Stepsisters

“Anastasia? Where are you?” I heard Drizella call out to me, but I sat on the bench in our garden, hoping she wouldn’t find me. I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief and sniffed quietly so she wouldn’t hear me. The garden was winding, weaving through a path of tall fences and hedges. It was easy to get lost in the maze.

            “Anastasia? You can’t hide in here for forever, eventually you have to come inside” I remained silent. She was right, eventually I would have to go inside face my mother, face my future with her. It was a late autumn evening and all around me were dead leaves and dying bushes. The sun was setting and soon it would be almost too cold to bear, especially in the dress I was wearing.

            “Come on Anastasia, I’m not going inside alone and I’m cold” She yelled. She was getting closer to me.

            “I’d rather live out here in the cold than go talk to mother” I said. Drizella appeared beside me, also wearing a beautiful dress. She sat down on the bench.

            “You think I want to go?” she said. “She’ll probably make us practice Sing Sweet Nightingale all night, and I hate that song.”

            It was the evening after Cinderella and the prince’s wedding. Despite the fact she probably hated us, we’d been invited to the wedding and mother made us go. After it was over, I ran straight to the garden at home, and had been sitting on this bench ever since. It was a nice place to sit, surrounded almost entirely by a six foot tall fence covered in overgrown vines. Ever since we fired the gardener, the place had grown wildly and uncontrolled, but I liked it better this way. Even though it was uglier, to me it felt more welcoming.

            “She’ll be so disappointed we didn’t come home engaged.” I said.

            “Is that why you’re crying?” she asked me. I didn’t say anything again, hoping Drizella would let it go, but she didn’t. I shouldn’t have expected anything else from my overbearing sister. “No, that can’t be it. We got over disappointing mother years ago. What could it be? I’m the only friend you have and your sister, I should know this. Maybe you wish you and Cinderella were good friends so you could hang out at the castle all the time. Is that it? Are you upset we don’t get the benefits of Cinderella’s marriage because we were mean to her?”

            I blew my nose loudly into my handkerchief, hoping she would freak out and go away. She wasn’t persuaded.

            “No, that can’t be it either. We hate Cindy too much to even entertain the idea of friendship with her. Do you think their marriage will actually last? There hardly even know each other. Sure, Cindy’s pretty but I wonder if the prince knows she talks to mice. I bet in a month he’ll have her locked up for being crazy.” 

I tried to stop myself from smiling, but a little laughter escaped me. She was right; I think the years of never going out got to Cindy, but I could swear I heard the mice squeak back once or twice. I imagined the castle being overrun with different kinds of rodents, and I giggled some more.

“And now you’re laughing. Are you going to at least share the joke with me?” I told her about the image of mice running through the castle, the king chasing them around and Cinderella trying to stop him from killing them. We talked about it for so long, my sides started to hurt from laughter. It felt really good to poke fun at someone who seemed to be on the brink of a perfect life when ours were all but ruined.

“Do you think she’ll arrest us?”  I asked. It was a serious question. I wasn’t sure if it was legal or not, but I imagined Cindy could get the prince to do pretty much anything.

“Who? Cindy? For what?”

“I don’t know, being mean to her? Can a princess make arrests?”

“Probably not, and she invited us to her wedding. She’s way too nice to ever do something like arrest her family. If anything, she’ll just keep rubbing her perfect life in our noses.”

“That’s true. It would be a very diplomatic way for her to get revenge on us, while still seeming like a perfect person.”

“And anyway, she should be thanking us. If we hadn’t torn apart that first, pink and white dress she made herself, she probably would have never gotten the second one. We did her a favor.”

“Yes, I’m sure she sees it that way.”

“How do you think she did it?” I knew what she was asking, and I’d debated the question a thousand time. After we ripped apart Cindy’s first dress, she’d somehow got her hands on a one-of-kind dress and a pair of glass slippers, all before arriving only 20 minutes late to the ball. There was no humanly possible way for that to happen, so the answer was simple.

“Magic” I said. Drizella laughed at me, but I kept a straight face.

