Remember the apocryphilia poem I did about Rumpelstiltskin? Well, it kept niggling at my mind so I've been expanding it today. Here's the first 236 words of my dialogue. The third paragraph is final draft of my apoc. poem in standard lineation. Enjoy!

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Rumpelstiltskin, in the crown of the oak, watches the king’s riders spread the message across the country. The king desires a wife, a wife of mysterious talents and outrageous fortune, a wife to amuse himself as the wars rumble in the near-off earshot. The king will pay a ransom for the wife he chooses. The miller has a daughter, a fair young blossoming daughter too weak to lift the grain and too hard-headed to listen.

Poppa! Do you know that I love when you tell me bedtime stories, when you send me to sleep with your stories? I love you, Poppa.

Rumpelstiltskin, perched on his oak branch, watches the flax-haired mistress miller wade into the lapping edge of the Elbe again. She’s teasing her new lover, another boy she’s beaten in cards and in bed, to chase her into the ripping current. The water laves the wheat dust from her apron and the creases behind her knees. It floats to the surface and fans behind her, a cape. The Elbe pulls her dress tight against new curves. Tilting a hip, lifting a soaked sheer hem, tempting him to slip on the slick river-stones and slide under the crushing wheel.

Poppa! That’s not the way it goes. The princess is in the castle with a room full of straw and the king is going to kill her unless she spins it into gold. Tell the story right.