Storytelling Week 13: Give 'im Some Credit

Coffee in hand and braced against an unforgiving North wind, I make my way toward Buchanan Hall to drop off paper work for my research credit. You would think that after three years at OU I would be on top of these things. If there's anything I've learned as a student, it's that procrastination is a degenerative disease. As I walk in the building, I glance down at my form to ensure I have all the essential pieces. Name. Major. Bibliography. Signatures. I swear, it's that last one that always gets me. At times, finding a professor to coax out a signature nearly requires a search party. Fortunately, I'm not missing anything this time.

I shoot up the stairs to face the bureaucracy, dragging my confidence along with me. While exchanging pleasantries with the two young women who represent the beating heart of Enrollment Services, I lay my form on the desk and mention I need to add the credit to my schedule. I'm not too worried. They tend to be lax on the red tape when it comes to this type of coursework.

"Looks pretty good, but it seems that your professor's section doesn't exist."

"Pardon?"

"Section 7 for Honors Research doesn't exist under the MBIO course designation," she tells me. "You'll have to speak with the department to add the section. Then, we'll be able to enroll you."

*Sigh*

"Sounds good. I'll go take care of that now."

If you look closely, you'll see the fine print that says, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Found at waymarking.com

Walking briskly toward George Lynn Cross Hall, the home of the Department of Microbiology, I reflect on my tendency to lose such bureaucratic lotteries. It's just my luck to be forced to jump through another hoop! By the time I reach the building, my hand has begun to freeze to the surface of my metallic thermos. It only takes a handful of seconds to reach the department's office and explain the situation to the secretary.

"To be honest, adding a section is much easier than it sounds," she says. "However, I'll need confirmation that you turned in a completed add-drop slip for the college from you before it do. You realize it's way past due, right?"

I silently nod as she hands me the slip. What I see written on it causes my eyes to roll.

Spaces for two more signatures.

I spend the next two hours around campus herding the necessary parties to collect that precious ink. By the time I arrive at Ellison Hall to drop off the slip, my ears are crystalizing thanks to the bitter cold. I walk in, slide the slip to the woman at the desk, and prepare myself to receive another mission.

"Before I take this, you'll need to fill out an appeal form for the dean to sign."

Never again. I promise that I will never put myself through this again.

Within a few rushed minutes, I turn in the appeal and dash back toward George Lynn Cross Hall. I speak with the secretary who pulls up a program to create the section for my research credit. I waste no time returning to Buchanan Hall to end this once and for all.

"Okay! You're enrolled now!"

Music to my ears.

~~~~

Author's Note: From the Italian Tales Unit, I chose The Sexton's Nose to recount for my Storytelling post this week. I focused on the second part of the story in which a sexton is forced to jump through a series of hoops to obtain the hair of a dog to cure a dog bite. For example, the sexton needs to give the smith coals in exchange for a mattock, which he will give to the woodman and so on. My retelling is based off of personal experience with getting courses and credits added at the last minute. I thought it would be funny to insert OU into my blog, and this felt like a good fit.

Bibliography
Thomas Frederick Crane
Italian Popular Tales
1885

Storytelling Week 12: Shot Through the Heart

Medical Field Report, July 24th 1862- Dr. Richard Anderson
~~~~~~
Three bullets straight to the chest. Yet, he was still breathing. Those balls of lead must have sidled up right next to the heart without tearing it to pieces. When I put my ear to his chest, I could hear his heart pressing against the unforgiving metal with every shaky beat.

I wiped the sweat from my brow as I looked at the miracle lying before me. As the senior field surgeon, I had learned that war could twist expectations in every way possible. In medicine, it was triple amputees who were spared from infection. In America, it was a fight that pitted North against South, brother against brother. When I chose to practice medicine, I never imagined that I would bear witness to every facet of the human condition.

Somehow I had stopped the bleeding, so I rushed across the field hospital to fetch the other surgeons and my apprentice. Yesterday's battle had provided today's hell on earth. Severed limbs rotted in metal buckets. Screams begging for mercy rang out from each tent. The foul air, saturated with filth and illness, left the metallic taste of blood on the tongue.

I ducked my head into the blood-stained supply tent--the central hub of this organized chaos.

"You all are gonna want to see this."

The surgery tent where the miracle happened. Wikipedia Commons.

With my colleagues and apprentice in tow, I briskly walked the tent that housed my patient. I felt like I was about to exhibit a medical masterpiece--an opus that defied medical knowledge of the time.