“Seriously?” she said, “I know we always were told stories about things like fairy godmothers when we were kids, but do think they actually exist?”

“They have to, otherwise there’s no explanation. Cinderella got her wish granted by her fairy godmother.”

“Whatever, we’ll go with that until Cindy reveals her secret to us.”

“Do you think she’ll ever tell us?”

“Oh, I think she’ll be telling this story forever. It’ll be her own little fairytale about how she overcame her wicked step mother and ugly stepsister, made it to the ball and married the prince. It writes itself, complete with her very own happily ever after.”

Happily ever after was a sad concept to me. The moment Cinderella’s foot slipped perfectly into that shoe, I suddenly realized she was about to get her own story book ending. A “And they lived happily ever after” scrolled across the last page of her story. But what about us? What would happen to Cinderella’s stepsisters? People already snickered behind our backs about our appearance. Even at the wedding, people would take their eyes off Cindy long enough to look over at us, nudge their companion, and share suppressed laughter. They thought we couldn’t hear or see it happing, but we are not blind. We knew everyone only saw us as Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.  It took me a while, but I realized that Cindy wasn’t the villain in my story, I was the villain in hers.

“Seriously though, why were you crying earlier?” Drizella asked again. I wanted to ignore the question, but she kept insisting.

“The day of the ball, while we were waiting to meet the prince I had this thought, this little ray of hope that he might choose me. I thought he might actually be able to look into my eyes after we bowed to each other and see past everything everyone else saw. I thought he might be the first person to not grimace and call me ugly behind my back.”

“Well that was dumb, we don’t even know the prince. He’s the prince, he gets to choose the prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, and you had to know we had no chance.

“I know, I was stupid. I built him up in my head and for some reason I thought he might be the one. I thought if he just looked into my eyes, he would fall in love with me, I would fall in love with him and I would get my own happily ever after. But after I bowed to him, I looked up into his eyes and he wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at Cinderella because she’s beautiful and I’m ugly. I thought I was in love with the prince, but I’m not. I’m in love with the idea of someone who might think I was beautiful. After seeing Cindy’s wedding and how happy she was, I just couldn’t get over the idea that I’ll never have that. I’ll never get to have my wish granted by my fairy godmother. I’ll never meet and marry a handsome prince because Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters never get their happily ever after.”

Drizella was quiet for the first time all day. I knew she had probably been having some of the same thoughts, but she was different than me. She talked and made jokes when she was upset. That’s one of the things other people didn’t like about her. She couldn’t keep her mouth shut during a serious moment, but she never had anything useful to say. She was inappropriate and loud, but I loved her for it. It took me many years of crying at her badly timed jokes to realize she was actually trying to help.

I, on the other hand couldn’t keep the tears from flowing when something bad happened. People compared me to a child I cried so much. Some pair my sister I made at funerals. Her, cracking jokes at every possible opportunity and me, stealing other people’s handkerchiefs because mine was already soaking.

It was no mystery why people didn’t like us, but we’d been this way our whole lives. Whenever Cindy’s father was still alive, he would take us all into town occasionally to look around at the market. People would see Cinderella first, and congratulate her father on a beautiful daughter. Then they would see me and Drizella, and I could see them try to connect us, wondering what went wrong. Other kids constantly ignored me to talk to Cindy, and before we all learned what manners were, sometimes the kids would tell me to go away because I was gross.  

After the death of Cindy’s father, my mother tried to continue the tradition of taking us to the market. The first and only time she took all of us, she watched people grimace behind our backs and whisper to each other that the one was destined for happiness, and the other two would probably never marry. Mother knew they were right, but she wanted to change our fate. She tried to make us into elegant ladies with persistent music, manors, and etiquette lessons, but they didn’t help. Drizella still always said the wrong thing, and I still always tripped over my own, oversized feet.

