Author: Desiree

Spain.

The horse appeared solid, heavy. It’s legs sounding into the earth, announcing its own existence. The rider was insubstantial. All in black, night and shadow struggled to believe he was there at all. Death twinkled in the starlight on their left side. They rode hard through the night, slowing only as they began the ascent to Arabella. The rider dismounted at the sign post before the small village square. The thin shadow of a man approached the fountain at the center. Death glowed at his left hip. The eerie light cloaked the man in shadow, nearly erasing him, confirming his lack of essence. The horse wandered behind him. It did not fear death. After drinking their fill, rider and mount parted company. The horse smelled grass nearby. The rider smelled frozen earth, pine, and death. Like the horse, he followed his nose.

An introduction to Waverly’s Tale, part 3

The next part of this story is difficult to tell. It contains the strangeness that occurs when we retreat into personal cocoons and long to outgrow them. Heroines often have a space of time redacted from their history. We tend to avoid talking about how little girls become women, how common becomes uncommon. How truths become fiction. Goldman cuts this part from Buttercup’s story. He does it with the phrase, “What with one thing or another, three years passed.” Like Buttercup, we learned a lot. Though our education could be described as nothing more than intense drudgery with a side of general, Gen-x angst. We’re going to skip it.

What with one thing or another, two years passed…

An Introduction to Waverly’s Tale, continued.

A lot happens to a kid in the 2190 days between 12 and 18. The once little girls who wove a self-styled cocoon of acceptance around each other, emerged as full-fledged pre-teens. This is a dangerous and difficult time for women. We’re fragile, yet flexible, eager to find the limits of our malleability. Our bodies expand and lengthen at alarming and completely random rates. We gain knowledge with a terrible cost; life is pain. Our internal organs declare war on comfort. The first battles of womanhood rage within us. We turn on those closest to us. Especially our parents. (Sorry, parents.) They knew this would happen. Every month? FOREVER!? It was inconceivable! It remains total bullshit. (Sorry, kids.) We learn to weaponize our self doubt and throw daggers of insecurity with surprising accuracy. We toughen our own skin and fabricate our first set of emotional armor. Bonnie was challenged by cherubic curves, all at once. She spent her days in agony as her spine took its time lengthening. I was challenged by sharp edges and stagnation. I spent my days honing acerbic wit and sarcasm. At night, I remained small and in the shadows of becoming but not quite.