Take my situation — you could apply it all around.
Listen. We’re all trying to escape archetypes. I’m trying to be me, not just a girl who grew up with a mouthful of ashes. I don’t want to be someone that everyone thinks they already understand. Someone everyone wants a piece of.
Bet you’re trying to escape, too. Trying to be more than just mother, wife, daddy’s little girl, big sister, little sister, baby sis, granny, daft old biddy, crone, trophy wife, castrating bitch, conniving cunt, skank, vixen, hoebag, virgin, Madonna, sweetiepie. Trying to navigate the hairpin turns between bangled bikinis, apple–pie aprons, and power–bitch pantsuits.
I bet you manage it, too. Bet you’re an ice queen exec who bakes cookies on the weekends, or a demure little preacher’s daughter who takes it up the ass, or the marathon runner who’s going to smoke the world record that dudes think belong to them by right of chromosome Y.
Feel free to fill in the blanks with whatever it is you actually are.
But all that aside, at the end of the day, where do we stand? The archetypal feminine, the ur woman with a capital W, she’s this fire we can’t run from. She’s burning constantly, devouring bits of us, turning them into herself.
Here and there, we don’t burn up completely. But even our ashes are her creations.
We always exist in relation to her, no matter what we do.
So anyway, Bethesda and I head home.
We pass the dude trading new shoes for old, and I shout at him that his products are crappy. Bethesda makes faces in the magic mirror until it begs her to go away. We break off pieces of peppermint windowsill to eat for breakfast, and when the witch shouts at us, we flip her the bird and grab extra fistfuls of pop rocks from the driveway.
Last night’s bartender is still in the back alley, smoking a clove. In a flash of remorse for stealing his tips, I toss him the go–go full of change.
Outside a salon, we run into she–bear with ringlet–girl in tow. She–bear’s smirking. Blondie’s definitely too zonked out to choose her own haircut. Wonder if she’s due for a knee–length weave or a pixie cut.
At the coffee shop next door, the sheath–dressed women and men in ponchos are lined up for lattes. His Royal Foot Fetishist stands outside the door, licking the blue slingbacks.
“What the —” Bethesda begins.
“Don’t ask,” I say, guiding her quickly past.
Couple blocks later, we see a couple on the other side of the street, gropeslurp groping. Sure enough, they change angle, and there’s Griselda. This time, she’s making out with a drag queen in six–inch stilettos, a sequined slink of a dress, and epaulettes made from the shards of disco balls. Least she knows this one’s fake.
We tiptoe on past so we won’t disturb them.
Not too long later we reach home. Bethesda grabs her key out of her bra.
She toasts. “To home sweet home.”
“Cheers,” I agree. “Let’s rob a bitch.”
And we slap each other high five.
And some of you are saying, oh look, I know what this means, it ends with female–on–female violence which pigeonholes women as jealous backstabbers, and what the hell is with the unquestioning perpetuation of the evil stepmother stereotype
And some of you are saying, oh look, I know what this means, it’s a tale of female friendship because Cinderella and her sister are forging a bond through petty theft and how often do you see stories focusing on positive female–female relationships
And some of you are saying, oh look, a wimpy ending that refuses to say anything decisive, I could tell from the beginning this was going to be pretentious bullshit.
And some of you are wondering whether there was any point to the bear scene or whether the author just thinks bears drinking tea are funny.
And look, whatever, okay? You just go ahead and take whatever you’re thinking and go think about it on your own time. Because Bethesda’s searching the house, and I’m the lookout, and I really don’t need your noisy–ass ruminations waking up my stepmother before we’re finished.
OK, fine, I’ll tell you this one thing for sure. Right now, a thousand Cinderellas are going to steal back our childhood dignity in the form of an old lady’s life savings. And then we’re going to spend it on booze and clubbing and high–priced high heels.
And when we pass out drunk, we’re going to keep on dreaming of becoming that black hole that will swallow the universe.
“All That Fairy Tale Crap” originally appeared in Glitter & Mayhem, edited by John Klima, Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damian Thomas (Apex Publications, 2013).
Abomination Rises on Filthy Wings
My cock is throbbing so I pull it out.
My wife lolls in front of the TV, spread out on the sofa, eyes glazed and mouth open, illuminated by flickering light. Her empty–eyed stare is so vacuous that it looks like she could have died there, stuffing her brain with the shopping channel.
That’s the thought that draws my fist down the shaft of my cock. I squeeze its flaring head. I push my pelvis toward my fist as though I’m fucking her, fucking her corpse.
From the TV, some bimbo’s voice drones about semi–precious gemstones at $39.99. I’m so hard that I can barely wrap my fist around my cock. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck her.
I rinse off in the bathroom, tuck in, and go to work.
When I get home, the TV’s still on but she’s not in front of it. Her bathrobe lies deflated. I imagine that she’s disintegrated like a staked vampire, but there she is in the kitchen, rattling cupboards.
She’s taken a shower and so her hair falls lank and wet to her shoulders, split ends already dry. She’s slapped makeup on her black–eyed horse face. Her eyes are flat and muddy; there’s no difference between iris and pupil. Her eyes don’t shine like other people’s eyes. They don’t go red in pictures. They’re blank, dead swamps.
The door gets knocked on. My wife shoves the cupboards closed and grabs her purse. Creaking hinges swing open. Her two friends hunch outside, as blank–eyed as she is, their teeth yellow and sinister as they flash grins that don’t reach their eyes. Though they’re greeting her, their stares hunt me down.
All three wear mismatched clothing, loose and odd–fitting. Cracked, filthy nails extend from their fingers. Their hands twist like claws into predatory poses.
My wife joins them on the front step. I can’t identify one from the next. They’re one disgusting flock. The door slams behind them.
My wife’s bathrobe still lies discarded on the couch. It used to be pink but it’s whitened with time and bleach. Chocolate, grease, and menstrual stains track the cloth.
I masturbate on it. She and her friends dying in a car crash. Metal slamming through their heads. Windshield fragments slicing through their necks. Their thighs spurting arterial blood. There’d be no change in their lightless eyes. Just alive. Then dead.
Fuck.
I leave another stain.
A note from the author:
There’s truth in all fiction. Writers are never separate from what they write. Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.
I’m not going to kill my ex, but I probably should have.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.