Our misfortune was the reason we hated Cinderella so much. She was so effortlessly perfect, so we did everything we could to ruin her. We made her work for us, we ripped apart her clothes, and we locked her in tower so she wouldn’t be able to try on the glass slipper. Despite our efforts, in the end we still wound up alone and Cinderella got her happily ever after. It felt like the world was working against us, like some force kept beautiful people succeeding and ugly people from living happily ever after. It started when we realized we would always be ugly and awkward, and we blamed anyone we could think of. It wasn’t fair, and both of us knew it. Both of us knew that all we were destined for was a lonely life at home with our demanding and impatient mother.

Maybe if mother hadn’t continued with the lesson and let us just grow up, we would have been fine. If we weren’t taught to live in a selfish way. If she hadn’t encouraged our anger against Cindy. If she’d taught us to have Cindy’s kind of spirit, we would be different and happier. Instead, I know how to tie a perfect bow, play the flute out of rhythm, and complain.

            In silence, Drizella and I pondered our doom and wondered what we could have done, or what we could do to change it. Separately we came to the same conclusion: there was nothing to be done. So instead, Drizella cracked another joke and I shed some more tears.

            “What if the prince is crazy too? That’s the only explanation if they stay married. Maybe the whole royal family is crazy. That’s why he ran around making every girl try on a shoe to try and find his princess. He couldn’t even remember what she looked like. I think that’s it. Everyone is insane, Anastasia. Everyone, except for us, has completely lost their minds. I think we actually narrowly missed a tragic life. Can you imagine being surrounded by people who think it’s okay to marry someone you just met and couldn’t even remember? Crazy, all of them.” Drizella said, turning her pointer finger around in circles by her ear to indicate insanity.

            “You’re right Drizella, we’re the only sane people left in this entire kingdom.”

            We were silent for a while, letting the cold wind chill our bones and make us shiver. A moment later, a shrill voice broke the silence. “Drizella? Anastasia? It’s time for your music lesson!” It was our mother, calling out from the house. I winced, but Drizella grabbed my hand and made me stand up.

            “Come on Anastasia, if we don’t practice our music again, we, Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, will never have our happily ever after.” She looped her arm through mine and we walked back through the garden, our voice ringing out loudly and off key as we sang Sing Sweet Nightingale all the way home.

The Red Umbrella

          It was late in the afternoon in Central Park and the rain bounced off the concrete, with a song of dull thuds and light metal pings. The rain had come unexpectedly that morning and people had scrambled for shelter under canopies and inside taxis as the rain began to fall. The dark clouds hung around for nearly the entire day, drenching the unprepared. In the park, on each side of a wet sidewalk trees stretched over and made a canopy of leaves. Drops trickled through the leaves and fell to the ground. Some of the drops landed on the sidewalk, some of them landed on the metal benches lining the walk way, and some of them landed on the top of bright red umbrella.

The umbrella was held in the cold grasp of a young women, who walked with slow unsure steps. She was wrapped in soaked-through black cloth jacket, and her light brown hair clung to the side of her face and neck, heavy with rain. A business man with a newspaper covering his head ran around her to the end of the side walk and jumped in a dull yellow taxi. A women in heels, walking quickly, kept her head down and under the black umbrella she held.

The young women with the red umbrella’s name was Marcy, and as she shuffled along in the rain, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She stopped to see who was calling: Bill. Marcy tightened her grip on the phone for a brief second as a wave of panic ran through her veins. She stuck the phone back in her pocket, letting it go to voice mail.   

As she walked, Marcy watched the rain fall and she kicked at puddles, sending drops of water over the concrete. Her shoes were soaked through and her feet were freezing, but Marcy kept walking. She walked for an eternity, and she let her thoughts run wild. How was she going to pay for food? How was she going to pay Bill? What was she supposed to do now? Each new raindrop that hit the umbrella started to feel like a new problem, a new responsibility, a new weight and a new bill. The rain got heavier and heavier until she couldn't hold it all anymore.  

She walked over to one of the metal benches and sat down. She dropped the umbrella and let the rain hit the top of her head unimpaired. A few minutes ago, Marcy had found the red umbrella abandoned on the subway. She had thought about leaving it since she was already soaked from walk to the station, but as she stood to get off at an unexpected stop, she grabbed the umbrella and took it with her. She was supposed to be on her way home, but she decided she no longer wanted to go there. Instead, she got off at Central Park and went for a walk in the rain. She sat on the bench and let the bright umbrella fall to the ground, opened, upside down and gathering rain water. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. A shudder rain down her spine, and muscles clenched. She took a deep breath and rubbed the corners of her eyes to dry them.

