cinderellen?

Let's get one thing straight -- I absolutely abhor this Prince Charming, but now I'm stuck with him for the rest of my life.

Are you confused? Because so was I when I was dragged forcefully away from my loving foster mother.

Ella and I were born as identical twins, and when I say identical, I really mean... identical.

Well, at least physically... It also didn't help that our mother and father decided to name us Ella and Ellen. Let me tell you, we couldn't be any more different. Don't get me wrong -- we were in cahoots with each other and loved each other very much, but our personalities have major differences.

As a child, I was clumsy and lacked the elegance Ella had, while she was perfect in my parents' eyes. They loved us both, but when it came to social outings, I was to stay away from them in case I caused a major catastrophe and watch from afar as they flaunted my twin sister's talents and looks. Her dresses were always so much better than mine, but I couldn't hate her because she was just too kind. I honestly love her so much, and she loves me, too. Sometimes, she would give me some of her dresses to wear, but to be honest, I loved wearing those things called jumpsuits. In my mind, they were just as elegant as those twirling gowns, but obviously, since society simply would not accept a woman wearing any type of pants, I wasn't really allowed to wear them. 

After Mother died, Father was bereft until he finally found that monster of a stepmother. While I ran away and lived with a foster mother whom I love dearly, and I know for a fact that she loves me just as much, Ella was too obedient to follow me, so she was stuck being the underdog. Day in and day out, she sent me messages with doves, despairing, but hopeful that one day she would be able to lead a better life. I always wrote back, comforting her, reassuring her that her good deeds would one day be returned to her.

Little did I know that that would have happened, if only Prince Charming and his assistants weren't so dimwitted.

Night after night, Ella gushed on and on about the balls and the love of her life, thanking her fairy godmother and always wishing that I was there along with her. She was so enchanted by this turn of events, and I couldn't help but also experience them through her writings to me. That is, until she lost her shoe on the last night. Her tear marks blotted the ink, and little circles of wrinkles were scattered across the parchment as she lamented that would never see him again. When news arrived that dear Prince Charming was riding around the kingdom to find his mysterious love, Ella once again gushed and hoped and dreamed so much that I feared she would be lost among the stars forever. Her happiness was infectious; I fueled her excitement, sure that they would soon be reunited.

However, in one fell swoop, everything went wrong. Our house happened to be before Ella's on the Prince's route around the kingdom. My foster mother, ever my supporter, encouraged me to try it on, just for kicks. I don't know where our fairy godmother's spell went wrong, but the shoe slipped on and fit perfectly, and I instantly remembered Ella's rant about how surprisingly comfortable her crystal heels were. Before even double checking, Charming picked me up, spun me around, and kissed me hard right on the lips. Feeling disgusted and violated, I pranced away with only one shoe on, since I obviously didn't have the other. When I tried to inform him of this fact, he blew it off and kissed me passionately once again. I couldn't exactly fight him; after all, he was a prince, and I but another of his subjects, but definitely not who he thought I was. I "giggled," swiping furiously at my lips in a futile attempt to erase the memory of this violation. As we stepped out of the house, I could barely eke out a fake smile and wave to the crowd in the streets. On the ride back to his castle, I tried as hard as I could to convince him that it was my twin sister, even going so far as to make him turn back, saying that I had forgotten a precious possession of mine to show him the letters Ella had written to me. Nothing seemed to faze the love-blind fool, and I couldn't do anything except call a dove and send it to my poor sister.

Weeks went by, and families came in a constant stream, each claiming that I was not his true love, and that their daughter was in fact the one whom he was so infatuated with. Yes, even those who had tried on the shoe. Thankfully, he wasn't idiotic enough to waste time with those who didn't look like me or Ella. As a last attempt to help my sister, I sent for Ella and organized a meeting for the Prince and her, but he refused to believe that she was the one he truly loved.

The wedding passed, a terribly garish deformity in my painting of memory. Soon, I was officially the crown princess, and there was nothing I could do. As I came to know Prince Charming better, I simply hated him more. I don't know how he managed to seem intelligent during the ball, but I think that he purged his mind of all that he had learned in preparation for that fete. He had a childish innocence which some could see as charming, but I simply saw it as a fatal flaw in a to-be king. Not only that, but he obviously also rushed into making decisions and completely skipped over any details.

Now, I feel as if I am that overly exasperated mother, having to correct her child at every turn, and what makes matters worse is that I don't have a millionth of the patience that Ella has. I'm terribly sorry, Ella, wherever you may be. If only I could switch places with her without this overly protective idiot realizing... I would even work for her stepfamily if it meant escaping this moronic prince and allowing my twin the happiness she deserves.

swings

Night gently sweeps in over the longest day of the year. The silence hanging in the dry air is only occasionally broken by the waltz of swaying trees. Lamps light the lonely park, glowing a soft gold against the velvety backdrop of the starless night sky. The full moon, usually an iridescent pearl suspended in the sea of darkness, blushes a shade of soft crimson. Nearing the deserted playground, I hear a steady rhythm of creaking, squeaking, swinging chains. I find myself creeping slowly towards the source of the noise, although my conscience screams at me to keep my distance. Don't do that... you've always made fun of horror story characters because they went and investigated the noise, yet you're doing the same... I hesitate, and then, despite my brother's warnings in the distance and my mind being split in two, I shrug and advance boldly. What could be the worst outcome? An annoying new acquaintance? After all, this is real life, not a movie. As I draw near, I see the swings swaying steadily, and a girl with long, tangled hair covering her profile, humming softly, sweetly... Approaching cautiously, I sit on the swing beside hers, dangling my feet. Maybe, after sensing that I could be a potential friend, she slows down and finally stops her temporary parabolic flight. The rusty moonlight casts a shattered halo on her wild mane. Hi, she greets in a beautiful, tinkling voice. As she turns, eyes lowered and lashes brushing her cheeks, she looks up shyly.