During the time I had exited to round up my colleagues, blood has started to seep from underneath the soiled rags I had used to staunch the bleeding. We couldn't afford to spare any time to gaze in awe. Those bullets needed to be removed.

After the had sedated the patient with the little whiskey we had remaining, we removed the rags to take a look at the entrance wounds.

"Why can't we just leave the bullets in him? We do it all the time."

The other surgeons seemed to nod in agreement with Thomas.

"Those rounds are embedded right next to the heart. What's stopping them from tearing a hole in the coronary artery? If we close him up as I is now, a strong cough could be the difference between life and death for him. We're operating," I responded.

The bleed was slowly worsening, so we all tried to tease out all three bullets at once. The wasted body on the table let out a groan as I inserted my finger into the wound to get a feel for the bullet's location.

"Dammit, this fucker has clipped the pericardium."

More importantly, the bullet had nearly wrapped the aorta around itself like a blanket. I struggled to grasp it with my forceps without pushing the splintered bone into the exposed heart. Warm, slick blood gave my steady a hand a run for its money. My colleagues didn't seem to be having much more luck than I was. I prepared myself for a race against the clock.

CLINK!

The sound of metal on metal pierced through the stench in the tent. I looked up to find a crimson, metallic orb lying on the tin plate we used as our waste tray.

"Who...who just removed that?"

I quickly gazed over the operating table. The blood-soaked forceps clasped in my apprentice's hand answered my question.

"Lucas? That was you?"

I could barely believe it. My apprentice had performed the impossible. I gaped at him as if he had pulled Excalibur from its stone.

"Can you do it again?"

Without saying a word, my apprentice walked over to where I stood to coax the bullet out from its sanctuary near the heart. Five minutes later, the patient's chest gave birth to the second bullet. Fifteen minutes later, we had the whole set. Hours later, the patient is doing fine, albeit with a intense hangover.

As I finish this entry, I cannot stop myself from reflecting upon my role as a surgeon. I place so much pride in my skill to extract life from places where death should only reign. However, perhaps I should keep my ego in check. For now, it seems that the student has become the teacher.

Author's Note: Prompted by my interest in medicine, I decided to retell The Drawing of the Sword story from the King Arthur unit in the setting of a field hospital during the Civil War. It should be noted that there are a few medical terms in here, but they have been used in a way that does not take understanding away from the story. Just in case, the aorta is the main artery that takes oxygenated blood from the heart and sends it off to the rest of the body.

Bibliography:
King Arthur: Tales of the Round Table 
Andrew Lang
1902

Storytelling Week 10: Back to Basics

I went to bed as a man and woke up as an infant. The resilient, slender legs I had as a marathon runner are now pudgy, fleshy sausages that cannot even support my own weight. I try to avert my gaze away from the aseptic hospital lighting that strains my eyes, but the muscles in my neck fail to move a head that seems too big for my body.

I cannot explain how I came to inhabit this form, and despite the transformation, I find myself at ease as if I haven't learned what it means to be angry or afraid. Is this what reincarnation is like? Is this what it is to be born again? In a way, I am a pioneer. I'm becoming a witness of the event we all experience but never remember.

A representation of the bodily prison I am trapped in. Wikipedia Commons.

Luckily, I'm able to shift my gaze around to get a sense of my surroundings. I get the feeling that I am not alone. It must be a nursery. I seem to be in somewhat of a crib, and as I look toward my minuscule, albeit adorable, toes, I make out two blurred figures. One, dressed in white, stands still enough to where I can almost make out distinct features. The other seems to be an amorphous blur. I think he or she is motioning wildly to the doctor as if trying to explain that the impossible had happened. A nurse walks in the door, and my fresh ears catch a few syllables of the conversation.

I recognize the voice immediately. It's my wife.

If only I could yell out to her--let her know that I'm here! Only the babble that all infants share emerges from my untrained tongue. Yet, how could she know? I can only guess at what she is telling the physician.

Forget all of that. I need a plan of action. I am faced with challenge of setting myself apart from so many other bundles of joy. What if I tried to kick with my leg?

Despite the fact that maneuvering this body is much more complicated that driving a shift stick, I manage to move my leg in what barely passes as a kick. However, it seems to catch Rachel's attention. She motions to the doctor, but does not seem convinced. Perhaps I can catch her attention if I wiggle these petite toes of mine. My ten dancing digits catch the eye of my wife, but the doctor still remains as motionless as before.