“Think of anything else, anything,” she pleaded with herself, but she couldn't. She wiped her running nose with her sleeve and looked down at the dull concrete. A few tears slid down the side of her nose, but she quickly stopped them with the back of her hands.

Marcy didn’t see him, but on the bench next to her, a little boy sat, crying softly. He looked around and cried for his mom, but his voice was drowned out by the storm. He saw Marcy sitting there and got out of his seat to walk over to her. He asked her a question in a garbled voice, deep breaths between every word.

“Are you lost too?” he asked, tapping Marcy on the shoulder. Marcy looked up, confused to see the little boy standing there. He was soaking wet, and his nose was running. He was probably five or six years old, and he clutched tightly to a stuffed blue bear.

“No, I’m not” she said, wiping her face. What was happening?

“I’m lost,” he said, wiping his nose with his wet sleeve. “That’s why I’m sad. Why are you sad?”

“Oh,” she said, understanding the situation. “Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to be sad. Your mom will find you.”

“My mommy says if I get lost, I’m need to stay right where I am until she finds me. Can I wait with you?” Without waiting for a response, he climbed onto the bench and sat down next to Marcy. He hugged his bear and looked at her. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but you looked sad so I don’t think you’re a bad person.” Smiling to herself, Marcy picked up the red umbrella, shook out the rain water in it, and held it over the two of them.

“My name is Marcy, What’s your name?”

“Max. I like your name, it’s pretty.”

 “Thank you, I like your name too. What’s your bear’s name?”

“His name’s Blue, like his fur.”

“That’s a good name.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Max began to chant a string of other names he had thought about naming the bear before he settled on Blue. Marcy already liked this kid, but she had no idea what she was supposed to do in this situation. Call 911? Find a police officer? She knew there was a mother somewhere out there, freaking out and looking for her child. Max was right, they should stay here. But surely there was something else she could do.

“Hey Max, what’s your mommy’s name?”

“I call her Mommy, but everyone else calls her Stacy.”

“Does your mommy have a phone?”

“Yeah! I play games on it all time.”

“Do you know her number?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, how about you enter it into my phone and I’ll try calling her.” Marcy handed Max her phone and he slowly typed in a number Marcy prayed was actually his mother’s. She pressed call and after one ring, the call was answered.

“Hello?” she sounded frantic, almost out of breath.

“Hi, is this Stacy?”

“Yes.”

“I think I may have found your son.”

Marcy went on to explain how she had found Max and told the panicked mother their location. Max took the phone and talked to his mom about his new friend, and how she was lost too. Much to Marcy’s embarrassment, Max asked if they could help Marcy find her mommy so she wouldn’t be lost anymore. There was laughter from the other end and a promise to be there soon, then she hung up. Stacy was not too far away, and she would be there in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, Marcy and Max sat on the bench, huddled under the red umbrella. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Max?” asked Marcy.

“An astronaut” he said. “It’s the best job you can have because you get to ride in a rocket ship. That or a baseball player. I like baseball. My mommy takes me to games sometimes. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Marcy smiled at Max, about to say she was already grown up and had a job. But she stopped herself. Almost two months ago, Marcy had lost her job. It was nothing but a dull, office job but it paid the rent. She had been on her way home from a terrible interview she knew she’d blown when she’d abandoned her trip home to take a walk in the park.  Marcy thought she was already grown up, but Max’s question unexpectedly confused her and she had no idea how to answer him.   

“I don’t know Max, I’m still deciding.”

“You better figure it out, you’re almost grown now.”

Marcy didn't say anything, but she felt the familiar rumbling of her phone in her pocket and knew it was Bill again. She was supposed to meet Bill, her landlord, today to talk about the payment she missed last month. He was part of the reason she wasn't going home. She ignored his call again. 

