His name was not a sound it was an idea, somewhere between orange and warmth with hints of sincerity, kindness and reliability. Until this time he had been alone but now there was another and together they slipped across the landscape, scavenging at times, at others simply rejoicing in each other’s company.
In therapy, my husband shared that he’s been having the same dream every night for a year, of a beautiful stranger who tells him she loves him, and bakes delicious cupcakes.
I met the real her at the local bakery today and we’re going away together this weekend; he’s going to be so pissed.
Again and again the King returns, the war is won, the kiss is given and the Ever After is secure. Again and again I open the cover and make them relive it.
I live my life with my head in the clouds, my soul enraptured in the dreamlike trance of my extravagant fantasies. The rest of my carcass remains trapped in this deep, dark pit where I wallow in the extravagant let-downs I myself have conceived.
After flying across space for a thousand years in suspended animation, an astronaut awoke to feel his arm being torn apart by jagged teeth. A hissing voice echoed in his head, “I can’t believe he’s not butter!”
“You and your ethics, you can’t do it,” the Joker gurgled as he dangled over the side of the building.
“Fuck ethics,” Batman finally decided, and he let go.
Once upon a time, there was a place called ever after that no one ever reached. In writing names and places, pain, joy, and distant faces, they tried in vain to show to others what their own eyes could not see.
Grandpa always claimed there was a fork at the end of the path behind his house: Candyland one way, the other a nightmarish landscape with monsters.
He could never remember which was which so we promised to go another day, but he died when I was eleven and I still haven’t picked which way to go.
I knew from the beginning I would be wed to my Lord, though I fought my father’s decision bitterly, having privately accepted my lot to rule my family’s lower household. Father longed to raise our name from ashes into greatness, however, so he offered me up to my Lord — a widowed, aging weasel, who had no heir to his name, his stature or his wealth — never guessing such dealings might breed a bitter, vindictive heart in his precious daughter.
Two things were playing on his mind. The first being that they’d misspelt his name on the wanted poster.
Do you think that years ago there was a demented nurse who swapped babies in the hospital.
Will my real family be coming to get me one day?