Today, a short story:
Would I have chosen to be a sorceress?
That’s a losing question. Choice is an illusion anyway, especially for women. Would I have chosen to be a sorceress over being a goddamned servant to whatever husband my parents might have drudged up for me?
Well, yes. Obviously.
My apprenticeship with the fairies began almost as soon as I could walk. It had to; upon my birth (or so I’m told) the sorceress Maleficent, sensing my natural power, cursed me to die from a prick of a spinning wheel at the age of 17.
It makes me wonder what my parents did to her to make her so mad.
Was it a real curse? I mean…who knows. But my parents decided it was safer to err on the side of “yes it absofuckinglutely was,” and sent me away so that I could train to one day face her.
And that’s how I grew up in a cabin in the woods with the fairies Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather.
They meant very well; they taught me well. I have to give them that.
Flora gave me the dubious gift of beauty, which…what for? I’m not complaining about my looks, but it seems to me that you wouldn’t want someone who’s basically a witch to stick out, you know? The more useful skill — the one that wasn’t really advertised — was the ability to make things grow.
Y’all want pumpkins? You’re getting pumpkins. No problem.
From Fauna, the gift of, well, talking to fauna. But here’s the kicker: if I want to communicate with animals, it has to be through song, which is embarrassing. Maybe I don’t feel like having the raccoons look at me dumbfounded as I pass a message along to them to the tune of Auld Lang Syne.
Still, it’s nice to be able to know what’s going on with the forest gossip. Animals make the perfect spies: as far as humans are concerned, they might as well be tree stumps. People speak (and undress) freely in front of them.
That brings us to my last gift. Merryweather, whose gift was interrupted by Maleficent, thought fast and changed it at the last minute to convert my certain death to, instead, a nice little nap.
What would wake me up? “True love’s kiss.”
Oh, brother.
But I didn’t have to worry about that for a while. I spent my days happily growing blackberries whenever I wanted and gossiping with the squirrels. My three fairy godmothers were good about guiding my hand while also giving me space.
As my 17th birthday approached, though, they kept trying to corner me for “the talk.” Yikes.
“But what if I don’t even like this guy?”
“Oh, but you will!” said Merryweather.
“How can you be sure?”
As it turned out, I was not able to avoid pricking my finger on the spinning wheel or the long sleep after. Honestly, it was a nice nap. I needed the rest.
I woke from the kiss of a fairly handsome man a few years later. Did this mean he owned me now? Oh no.
But PR is one thing, and reality is another. Turns out, the prince was gay and in love with his fencing teacher. (Seriously — if the prince is “really into shoes,” that’s just people willfully ignoring what’s right in front of them.)
“How did the spell work if you weren’t in love with me?” I asked.
“How could anyone be in love with someone they hadn’t met? The fairies told me what was required to wake you, so it was simple; I just imagined you were George.”
Now, the prince and I live happily ever after: him his life, and I mine, and marriage of, at first, convenience, and later, true partnership. We come and go as we please, and truly have developed a deep friendship. It’s the ideal setup.
And guess what? We’ve invited Maleficent, who’s been curiously quiet since I woke up, over for dinner next week. We’ve just got to know what set her off in the first place. And if she turns out to be just plain evil sans explanation, well, we’ve got a backup plan: some “special” apple tart for dessert.
The End.