I'm running out of options here. I lift my right hand as high as a can as if I were trying to ask a question of my spectators. Rachel jumps back and grabs the doctor to make him look at what I am doing. I might just be able to pull this off!

As my coup de grace, I begin to squirm as if my life depended on it. I'm certain that this will do the trick. In my newfound confidence, I look to my left. My hope dissipates as quickly as it appeared. My performance seems to have caught the attention of other newborns in the room, and they begin to mimic my last chance dance. Only a few hours old, I have already gone viral.

I look toward the window, and the blurred figure that represents my wife seems confused. She has lost me, and in turn, she has lost the attention of the physician. I see him turn away to attend to more pressing affairs.

Rachel gives me one more look, and I can only guess she is saying goodbye.

Author's Note: I decided to take my own spin on The Piqued Buffalo-Wife story from the Native American Marriage Tales unit.  While I didn't discuss marriage in my retelling, I focused on the part where the transformed son tries his best to help his father identify him among other buffalo calves. In this case, the transformation is of a man into an infant rather than a boy into a calf.

Bibliography
Stith Thompson
Tales of the North American Indians
1929

Storytelling for Week 7: Lost in Translation

Made from the earth, I was. Plain and simple. Well, I wouldn't call it earth exactly, but tar is pretty much the same when it comes down to it. I smell of turpentine and don a dilapidated straw hat, so I'm not the best company to keep. The worst part of it is that Brer Fox went up and forgot to give me a mouth. To think of how simple it would have been for him! Just a poke under my nose would have sufficed perfectly! All I am able to do is sit here and ruminate while my molasses heap of a body melts and bubbles under the unforgiving, albeit cheerful, Southern sun.

Ah! Here comes someone now to break up my tedious monologue. Looks like it's a rabbit in overalls. If that's the case, I must be getting heatstroke. Here we go; he's walking straight towards me.

"Mawnin'! Nice wedder dis mawin'"

What in the world did he just say!? I cannot understand him to save my life. I'm struggling to form words, but I quickly remember my lack of a voice. My only response is the sound of the bubbling tar on my body.

"How you come on, den? Is you deaf? Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder."

I wish I could just tell him what the deal is. He seems to be a pretty gentle person.

"You er stuck up, dat's w'at you is, en I'm gwine ter kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwine ter do."

My encounter with Mr. Rabbit. Wikipedia Commons.

I've stopped listened to what he says, and can you blame me? I can barely distinguish his vowels from his consonants. I'll just wait here until he gets bored and leaves me alone.

SMACK!

Holy cow! He hit me! What in the world did I do to deserve this? To be honest, it was a really bad decision on his part. His fist sank deep into my molten jaw. Looks like we're hitched.

"Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock you again"

Listen man, if I could speak, I explain everything. But still, I can't just 'unmelt' myself.

WHAM!

Well, there go his feet. I can tell where this is heading. At least I'll have company from now on.

Author's Note: I decided to write from the Tar-Baby's perspective in one of the first stories in the Brer Rabbit I unit. Though this, I wanted to also make a satirical comment on how well the dialect is written in the original story.

Bibliography:
Joel Chandler Harris
Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings 
1881

Storytelling for Week 5: Blindsided by Reality

For two decades, I've seen with my ears and skin. Humming engines are my crosswalks. The greeting warmth on my face is the picturesque sunrise.The music and texture of the world have been my ever present guides. But today, I'll begin to discover what it means to see in color.

I've been blind since birth thanks to the stunted growth of neurons in my retinas. Modern medicine, however, has pulled through; today I'll become on of the first to try an approved therapy to stimulate cell growth. Simply put, I'll see the world with new eyes.

"When it comes down to it, you're pretty much the perfect candidate for this, Sid," the optometrist said when I came in for the outpatient procedure. "All signs point to your recovering without complications."

I smiled. This felt meant to be.

"You know, Sid, are you sure you're ready to see what the world has to offer?"

"Without a doubt."

~~~

Green. That's my favorite.

It's been a week since the procedure, and while everything remains an amorphous blur, I know what color is. They started out dull but then bled into my vision like the crescendo of a string orchestra. Color is the timbre of the visual. Yellow whistles like a piccolo. Red softly barks like the French horn. But green is different. It's lush. It's voice is one of a cello. What a gift it is to be able to hear colors as I learn how to see.

