Skip to main content

Fairy Tales Can Kiss My Ass (Jorge Arturo - New Orleans, LA)

 


 

You were so certain when you got tucked into bed every night that the fairy tale stories rocking you to sleep would be waiting around the corner; waiting to cradle you in their ancient hands and see you through to your happy ending. And it was a naïve smile that learned to settle on your lips as you watched pieces of that magical story get chiseled away, and reshaped, and often even annihilated by the road put out in front of you. So maybe the mother didn’t survive. Maybe the father was too preoccupied with his own grief to remember the teary-eyed child begging him for for safety.  Maybe you didn’t grow up beautiful. Maybe you didn’t grow up strong. Maybe when you sang songs they were out of pitch, and no forest critters came soaring to your aid.

But, if nothing else, the fairy tale promised romance, you assured yourself – a savior atop a white steed who braved through the tragedy and saw someone worth saving on the other side of it. And you were so desperate for some part of this story to be true that you served your heart up on a silver platter. Only that man was no knight or savior. He was poisoned by the tendrils of his own broken fairy tale, and the only way he knew how to fight through was to fight you. Control you. Demean you. Lock you back in the tower you’d been so desperate to be free of. You mustered what courage you had left to demand your freedom from this supposed knight, at which he brandished his weapon at you and then tossed it at your feet. You weren’t worth saving, and no one else was coming to do it.

If the fairy godmother was keeping score, that’s no parents, no freedom from the tragic backstory, no knight in shining armor, and you were back up in the tower that you were this close to escaping. And you know what? That bitch didn’t show up, either, no matter how many water features you cried over. But after nights of weeping and wondering how everything could have gone so wrong, you spotted the glint of the shoddy sword kicked aside by the door. You considered the symbolism of using anything that atrocious man owned, but decided the literary implications could wait.

You picked it up. It was heavy and unfamiliar in your hands. More than you initially thought you could bare.

But you remembered every shred of pain you ever felt, every rejection, every disappointment, and you lifted that sword high over your head, and swung. CRACK. You noticed the tears forming in your eyes. You raised it again and swung. CRACK. That imposing door you’d faced your entire life was starting to fall apart, like you had so many times. This time you raised the sword even higher. You thought of the promises those fairy tales made you, how they’d let you down and you swung. The door fell apart before you.

And while you weren’t tired, or unsteady, or unburdened, you could finally inhale the fresh air of the world around you and knew that for once, for the very first time, you were free.

You’d rescued yourself. And with the sword in hand, you gazed across the expanse of forest, out at all the tall towers peppering the distance, and you knew deep in your heart: you could help so many others. Not by rescuing them gallantly in some broken fairy tale way, but by showing them that the power of their “happily ever afters” wasn’t in loving homes, or gallant knights, or fairy godmothers. The power was in  a glimmer of fight that existed inside them all along.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ash Wednesday (Brian Falcon - New Orleans, LA)

  It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
1 comment
Read more

Louisiana Words Remembers Jorge Arturo

There’s nothing that hurts more than when we lose someone from our Louisiana Words family. But, the beauty of our writing movement is that the words of our loved ones live on with us.   On June 20th, 2023, Louisiana Words Allstar, Jorge Arturo, moved on from this world leaving our hearts broken. He was a charismatic and talented human being. Jorge resided in New Orleans, LA and had been active on Louisiana Words for over a year. To honor Jorge’s life and work, we will be sharing his writing and live performances all Summer 2023. Please help keep his spirit alive by sharing his work. We know that Jorge’s words will connect with our readers and we hope to keep his spirit alive.  Jorge’s first submission: “The Dog Show” debuted on February 6th, 2022 and is his most successful piece to date. In 2022, Jorge spent 10 weeks in the top with “The Dog Show,” “Weavers,”  “They Say Love Kills, This Time It Really Did,” and “If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport.” His la...
Post a Comment
Read more

Nobody Said There'd Be a Day Like This (Sam Ray - New Orleans, LA)

  I know how this should be:  I've seen it, you see, In soap operas, Movies. Your eyes are closed, As if in sleep. Perfect peachy skin Atop a snow white pillow  Under flawlessly matched sheets. The heart monitor, Quiet bleeps. The ventilator, A steady hiss. None of that is this. Your eyes Stuck open  Seeing without sight Yellow sclera Dumb tears streaming. Tubes, taped to your face  Delicate skin torn Where nurses Repositioned them  To feed you To heal you You never liked being told What to do. Your whole torso spasms Spastic, Every 40 seconds. A machine  Forces your lungs to act. Your hands are warm From hemodialysis  But don't respond  When we each grab one Give it a kiss. We spend the day  Brushing your hair  Telling stories  Singing  songs. Praying prayers. You're not there. Hospital staff Are more lovely  If less pretty  Than on TV. When the time comes  They gently walk us From the room Close the curtai...
Post a Comment
Read more