the rotting caverns of the harem, to call to mind the faithlessness of women. She has honour. She drips it in honey like globules that melt underfoot, glowing in the silhouette of her footsteps. She is beautiful, and there is something about her not entirely human, something of wild game.
I know why the Sultan demanded her of father. She is the kind of woman men like to capture, to break, to conquer. She is a conquest, not a bride.
I know why she spent every stolen second with the sullen slave with only one hand and a strange horse-like dignity. Though they have never touched, and rarely share a glance, she glows as if she is with his child, as if she is bearing the child, bearing the nymph of love himself.
She thought me foolish to scold, to tell her to play games with the children in the square, to wear clothes that don't hug her figure or suggest at it, to never wear make up or wear her hair down, long and gleaming. Still, she would throw me off, she would be a woman, and a beauty, and she would lie half swooning on the edge of the balcony's rim. She would carry always the secret half smile of a woman in love, the smile so many man are driven by. The smile that gets people killed. People like me.
Why did she have to be so beautiful? To be almost sworn to a man who does not not, not cannot love her, as she is sixteen years of age. I know that girls have been married as young as nine but they were not in love with another, they were not in love at all. And of course, they were not my sister.

I had come home from the library, reading about Greeks and their mythology, when I found my father crumpled over his desk like a doll or a dead man. It was earlier today, though it seems like some distant thought, some wayward breeze upon the comings and goings of my daydreams. The light streamed across him in sharp stripes and curlicues from the windows and they seemed to me, even then, like the sun taunting through the prison windows in sharp bars of torment. I have never been drawn to his work, nor any place he has worked in.
“Father, you're home early.” I always call him Father. Dina has sunk to 'Dad', or 'Daddy, but on my lips those words sound so insipid.
“The Sultan has chosen another bride.”
“He does every day, this is the way of the world.” I sit beside him, my hand upon his. He is like a small child in grief. I feel as I am teaching him to write, with my hand this way. A. B. C. “Don't tell me you've suddenly realised the king you advise not only doesn't listen to you but spends all his time butchering half the nations population like a wolf worrying sheep.”
His voice breaks, and it is a shout and a whisper all at once, “It was always other people. Other people's daughters.” He sighs, tired. “Until now.”
I tighten inside, the mechanics of me. “What do you mean, father, what did you do?”
“I didn't mean-”
“Tell me.”
Hysteria grips him, “I didn't have a choice.”
“Ohhhh God....” I suddenly ache. The realisation belts me, fist, tooth, nail, each wielding hard blows upon every side at once. I am squeezed, gripped.
“He saw her on the balcony combing her hair.... He didn't even know it was my house. God help me, why this house?”
“Dinarzade.” I bite my lip. I am furious beyond measure at her. Why has love mad her so cocky, so stupid?
There was a time when no one knew us apart, despite our age difference. We learnt the language of each others steps. Our father would speak our names to see who replied out of habit, trying to catch us out but we never ceased our mirror imagery despite this, so perfect was our mimicry.
My eyes light up, the idea glowing in my mind, fresh and new and gasping, stretching towards the sun, “I'll change places with her. He just knows her as your daughter, he doesn't even know her name, I'll bet-”
“I never spoke it but-”
“And she' s young, she's in love-”
His eyes widen in consternation, “She's what?”
“Father, consider it my dying wish that Dina must marry the man of her choosing, no matter who that man may be.”
“Scheherazade-”
“I'll be veiled, he's barely glimpsed her, and he doesn't really love her anyway.”
“Scheherazade! Daughter! Listen to me! The Sultan will kill you!”
“I'm older than Dina-”
“By two years!”
“Nearly three. And I can match and defeat any of Arabia's sharpest minds in any play or philosophy or devising that they can conceive. Father, listen to me. I have a plan.”