~~~

"Sharper" is how the doctor has described the change in my sight. That's certainly how it feels. It's almost painful. Two weeks after my treatment leaves me with the ability to distinguish shape and form, but it's not easy on the eyes. Everything looks the way sand feels. Gritty and abrasive. I tend to rub my eyes attempting to brush off the rough texture that coats everything I see to no avail. It's hard to describe how distressing it is when the smooth, flawless keys on my piano look as if they would rub my fingers raw if I were to play. I hate the incongruence.

~~~

A window of clarity open in the center of my vision yesterday, so I decided to open a book and see written language for the first time. Words are ugly. They don't do justice for the auditory beauty of language. Dead black ink on glaringly white paper. I try to avoid focusing on any certain object. The grittiness that permeated my vision two weeks ago has been replaced with a overwhelming blandness. Saltine crackers come to mind. I miss the mystery of when I only saw the world in color and not in form.

The disappointment of seeking words for the first time (Edited). Wikipedia Commons.

~~~

I see the wrinkles that cleave across my forehead. In incredible detail, I see how age has molded my face as I look in the bathroom mirror. Twenty years of vision has made me grown tired of the world. When I was blind, my imagination created what things looked like. They were my thoughts, my ideas. Vision has robbed me of that ownership. I'm only an observer now, not a creator. My favorite part of the day is the bittersweet moment before I fall asleep.

Sweet because I'll dream with closed eyes. Bitter because I know I'll wake up.

Author's Note: I used both the The First Encounter and Two More Encounters stories from the Buddha unit to create an representation of what it was like for Siddhartha to realize the presence of old age and death in the world. Since I plan to become a physician, I thought I'd create an analogy between gaining one's sight for the first time and losing one's naiveté. In the story, I put myself in Siddhartha's position and describe how I lose touch with joy and beauty. I really tried to capture the change in attitude that Siddhartha demonstrates in the two aforementioned stories.

Bibliography
The Life of Buddha
Andre Ferdinand Herold
1922

Storytelling for Week 3: Dressed to Kill

The fresh blade slide effortlessly along his jawline. Yesterday's stubble retreated to reveal soft, exfoliated skin. Steam hung in the air and muffled every sound except the gentle splash as Herold rinsed his blade in the basin. Shaving was the zenith of his morning ritual. Standing in front of the mirror, naked, as he drew the hot blade over the pulse in his neck was the only time he felt vulnerable. Millimeters of skin between a morning shave and bleeding out. A slip away from death.

That vulnerability, however, intoxicated him; he loved living on the edge.

The only thing sharper than his razor was the way he dressed. Everything had to be perfect. The suit and its fit. The shoes and their shine. Every morning saw his transformation from mere mortal to unstoppable CEO. He had skillfully taken over companies, arranged exorbitantly profitable mergers and trained profit margins to jump at his command.

Such feats deserve recognition, he thought. The way he looked should communicate his power. He wanted his peers to feel his confidence wash over them. He wanted them to know that he felt as if he could carry the world on his shoulders.

To Herold, presentation was the Alpha and the Omega. Anything less was an insult to his impressive career if not life's work.

~~~

Freshly shaven and impeccably presentable, Herold strode out to his car followed only by his air of purpose and the fragrance of sandalwood cologne.

"Good Morning, Mr. Juniper."

"Morning, Peggy. You certainly seem too chipper for someone who drove me through three hours of traffic yesterday."

"Mr. Juniper, after all these years as a chauffeur and my marriage to my husband, there's nothing I can't handle. Although, I must admit I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes off of you."

"It's the suit, isn't it? The wife gave it to me a week ago. It fits perfectly. I might just wear this to my grave."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Juniper."

~~~

The elevator doors opened to reveal Herold's impressive frame to the executive's floor. The percussion of his leather shoes upon the oak floor announced his arrival. The vice president and chairman of the board left their conversation unattended to eye the CEO's arrival. The two always took pleasure in mocking Herold for his attention to dress.

"Well, well, well. Look who got dressed up for the first day of school."

Herold rolled his eyes as he gave a muffled chuckle and passed the two to take his seat in his office.

"Wait, Herold. Where'd you get that suit?"

"The wife. To be honest, I can't believe she was able to get it fitted so well."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be so surprised. It's a fake."

"Pardon?"

"You have a f---ing tag sticking out of the back that says 'Made in China,' dipshit."

The moment of truth for Herold. Wikipedia.

Blood drained from Herold's face. He reached around the back of the jacket, and sure enough, you could feel the rough, cheap tag peeking out from the vent. No word escaped his mouth as he drifted to his office and quietly shut the door.