Max was right, she needed to get her life figured out. He had been right when he first saw her too. She was lost. No job, and soon to be homeless, Marcy was more lost that Max was. She’d moved to New York right after college, determined to live out her dream. She had majored in Journalism, and had plans of becoming a writer for one of the many newspapers or magazines based in New York, but she’d only been able to find work as a nine to five receptionist for a real estate company. The company downsized, and she was one of the first employees to go.  She’d used up any money she saved just trying to survive and now she couldn't afford her apartment.

Down the sidewalk, through the rain, a women came running. She ignored the pelting drops of water and pushed through the storm. She yelled “Max!” and Max jumped up and ran to her. They hugged and Marcy smiled at them from the bench.

Coming over to Marcy, Stacy held Max’s hand and thanked Marcy repeatedly.

“It’s no problem, really, I’m just glad I could help.” Marcy said.

“We have to help Marcy find her mommy now.” Max said. Stacy giggled a little and gave Marcy a confused look.

“I told him I was lost too, that why he keeps saying that. I was trying to make him feel better and not so alone.”

“Oh, okay, well thank you again.” Stacy said, and she and Max walked away down the street, hand in hand.

It was still raining and there seemed to be no end in sight. Marcy peaked out from beneath her umbrella and watched the rain fall from the sky. The gray clouds seemed endless. Marcy knew it was probably the smarter and more mature decision to head home rather than to stay out there in the rain, but she couldn't make herself get off the bench. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and it was Bill. She ignored him again. She wasn't sure how long she could avoid her problems, but that’s what she had come to this park to do in the first place.

 She wanted her mom to come running down the sidewalk to solve all her problems and then hold her hand as they walked to a warm home. Getting up from the bench on her own would mean going back to a nearly empty apartment, an angry Bill waiting outside her door. It meant countless pointless interviews for jobs that had fifty other contenders who were way more qualified than her. It meant probably taking a job selling tickets for the subway or cleaning bird poop off the benches. It meant possibly moving away to start over. All of these things were responsibilities Marcy no longer wanted to shoulder. So she sat under her red umbrella, waiting in the rain for her problems to be solved. The rain continued, the day moved on, and Marcy waited.  The sounds of the storm only drowned out Marcy’s cry for help and no one came to her rescue. She was lost, but being found wasn't as simple as finding an adult.                                                                

Marcy sat on the bench for hours. As the sun started to set, the rain finally let up. A red and pink sunset replaced the gray the sky and Marcy finally folded the umbrella. He clothes were mostly dry now, and her hair was messy but not wet. Leaving the umbrella by the bench, Marcy stood up and walked back towards the subway station. The storm had passed, and it was time to face the world again. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and finally made a call,

“Hi Bill, I know we were supposed to meet today, but there was this kid…”

            

Canvas

For some bizarre reason, I have decided to start off with a bit of poetry. Not entirely sure why, since mostly I write fiction, but I like this little blip. In this piece, you will find many structural errors.I really know so little about poetry, so maybe this doesn't even qualify as poetry, but I do like it.  I also wrote this with the intention and idea that it should be read out loud. Thanks for reading. 
*I have no idea why this is highlighted white, or if I'm the only one seeing it that way. I can't figure it out, but I'm posting none the less. 

Canvas

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has past away; behold the new has come.

2 Corinthians 5:17

From the beginning of time it entered our strife and dared us to find the way to life.

The way that would bring good things and good news without being out the sad and lonely hues

that darken our life that should be light and colorful with the paints that are right and bright.

The canvas on which we write that was given to us on the day we were born, but 

from the beginning of time we have torn and ripped to shreds without a thought.

Our one and only canvas we splashed with mud and grime, filth and slime

for we sought the things that are

entertaining but, not sustaining and hoping that we were gaining

the one thing in life that truly mattered but we looked down and on our canvas 

was an ugly splatter. For what in life truly matters? 

Is it the race to fill ourselves with all we can?

To succumb to the  pleasures our flesh demands?

In the end all that brings is nothing, yet it's a trend that we slightly mend then try again.

What is the true meaning of life? A question that has rocked our philosophers time after time.

