The immortal bard once wrote that tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And as it was true for we poor mundanes trapped within the confines of this all too real world, so too were the mythical, mystical inhabitants of the Fairytale Realm subjected to the ravages of time, albeit creeping at a pettier pace.
At two hundred and seven years of age, dementia had robbed the old woman of her name and memories but whenever she sat by the window of her woodland cottage, staring past seven small graves that had not been properly tended to in years, she sang a long forgotten song from when her hair was as black as ebony, lips as red as the rose, skin as white as snow and impossibly the birds in the air outside seemed to dance in time with her lovely, lonely melody.
One hot summer night, after one too many tallboys, and bored out of his skull, Lem Planter fetched his cheaper-than-dirt Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum and unloaded his revolver in the air, trying to put a bullet between the eyes of the man on the moon.
As one would imagine, his aim exceeded his reach, but one of those shells actually managed to find a target as it fell back down to Earth, striking Miss Hattie Clements in the top of the head. When word reached Lem, he confessed immediately and was arrested once forensics matched the bullet to his pistol.
The saving grace to this story was even though the bullet was lodged in an area of Hattie’s brain that was deemed too dangerous to be removed, she not only survived but fully recovered from the incident, and when she was released from the hospital, she refused to press charges and even visited Lem in prison to personally thank him. She felt deep in her heart that it was the best thing that ever happened to her, because from the moment she awoke after the accident, she was able to physically see and have direct conversations with God.
I am of two minds. On the one hand, I want to make a good impression, to reveal glimpses of the parts of myself that will make you think favorably of me. On the other hand, I do not wish to mislead you by pretending to be wholly one thing, when I am an amalgamation of paradoxes that should not be able to function in one body, one personality, let alone society, yet somehow does.
Then you offer me a smile that is polite and mild, and my mind is made up, for I do not wish to hide my light beneath a bushel. It is my desire that you see all of me and I see all of you, because in that act there is such a freedom of either acceptance or rejection, that transcends the simple mediocrity of belonging.
So, as I push my whimsy forward, unfolding politeness and decorum to display the complexities that live and thrive at the very core of my being, I offer you the opportunity to follow suit in order to form an unbreakable bond and temper a love forged in the flames of two pure hearts.
The pocket watch was a pendulum of brilliant gold in the candlelit room. The mechanized ticking reminded Vanessa of raindrops striking a car roof, and all at once she was transported back to her rainy eighteenth birthday, in the back of Jimmy Erler’s old, beat up ’67 Chevy Impala, letting him round all the bases because she foolishly believed he was the one who deserved her much coveted v-card.
For some silly reason, she had recreated the memory of her first time into something clumsy and awkward but romantic and committed herself to the lie so hard and for so long that she actually believed it was true. But under Doc Halley’s hypnosis session, the fairytale facade fell away, and her breathing escalated from jittery pants to an almost animalistic sucking in of air as if she was underwater. Her body was becoming thick and heavy and she heard Jimmy’s sweet nothings whispered in her ears turn into screams for help.
It was then that she realized their heavy petting had been abandoned for her pummelling, clawing, kicking, and biting at her nineteen year old date who had balled up in a fetal position trying to protect himself from her brutal assault. Before the date, Jimmy bragged about his prowess and his ability to bloom her flower. The shame of it was that he didn’t live long enough to see just how right he was.
You come to me with a face like thunder, your mind a hornets nest of uncertainty, questioning our relationship, where we stand, where things are headed, because our reality does not quite match up with the fairytale romance you envisioned for yourself since childhood.
You bombard me with questions: do I really love you or am I just infatuated with the notion of being in love, and how can I be certain that love actually exists, what evidence do I possess? I sigh, because in truth I can offer you no proof, but I know that love exists in the way you smile, the way your eyes just beam, in your breath every time you say my name, for that is where I always find true love.
I never meant to end up being what I was. I would wake up each morning with the best of intentions, recite positive affirmations, and set off in the world determined to leave society better than I found it. But somewhere along the way, something or someone always fell onto my path and upset the apple cart.
My life became an obstacle course of misfortune, a series of choosing the lesser of two evils as I made split second pivots which strayed me farther and farther off track, until I could no longer see the way back to road of righteousness. Eventually, the accounts for all those lesser evils came due and I paid with the only currency I owned.
And as I lay in the gutter with my life slowly ebbing, I saw the beautiful face of a woman who could only be described as my one true love. It was little more than a flash of pale skin and raven hair that appeared in front of my dying eyes before vanishing, and I knew it was a brainsick reverie disguising Death, but I longed to allow myself to fall into her loving final embrace.
Yes, she could have died, given up her ghost, her human soul, to the universe, because death was easy. Life itself, the act of living, was the tricky bit, the thing that was always practiced but never mastered.
But there, balanced on the fulcrum of existence, Bernice was in the rare position of having an option, and as she had never been a quitter, she chose to take one last roll of the dice. She opted to live simply, love generously and speak truthfully yet not insensitively.
Fingers crossed that on this occasion, the second time’s the charm.
