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I'd like to tell you a story. It wouldn't be true – at least, it never happened. Not the way I would tell it.
Once 'aponner' time, 'longer go and far a way'. There. Now you know it's a myth, a legend, a child's fairy tale.
Someone was born, somewhere. Maybe a changeling, maybe a boy with green hair, perhaps an orphan. Or a girl with boy's – well, you know. Anyway, as a result of this shame, difference or uniqueness, our hero(ine) was much disadvantaged. Bullied by older (step)-siblings, mothers, fathers, beadles, Orlicks or secretly by Uriahs.
If I wrote this story nowadays our protagonist would most likely figure in the latest misery-lit bestseller, Some Ashes Called Dave or some such. If someone else had written it 150 years ago, our most likely eponymous protagonist would become rich and maybe even happy, whilst falling into coincidence at every step. And it might be called Oliver Twist or Great Expectations.
Anyway, perhaps I will write my own version one day.
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