“Hidden Connections”
Wendy Balconi
Collage
The Girl
Cake, check. Wine, check. Don’t talk to strangers, check. Don’t leave the path, check. Yes, mother. I will not, mother. I cannot even if I knew how, mother. Skirt too short, cape too long. Hood too tight. Lipstick swiped from the makeup counter. Razzle Dazzle Berry. Ultra hydrating. Luminous. The color of thorns pricking a rose. Don’t judge. You know you want to. Skipping merrily through the woods, the dark woods, oak trees and maples, their leaves a slash of red. Hopscotching over twigs. Swinging a basket of goodies. Can’t remember if she finished her math homework or where her friends are meeting up later. Dairy Queen? The mall? Phone in her pocket, blinking low battery. Heart skipping a step when she sees him leaning against a poplar. Warm, shaggy, that toothy grin. In fifty years, she will be so old that none of this will matter.
The Wolf
What you don’t know about me could fill a book. I like to play pickleball. I’m afraid of wasps. If I eat cheese, I get acid reflux. When I was younger, I dreamed of a career in musical theater. I’ve been told I have a nice growl. My paws are too hairy. What big ears I have. What big eyes. Don’t bother – I’ve heard it before. I’ve got five cubs, the youngest with dyslexia. My wife works two jobs – greeter at Walmart, adjunct at the community college. I don’t look for trouble. It finds me – the way a badger always returns to the same hole. I’m not making excuses, mind you. The day was fine, the girl wore red, it didn’t end well. I was hungry. What can I say? I have seven mouths to feed. No one else is helping us. Besides, it is my nature. You love your dogs, right? You pet them and walk them, give them treats. I’m a canine, too. Only wild. At night, in the woods, fireflies wink and I catch them with my scarlet tongue.
The Grandmother
Each day, I lie in bed each day with the covers pulled up to my chin. White nightgown. White sleeping cap. Everything white – clean but damp, faintly acidic like spoiled mushrooms. Waiting for her visit. Waiting for the end. My body hurts. The usual reasons – arthritis, bursitis, scoliosis, bones snapping, crumbling. I’m out of Xanax, the cable’s broken. I’m going deaf, need a tumbler of gin. Waiting. Hoping. I once danced with a Count in a mirrored ballroom to the music of a hundred violins, but that’s another story. Now I’m a footnote, a prop. The oldy lady with no hobbies, no friends, no proper name. On the waiting list for Assisted Living. Waiting for the seasons to change. My hands shake as I yank the covers higher. Through the window, bluebirds flirt, building a springtime nest. My face creased, fingers crooked. My breath the sound of daggers aimed at someone’s pretty head.
I’m the taller one in the chartreuse gown, the color of moldy peas. Drizella. It stands for malevolent. Also, haughty, spiteful, vain, so Mother says. What are my crimes? Snatching my only necklace off Cinderella’s throat. Demanding she press my flounces. Being unkind to one whose Beauty smooths every jagged stone. Mother cuts the bottom of my heel with the kitchen knife and a chunk of my childhood falls into the basin, bloody and useless. I bite a rag to quell the howl when my foot won’t force itself into such a tiny slipper. I’ve never been tiny. Never had two sequels, like my sister, Anastasia. Never played the flute, made friends with mice, kissed a princess. Never filled someone’s arms. Never loved a baker like my little sister did. But oh, how I loved his tarts, oozing blackberries, the jam caressing my tongue, sliding down my throat like butter. At her wedding, I grab handfuls of cake, stuff it into my gaping mouth, chocolate caught between too-sharp teeth. Mother says stop, you’re embarrassing us. The taste makes me swoon, makes me waltz across the ballroom holding myself close. Just stop. Later that day, I am cast from the palace. Ravens peck at my eyes. A punishment, Mother says, for my selfishness, which mirrors her own. I am her shadow always, a poppet, an afterthought. I cannot see the lone blackberry forgotten by the birds, though when I raise my fingers to my lips it is tart and jewel-perfect, miniscule, sensuous. It tastes like an ending.
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 100 literary journals and will appear in The Best Microfictions 2024. She’s a Pushcart, BSF, and BOTN nominee. She can be reached at @bsherm36 or bethsherman.site. She has always loved reading fairy tales and imagining worlds outside of the ones created on the illustrated page. When considering where to take these stories she always starts with the words “what if” and sees what possibilities exist. She especially loves subverting the stereotypes attached to familiar fairy tale characters.