Some people grow tired of this strenuous climb, looking to find a model to follow.

We have set those who have certain talents on a peristalsis to get an answer that is 'ethical'.

The answer may be different, it maybe noble, but it will always be immoral if you ask the world.

So where do we go? All the doors seem to close, but not

if you look at the path that shows,

a miserable fall, but a promise to top them all and down the line

through all the bad and the good, through a time of guidance then a time of silence.

There came one night, a star shown bright over a lonely and dirty barn.

Where the savior to all people was born and the angles where heard sounding the alarm,

 “This is the day when everything will change! This is the day of our new born Lord!"

But that cried died out and because he was strange and at age 33 he was hanging from a tree.

Dejected and confused his disciples sat wondering and thinking, what can we do?

But then, the angles came reviving a time lost cry that again the Savior was alive.

Nothing was the same, for God has given us the key to our chain.

He first gave us a promise and after it was done he gave us a purpose.

Along with a new canvas he gave us paint and told us to create

A life pleasing to him, not one that please our every whim.

Don’t worry about mistakes for he has an eraser and will take and make the mistake blank

Tell others you have found the answer that they seek;

a second chance to get rid of the bleak and to create something unique

The thing we've always needed was the thing we messed up completely.

He gave us new life and gave it eternally, so take it from me;

This is what we need. This is what you've been searching for.

Cast off you frozen and numb heart and open the door, for He is the Lord.

Author's Note

Dear Friends,

Like many books, we will begin with an Author's Note. A quick Google search just told me that an author's note is basically anything the author wants to note. So, with confidence in Yahoo Answers and the fact that I am correctly using an Author's Note, let's begin.

I recently became a college freshman who is majoring in Creative Writing. This perhaps totally irrational plan has lead me to a bump in my road. Considering this plan of mine, part of me is screaming internally, "Don't do this!" However, a smaller, less rational part tells me to keep going. I'd like to think this is the same voice that took me to a college far away and told me it was okay to major in my passion. This seemingly absurd plan has presented itself to me and before clearer thinking prevails, I'm going to do it.

Here is the problem, reader:

I'm terrified of you. 

I've never really let anyone read anything of mine that wasn't assigned or silly. I think the problem is that I'm terrified of becoming vulnerable. If you've ever met me in really life, you know how reclusive and quite I can tend to be. I don't believe there is anything wrong with being that way, but I do realize it presents a problem for me. A writer cannot remain reclusive and internal. Sure, in day to day life they may live this way and be perfectly fine, but not in their writing. A story cannot not be shared, cannot be loved, and cannot effect change unless a writer is willing to share it. 

With the problem well thought out, the small risk taking portion of my brain has come up with a solution. I will let my writing be read, but I will not do it anonymously. I'm going to invite everyone I know inside to share in the strange and deluded maze that might come from this blog. I invite you to read anything that may follow and help me in my quest to become comfortable in the uncomfortable world of vulnerability. 

Just a few quick things to note before we begin:

• I do realize that I make grammar and spelling mistakes a lot, but I'm working on it. It is not my intention to have y'all help me spell and grammar check my work. I do appreciate it since it is obvious that I miss my mistakes; however, I'd like the Grammar Nazi in you to lie dormant for a bit. I just want you to evaluate my work as a whole and give some comments if you feel led to do so.  
• Do not feel the need to give unnecessary or false positive comments. Really, I'd rather you say nothing if you don't have the heart to tell me my work sucked when it does. (Which will happen at least twice).
• I am a Christian and I will write about it. If you'd like to argue about whether or not God exists, I accept 5 page essays with plenty of citations. I will then carefully read your argument and respond with "I guess you'll have to accept the fact that I do not agree with you." I am not a scientist, historian, or theologian. I have however experience God in a way none of those things could explain. Nothing contained inside an internet comment or 5 page essay could make me think otherwise. 
• Thank you for taking the time to read this and continuing to read whatever comes next. I really do hope you enjoy my work.

With all of that said, welcome to the blog I'm calling "Sarah Writes". 

Until next time,

Sarah