Embarrassment. Shame. Betrayal. All were palpable as he felt his prestige chip away. Venomous mediocrity seemed to seep from the suit into his body making his blood boil with humiliation. His image--the very representation of his genius and expertise--was sullied by fabrication.

Wanting nothing more than to remove himself from the embarrassment, he dug his fingers into the left shoulder seam and tore the sleeve from his body in one swift motion. The other sleeve quickly followed.

Strips of ripped clothing and bits of string remained on the ground once he was done. Herold repeatedly folded and unfolded the "Made in China" tag in his fingers as he gazed out the window.

While he had shed the object of his shame, the scar of hurt pride remained.

Author's Note: Borrowing thematic material from the story of Hercules' death in the Ovid III unit, I decided to create a story in which a accomplished protagonist suffers a metaphorical death involving his image. I did my best to incorporate allusions to the original story through the way in which I describe Herold's suit and the way tears it off of his body.

Bibliography:
Ovid's Metamorphoses
Tony Kline
2000

Storytelling for Week 2: Flick's Joyride

"You're adopted." 

Those were the first words that Flick heard out of his mother's mouth after she had sat him down in the living room. It's hard to predict how someone will react to such a statement; adoption brings to mind questions of ownership and origin. Flick, however, was nineteen, and the words didn't seem to phase him. 

"I want to meet him."

"It's complicated."

"I don't care, Clementine."

She hated when he called her by first name. It was a pet peeve of hers that Flick had learned to utilize for his benefit. 