“She’s a straight up, dyed in the wool, city witch.”
“Oh, come on. You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then how do you reckon she’s a witch?”
“Are you blind? She routinely walks a mutated hellhound after midnight, Ubers dragons to get her witchy ass around town, that penthouse suite of hers is made entirely of gingerbread, and all the children in her apartment complex have mysteriously gone missing since she moved in.”
“Sounds more like wild speculation and coincidence than actual proof. You wouldn’t happen to be jealous, would you?”
“Jealous of what? Her unhealthy appetite for our future generation?”
“That perhaps people find her a little more interesting than you?”
“Just because she bathes in the blood of innocents and bakes her bread with human bones, does not make her more interesting than me! Wait, please tell me you’re not thinking about hooking up with her.”
“Would it really be all that bad?”
“Um, did you miss the bit about the missing kids?”
“Well, were they good kids, or, you know…like…the other kind?”
“That shouldn’t matter! Children are sacrosanct!”
“More like sacrificed, if your suspicions are correct.”
“I give up. Do what you want. On your head be it.”
It had been a long and uneventful life, and when the daily drudgery of existence reached a level that threatened to drown her, Amber spent all the bitcoin she had amassed to book a ticket well in advance in order to give her family, friends, and employer ample notice of her departure.
Impatiently, she waited at a forest rail station, which was hidden from all transit maps and only locatable via the dark web, for the train that traveled the timeless roads from the birth of imagination to the apex of dreams.
She knew in her heart of hearts that she would not ever return to this reality in her lifetime.
I watched him discreetly to see how he adjusted and was surprised at just how easily he accepted change. Don’t get me wrong, things were awkward at first.
Normally a surefooted man, he began stumbling into things and tripping constantly. Somehow, the growth of the additional eye must have thrown off his depth perception. This only lasted a few days, though. In no time at all, he returned to his usual graceful self, more so in fact. In recent times, I couldn’t recall him having a single episode of clumsiness.
His innate ability to adapt was a huge advantage and the more comfortable he became with his condition, perhaps the more likely he would finally feel comfortable to confide in me. I knew this wouldn’t happen any time soon because he was preoccupied with the advantages and shortcomings of his newly altered state.
Besides the obviously improved eyesight, his reading skill and speed increased one hundredfold. Magazines that he initially glanced through, the ones instantly bundled for the recycled trash day, he started tearing through, reading them cover to cover no matter what they were–Omni, Scientific American, Good Housekeeping, Cosmopolitan.
Once he conquered magazines, he moved on to books. At first, my little trashy paperbacks and dime novels, but then he moved onto more serious fiction. One time he even polished off Moby Dick and War and Peace in the same night. Many was the night that I tossed and turned to the sound of him in the den flipping through the pages of some book or other at a breakneck pace.
As fate would have it, just when I was beginning to adjust to his third eye, I discovered that his nose had changed. Nothing drastic, just a slight flaring of the nostrils. With this minute alteration came a sensitive sense of smell. Now I thought he’d have no choice but to talk with me about it, but he didn’t, he just became reclusive. It was obvious to me that this was just the beginning—of what? I had no idea. Concerned at this point, I began dropping hints. Asking how he was feeling. If he had an allergy or a head cold. When was the last time he had his eyes checked, surely reading for long periods under that dim reading lamp couldn’t be easy on the eyes.
He began to become irritated with my prying, so I stopped, convincing myself if he could live with the changes then so could I and maybe that would have been true if it stopped at his nose.
His ears were next. First the right and then a week later, the left. Sprouting upward to a point. The result was enhanced hearing. Accompanied by migraine headaches from sounds that even our dog couldn’t pick up.
Then his mouth. Bleeding gums that resulted from a second row of teeth that pushed their way to the surface over his original set. Tongue followed a short time later. Elongating. Forking.
After that, I couldn’t tell you what was next. I never saw him again. Not that he moved or I left him. He just kept himself forever on the other side of a locked door. Part of me was thankful. I was spared the sight of the monster he was becoming. And he was spared the look of revulsion that I could no longer hide. That didn’t curb my curiosity, however. I still peeked through keyholes and drilled tiny holes in the wall. Why? He was changing into a wholly new person and I had to see what the end result was. After all, he was the man I married.
On the few occasions when he caught me spying, he flew into a rage, demanding to know what my problem was. My problem? Like I was the one who looked like an inhabitant from the Island of Dr. Moreau.
And that’s all I know. Whatever loyalty I felt towards him, whatever love I had for him, was gone. Gone the moment I got a clear look at what he’d become and witnessed his potential for violence. I was probably an idiot for remaining as long as I did, but then, love blinds sometimes. All that was gone now. The very next morning I packed a change of clothes in a rucksack, emptied the bank account, gassed up the car and left. Without a backward glance.
And I avoided mirrors, afraid that I had contracted whatever disease afflicted my husband, for it was a known fact that the thing that affected a loved one, affected everyone surrounding it, and I was terrified of looking into the face of my very own transformation.
MADD FICTIONAL 