It was only then that I saw her blank, lifeless eyes.
She tilted her head and smiled an unnaturally wide smile, more enthusiastic than I would have expected from such an expression in the windows to her soul.
Her head didn't stop tipping at that point; she twisted her neck around, owl-like, until an audible crack resounded through the deserted park, leaving her leering at me upside-down.
Dead fish-eyes suddenly flashing bright, each a sanguine orb, the chiming voice returned, joined with a Greek chorus ranging from the deepest baritone to the highest soprano, all in unsettling unison, all emanating from the one thing in front of me -- Play with us, play with her, play with us... we are having fun, we joined her, like you joined her, on the swing, now we are one, play with us...


The mantra rang in my head, drowning out my conscie-- play with me. Play with us. I joined her. Join me here. Now We Are One.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyway, yes... My brother and I did go to the park and heard the swings. We then did, in fact, go TOGETHER to play on the swings. Well, he didn't get on, crediting the fact that he was "too old," although we all know swings are for all ages, right? :) As a passionate science-lover, he pointed out to me that no matter the weight or size of the person on the swing, we all will be swinging at the same maximum height. The next time you are down, or believe that you will never be on equal footing as someone else, remember... On a swing, we are all the same. Why not extend that into our everyday lives? We, as humans, are fundamentally the same, and the world around us treats us no differently, whether we may be weighed down by worries or floating with pure joy, whether we may physically weigh more or be as light as a feather. There is nothing else stopping you from achieving your goals except you. It is up to you to put in the work to swing to the top, no matter how many times gravity pulls you down. It is up to you to put in the work to reach your goals, no matter what problems may beset you. Always remember this, and don't let anybody ever hinder your path to success.


other inspiration:

- on the night of the summer solstice of 2016, a phenomenon called the strawberry moon occurred, which means that the moon appeared slightly red.

life of a rose

You wake up and look at the table next to your bed. The pure, white rose has always been there for as long as you can remember, never wilting. Its silky petals are as fresh as ever, even though it is as old as you, and its stem is still a young, spring green. Ten years old. Throughout this short decade that you have been alive, you have never thought of anything remotely unwholesome. Any trouble that might have entangled you was all on accident, or it was excusable because of your childish innocence.

You are eighteen now. The world you live in simply will not allow any one person to be as unsullied as you were as a little boy. With all the difficulties of life hurling your way, you must sidestep them and sometimes cheat. The only aspect that remains constant is your white rose. Every night, with troubled thoughts battering your brain, you find it hard to fall asleep, so you stroke the silky smooth rose petals. Although the petals are soft, the stem, still quite fresh, is covered with thorns, and you are careful to not touch them. Inevitably, you prick your finger. A pearl of blood oozes out, but that is not what catches your attention; the stem is now black. Shocked at the transformation, you quickly return the rose to its crystal vase.

This year, you turn thirty. You have built your way up to the top through lies, cheating, and artifice. Even with your success, the guilt and fear of having your secrets divulged continues to keep you up at night. Your only comfort is the white rose. The black stem is still there, but the flower is still white, and that relieves you. You stroke it every night. Months later, you realize that black veins tarnish the white petals. However, this does not stop you from finding comfort from the rose. As you turn thirty-five, you realize that half the rose is black. This darkens your spirits, reminding you of the falsehoods you have told.

The rose is black, and you are fifty. Living in a fine mansion, you have already achieved everything that you wished for, but you don’t deserve any of it. Although the texture of the flower still provides you comfort at night as you battle with insomnia, the pitch darkness of its previously snowy petals sends chills down your back. This last bit of comfort in your life has been pushed away from you, and you decide that although the glamor is surely a plus, it is better to confess and live where you truly belong. The next day, you tell your publicity crew all that you have done.

It has been ten years since you divulged your long-held secret. You are slowly working your way back, and you live in a cozy cottage in the countryside, a welcome change from the bustling city life. You have brought your rose along with you, even during the time in which you were imprisoned. The insidious black blood in the rose is slowly seeping away and disappearing, and you are glad to see a glimpse of pure white again, bringing you back to your innocent days.

At age sixty-four, you bring your rose with you in a journey around the world to enjoy all the places you have visited but was never able to truly experience. Giving to the needy and amassing pearls of wisdom, your rose seems to shine brighter than ever in a blinding white gown with only a bit of iridescent gray shimmering near its stem. You sigh, for although this could never match the fame and power, your new life has an innocent yet profound beauty that cannot be equated by the past that taints you forever.