He, the Sultan,takes a long braid of my hair playing with it, undoing the knotted work of clever hands.
“Don't.” I say simply.
He finds the ringlets, I knew I couldn't hide them forever in ornaments. How did he find my father's trick, his last resort? Sometimes I thought father had it written on his hand, “Scheherazade, curly. Dinarzade, straight.”
“This is not my bride.” He murmurs softly, with an impulsive kiss upon the concavity by the base of my neck. His tone is the same, a little like he has just learnt language, and is indulging in its play.
“No. I am not, None of the women you put through this massacre were. They were other peoples brides, other peoples sisters and cousins and daughters . And you stole them. You cut them down. You are a boy with a stick in a poppy field, playing at knights and dragons, and you cut them down. Knee deep in bloodied corpses you hack on.”
“You dare call your king and husband a mere boy?” His voice has a flint edge to it.
“You were never given the chance to be anything else. You were always given everything you've ever wanted You never had to feel or fight or think for yourself. To begin with, it wasn't your fault, but now you are a grown man. You have run out of excuses. Your subjects hate you more than their enemies, for at least their enemies kill men in fair combat, they don't make them butcher their beloved women and girls in this grotesque war you have against your own kind. Your first wife left you because she didn't love you any more, because she couldn't love you, because if she had, she would have had to be honest with you, she would have had to criticise you and want something from you. She left you because if she had told you she was hurting, you would have killed her. And for your own bloodthirsty vengeance against your apathetic circumstances projected upon those who cannot defend themselves, you would turn your country against you and slaughter them one by one. God only knows what misfortune keeps them from slitting your throat as you sleep.”
“You sound lie your father. But more hotheaded, and reckless.”
“Good.”
“He begged me to take you instead of your sister.”
“Because she's younger-”
“Because you're caustic, and loud-mouthed when you have a cause and you get him into trouble. Because you think, and women shouldn't think. Because you are harsh and judgemental of those who oppose you, you are merciless and you are cruel if you believe you have something to fight for. Because you have ideals that make people nervous, angry, restless. Because,” he has stolen my tone, “You are difficult.”
I breathe out slowly.
“He would plead me to have you whipped for your impudence, your disrespect. To thrash some sense into you.”
“If he had, you would have.”
“I don't believe in corporal punishment.”
“Only in the systematic killing of the innocent.”
“Only in that.” A smile plays upon his lips, humouring me.
I take a quick venerable breath in. I'm no crying. Please, no, I'm not crying. “It doesn't matter. It means nothing. It is collateral damage and it means nothing. In time such as these living under a tyrant, I can forgive any manner or petty slights and favouritisms.”
“You could say then, that my tyrannical rule unites my people, and encourages peace.”
I turn and slap him.
He is more startled then angry, as I knew he would be. He touches his cheek gingerly.
“Does it hurt?”
His lip seems to waver. He truly is a child. “Yes.”
“I could get the guards to castrate you.”
“What?”
“Then your cheek wouldn't seem to hurt so much.”
He almost laughs. His eyes are strange and blue. They are like an ocean of ice, and you can feel the whales beneath them, this underlying immensity. Perhaps, in another world, he would have been attractive.
“I apologise for the blow, sire, I was making a point. When I have a point I am cruel, or so I've been told by the authorities.” I say coolly.
“You argue with me intimately, yet you call me sire. Why is that, my sweet?”
“I would prefer to think of myself as your slave, your prisoner. If I call you by the names I have all my life reserved for a certain lover, than I besmirch my ideals on love, and I imply that you give something back to me.”
“Do I not?”
“No.”
“You are still alive now. I give you your life.”
“If I stole that tapestry over there, tore it into a million pieces and trod them into the mud, then sold them back to you for more than you could afford, it would be a gift?”
“Does your life mean so little to you now?”
“If I live, I live a life without love, without any hope of love. My body and my heart defiled by a murderer. That is no life. I am already dead.”
“And your sister's life.”
“You would't dare.”
“And why not?”
“Because you are now in love with me.” I say in a matter of fact way, and walk away, to find Dina.

“You don't have a plan, do you?'
I put my arm about her. She seems so small to me, all of a sudden. “I might.”
“Don't lie to me, Hera, I know. I can see it. I can feel it. You're shaking.”
“Shhh. Hush. I'm-”
“You're what?”
“I'm ready to tell you your bedtime story.” It is an archaic ritual I have, a remnant of our early life, of an invisable three year old and her sobbing baby sister. We have always clung to it, above all other things. “Once, long ago, oh my best beloved..”
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I am very sorry to see that no one has replied to this because I think it is rather good.
I wonder if you will ever post something on this again...since nobody replied in the beginning......but I would like you to know that it is good.
Very original with a very life like lead character.
I like her spirit....it makes me wonder what will happen to her.

*runs around excitedly* Han, I didn't see that you'd posted this before, and it's amazing, really, the idea just makes me giddy. I mean, a thousand short stories from you is like finding that no one has eaten the piece of chocolate that you like best in the box. :shine:

:lmao: That was great. You and your subtle humor, you're awesome.

That sucks that Scheherazade isn't loved as much as her sister, and that her (eeevil, lol) father had to go and do something underhanded by leaving a lock of curls in. I love how forthright and blatantly honest you've made her character, she's got lots of spunk!

I am most definitely looking forward to reading all these tales that she tells. :laola: Haha, sorry, a little hyper here.

A very shiny and superb start! :hug:

Wow, this really pulled me in! It is so original and creative, great job, dear! I think it was very brave of Scheherazade to take the place of her sister as the sultan's bride. I like that she has such a fiery spirit which you displayed wonderfully in her discussion with the sultan. I enjoyed how she spoke her mind so freely to him, though he could have sent her to death at any moment. I wonder what will happen between them now.

I hope you continue!

:love:

This is amazing! :yahoo

I love Arabian Nights and your spin-off is original, yet strangely comforting. I love how she has the blind courage to stand up to the Sultan, even though she knows that at any moment, he could kill her, and then move on to her sister.

Women with spunk are always the best fiction fodder! ^_^

I am eagerly awaiting the next installment!

The only thing I will say critique wise is: try putting in more descriptions. Your story is almost all dialogue, and sometimes we get lost in the words, forgetting about all the other things that could be going on: body language, scenery, tone of voice, etc. Apart from that, AMAZING!

Hey babe, sorry I didn't get round to reading this sooner, my net crashed big time and I've only just got it back. Anyway I love this!!! And not just because it was you that wrote it. It's so beautifully done, and go the girl!! lol.
Sorry I haven't talked to you much lately but hopefully I will soon. I'm back at school now and have work still so I dunno when we're gonna catch up next, hopeflly soon though!!

Chloe xxx