The Fairies

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
in which a girl reflects on the fairies her mother used to tell her stories about.

Submitted: December 10, 2013

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Submitted: December 10, 2013



The dark sky reminds me of the stories my mother used to tell me. I lay my head back as I let the last bit of reality escape me. Another hit and I’ll be okay. Fairies dance before me like they did when I was a child. They balance on their tiptoes as they gracefully flutter across the open air. My body relaxes as the fairies turn to black, their faces worried, scared. I laugh as the distraught fairies fall to their knees and the life fades from their bodies. A sadist, they call it, when someone enjoys the pain of others. I am no sadist, the fairies are not real and neither am I. Our existence is invalid and the magic of our stories are as grey as the people who wrote them.

My mother used to tell me stories of fairies dancing in the dark. They were liars and cheaters and others hated them. My mother was a fairy once. She would dance and all the men enjoyed watching her graceful movements. She never stole or lied. The other fairies were evil. They painted their faces like ours in order to blend into the world. The fairies danced and floated around in ecstasy; the men watched and were star struck by their beauty. The fairies were so good at deceiving they couldn’t remember who they really were. The fairies still stole and lied and cheated, but they lost their grace over time. Their charms failed them and the fairies were at a loss. Their legs had broken and their toenails dug into their skin against their ballet slippers. They fell countless times again until their makeup smeared and poorly groomed hair fell out of its bun. Their lifeless bodies lay on stage as the men walked away in disgust. The fairies were never good enough, they crumbled under the disguise of another and were never seen again.

The same happened to my mother. She claimed she was not a fairy, but her deceit had blinded her. She fell to the floor harder than the fairies in her stories. She brought me down with her.

I dance gracefully, on point, neck raised high. The men watch in delight. One takes a step forward, I do not decline this invitation, for my stage is merely a pole and my tutu slips as he hands me fifty dollars. 

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