"Fine. We'll do it next week, then. Just don't call me Clementine." 

~~~

Next Wednesday morning, they left for the city. As Clementine drove, she could not keep her thoughts from wandering. She thought of Flick's adoptive father, her late husband, and how his presence might have helped mitigate the guilt she felt as a single parent of a young man. The deceased's birthday was next month, and Clementine and Flick always went to the cemetery to leave a bouquet of sunflowers. It was one of the few things they consistently did together. 

They parked in front of an opulent skyscraper and disembarked upon the immaculate, nearly reflective, sidewalk. As they walked toward the entrance, the doorman prepared to block their way, but upon seeing Clementine's face, his confidence seemed to retreat and force him to make way for the mom and her sun. The duo arrived at the front desk at 8:56 a.m. on the dot. 

"He's here to see Paul." 

The receptionist flashed a look of understanding and motioned to the security guard to take Flick to the express elevator. Flick's guide leaned in and pressed the button for the top floor.

"You might want to brace yourself. It's a pretty quick ride for newcomers." 

Flick soared through the floors as the lift accelerated toward the sky, and he wondered if he'd end up amongst the clouds when the doors opened. 

Ding. The ride was over sooner than Flick had expected. 

The elevator opened up to blinding light. Tall, crystal-clear windows let in so much sun that Flick swore everything was covered in a film of twenty-four caret gold. A man in an impressive purple suit sat behind a desk at the end of the room, and the sun seemed to be rising over his left shoulder--a purple hillside. He stood up and looked down at the ornate clock on his desk. 

As if the clock timed its motions to that man, the second hand slammed straight up seemingly in response to the man's gaze. 

It was 10 o'clock. 

"So, you're my biological father?"

"As certain as the sun rises every morning," the man answered. "I'm Paul, but you can call me Dad if you want. I supposed I owe you something after all this time." 

"Well, that's not necessarily important." 

"Nonsense. Follow me." 

A stomach turning trip in the elevator down to the building's basement brought them to Paul's private garage. Flick could not believe what he saw. 

Here, the author of this story must admit that any words he chooses to use would not do justice to describe the splendor of the vehicle. The four-wheeled machine looked like it ran on pride and gave off glory as its exhaust. Flick tried to guess the engine's horsepower, but only exorbitant numbers came to mind. 40,000? 400,000? He was convinced this was something of myth. 

"You said you owe me something, right? How about letting me take that for a ride?"

The color drained from Paul's face.

"I would love to, but it's much more difficult to handle than you imagine."

"Come on, Paul. I'm your son."

The man in the purple suit seemed to share the same pet peeve with Clementine. 

"Here are the keys. The valet will show you how to exit the building. You have until noon. Be careful; the stick shift has a mind of its own at times."

Needless to say, Flick's ride didn't last long. Twenty minutes later, a cop stuck him down with a ticket with lightning-speed efficiency. Paul, paralyzingly embarrassed by his foolishness, locked himself up in his office for the day. 

Perhaps children don't always live up to their parents, he thought.

An exaggerated version of Flick's joyride in the city. Wikipedia Commons.

Author's Note: I decided to add a spin to Ovid's story of Phaethon and the Sun. The first time I read through the story, it evoked the consequences of the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off in which the parking attendants take Cameron's dad's Ferrari out for a ride while Ferris and his friends spend the day in Chicago. Therefore, I placed Flick as my representation of Phaethon as a character who lacks a strong relationship with his father. For the sake of originality and the rapport I wanted to create between Flick and his biological father, I made Clementine Flick's adoptive mother rather than his biological one. The rest of my story follows the hubris of Phaethon by creating an analogy of between Apollo's chariot and the car that Flick takes out.

Bibliography
Ovid's Metamorphoses 
Edited by Thomas Kline
2000

Week 1 Storytelling: Political Strife in a Forgotten Town

THE lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
The lion beat the unicorn

All round about the town.

Some gave them white bread,
And some gave them brown;
Some gave them plum-cake,
And sent them out of town.

(nursery rhyme)

Nothing had been the same since the coup. With the humans driven out, a vacuum of power had been created. As one would expect, mammals still held control, but they had divided into two factions: the Hooves and the Paws. 

To determine who would rule, the mammals made an agreement. Each faction would offer its greatest  warrior. It would be a standoff to match the gravity of David and Goliath's battle.

The Paws offered the Lion, their graceful and commanding feline. His mane seemed to expand when he roared. His power laid in his voice. Words were his weapons. The Hooves, on the other hand, offered a rare, relatively unknown challenger: the unicorn. While her existence had been challenged in the past, it had been said that her horn possessed the ability to defeat any challenger, no matter what his or her strength. 

The two combatants faced each other in the town square, and the respective factions gathered behind their champions. The Lion stood stoically at one corner of the square; nothing could be read from his inexpressive face. Wanting to make a statement, the Unicorn brandished her horn in a way that caused the crowd to jump back. She prepared her charge, but just before she could commence, the Lion opened his mouth.

The sounds that emanated from his gaping jaws failed to make sense to the startled crowd. There was something about the cadence of his roar. It seemed to have order and evoked memories of the way in which the humans spoke.

The Unicorn initially became paralyzed with fear, but once she regained her senses, she sprinted off away from the square with the Lion in pursuit. The confrontation continued throughout the town; the Unicorn would make an attempt at a charge, and the Lion would respond with his seemingly magical words causing the Unicorn to sprint off again.

With the battle decided, the rule of the one-town kingdom when to the Lion thus putting the Paws into power. 

The presentation of the plum-cake by a human representative of the Paws and Hooves. Wikipedia Commons.

To put themselves in the good graces of their new ruler as well as ameliorate the Unicorn's hurt pride, the citizens took it upon themselves to gift the combatants with bread. This storyteller can't explain why a group of animals would bake bread for a carnivore and an herbivore, but for some reason, it worked for some time.

Years later, the Paws and the Hooves began to form a truce without the approval or awareness of the Lion or Unicorn. Tired of the rule of a king and the antics of a resentful unicorn who had taken up vandalism and racketeering, they planned to throw them out of the town. The bread-giving had continued since the first battle, so the citizens decided to create a call-to-arms in the form of bread--in this case, plum-cake. 

On the anniversary of the Paws-Hooves confrontation, the distribution of bread continued as normal. Brown loaf. White loaf. Brown. Brown. White.

Plum-cake. 

The moment the plum-cake was presented, the Paws and the Hooves came together and used the same power the Lion had utilized years ago: Words. At the sound of language, the Lion and the Unicorn retreated with the same promptness that the Unicorn had demonstrated years ago. 

A republic was established that sought to eliminate differences between the Paws and the Hooves, and a holiday was declared to commemorate the overthrow. From that point forward, the date would be known as The Rising of Bread and Fair Rule. 

Author's Note: This slightly absurd tale is based on a nursery rhyme titled "The Lion and the Unicorn," which is quoted at the top of the page. This nursery rhyme in particular can be found in an online version of The Nursery Rhyme Book edited by Andrew Lang. The rhyme gives an account of a lion and unicorn who fight in some way for the rights to the rule, and the lion ends up beating the unicorn everywhere in the municipality. Afterwards, the two animals are given different types of bread by citizens while some citizens end up giving them plum-cake and chasing them out of town.