Everything is better with sprinkles.

Some red-headed critter reminded me of this whatsit the other day so I thought I upload some of the old bits and bobs that have been floating around my computer. There's nothing new here, just odds and ends that are likely to get deleted soon.

Happy Hanukkah.

Everything here is a work in progress, written in haste, and probably not proof-read too well, but I try my best to write when inspiration (or the little thought bug) bites, insert proper punctuation, and to control my hopeless run-on sentences.

I love history for its stories- of course it's all stories- but I mean those little tiny insignificant stories, those anecdotes that the teacher tells in class that you know you won't be tested on and so you put down your pen and really listen. Thanks to the glory of Wikipedia, long-winded professors are no longer even required to find those purposeless little tales that are perfect for unleashing on unsuspecting history-phobic lovers and family members.
I love this story- this tragedy, really.
Lady Jane Grey was a good girl, a lovely girl. Everything a girl ought to be. She was probably your age. I'm guessing you're late teens, right? Well she was close, just a tad younger. She was brilliant and retiring, more fond of books than power. Unluckily for her though, she was also a prospective heir to the English throne. Now I won't go into the details because ambushing people with history is an act best reserved for those who I know love me and will forgive, it's sufficient to say there was murder and mayhem and betrayal, leading to her own scheming power hungry husband tricking her into putting the crown on her head. Foreshadowing, people, historical foreshadow, because from then on her fate was sealed, a crown first and then an ax. She was the Nine Days Queen. She was a reluctant queen, doomed to lose power to her malevolent cousin the Catholic Queen Mary. Mary wasn't truly that villainous, just doing what she had to in order to maintain power, but stories are better with a villain and for our purposes, let's say she looks like the evil queen from Snow White. Quickly she imprisoned poor Jane. After a failed rebellion that claimed Jane as it's figurehead, even though it was against her wishes, her execution was ordered. Jane was calm. She wore white. Her hair streamed down her back. Jane, ever the faithful Protestant, was determined to go to death a dignified martyr. She was sixteen. They blindfolded her and lead her to the block; the execution was private in a cold lonely tower out of respect for her royal heritage. She knelt and reached for the block and only then did her resolve begin to crumble. She groped the air, crying out, desperately looking for the cold stone on which her life would end. An unknown hand guided her to it, helping her to regain her composure for her end. She was silent when the ax fell.
I don't know why like that story, but it's like a little round white stone in my pocket and I like to roll it around in my hand as I walk. I can't get rid of that image of a girl my age stoically facing her death, her martyrdom, only crying out when she reached out and couldn't find the executioner's block.