From my inbox: Self-pub author Eileen Cruz Coleman has published a novel inspired by Rumpelstiltskin, titled Rumpel.
Here's the book's description:
When foreigners arrive on an island beach in search of a lost spinning wheel which they believe rightfully belongs to them and on which their very existence depends, the island inhabitants are thrust into a course of events during which some will become allies and others will turn against their own and Elizabeth Miller must defend her unborn child from a vengeful troll.And here is a small sampling of the opening:
CHAPTER ONE: The Lowly TavernSo far it is only available in an e-edition, but the Kindle reader is now available for free for several platforms.
Once in the Kingdom of Rodavlas, in which all manner of living beings co-existed, albeit not always in harmony, and no one questioned the presence of spirits, and darkness and light fought for space, The Lowly Tavern—a tavern which opened its doors only during nights when inclement weather was sure to mask the town—waited at the bottom of a bridge for those who dared make their way over the crossing’s slippery surface.
Prior to the falling of snow or rain, the tavern’s owner, Jacob, would streak the tavern door with black paint to let his customers know that on that night they were welcome. Before pellets of rain or snow could melt the sodden smear, news of The Tavern’s opening soared over Rodavlas.
Built without railings or walls, the bridge had witnessed countless deaths; the water below hid many secrets. Breaking through sheets of ice, men had sunk to its bottom where they remained trapped by rocks and the trash of people who used the river as a dumping ground.
And when a body managed to escape and rise to the surface, it floated for days before a tree trunk or branch or the river’s bank halted its progression. There the body remained, rotting and scavenged by vultures, until a fisherman or hiker or embracing lover discovered it and reported it or, more often than not, let it continue decomposing. No one ever asked who this dead person was or what kind of life he may have lived.
Despite the danger, hopeless men, both young and old, some dressed in suits, others in uniforms, beards on their faces and thick boots on their feet, and still others in fabric or newspaper remnants, hustled into the streets, their clumsy umbrellas doing nothing to protect them from the weather.
In the distance, they would see smoke from The Tavern’s chimney ascending above the water. Arm in arm, they’d march, until they would step off the bridge and onto a torch-lit ramp, its wooden planks guiding them to The Tavern.
Floor-to-ceiling dark velvet curtains lay over The Tavern’s high windows. Women in loose skirts drawn tight around their hips, their nipples peeking through lace blouses, swung their bodies around, dodging hands and refilling the glasses of men who waited until the sun set to turn free their inhibitions. In corners, on low couches, and wide-arm chairs, which lined the Tavern’s brick-exposed walls, these men ran their fingers up the legs of women, kissing their necks and mouths as if the sun would never rise again and remind them of their crying children, their unpaid bills, and their wives, who not long ago they had sworn to love forever.
A leather slingshot, used to propel stones at animals and in some cases humans, sat on the bar as The Tavern’s inhabitants went about their business—downing pints, inhaling shots, and snorting powder.