| Written by Helen R Peterson / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Goldilocks Meets Her Bear |
Many think my size is a curse, brought on by
whatever god she who bore me may have
worshipped. Not so, if you know how to use
your height to advantage. When all they can
see of you as you slip through the crowds is a
mess of curls and pale blue knickers, they never
notice the toothless old dwarf grinning at the
side of the road, seeking the child that made off
with their pocket watch.
So too is the benefit of size, creeping into
homes left empty on market day. A window is
easy to slip through, the crack in the door
never a deterrent. Plenty of places to hide,
when you’re less than three feet high. The trick
is to keep your dress simple, never something
flashy that might catch the eye of a prompt
homeowner. Also, to steal only what is needed
that day, what won’t be missed. A bowl of
cream and a moment’s rest in a comfortable
chair will do. Greed will get you hung, no matter
your size or age.
Yes, it was an imperfect life, but I got by well.
Plenty of freedom to drift from town to town,
all pertinent needs met one way or another. My
sins were small, and I gave little thought to
repaying them. Perhaps I should have taken a
better accounting.
A long held rule among thieves is to leave the
solitary house alone, but on that day the wood
was long, and my bones were tired from
traveling through it. It is also wise to never
trust things that come in threes, but I was so hungry I never counted the bowls, so tired I barely
noticed the chairs as I pulled the cushions from them and heaped them up on the toy sized bed.
It was in such a nest the hairy man found me, his face painted in filth, grief flashing in his eye. The theft
of his wife and child by the fey folk had driven him mad, and in this madness he saw nothing but a
changeling, come to take their place. My sleep was so deep, I did not feel the chain slip around my ankle,
the notches cut in my ear, marking me a slave for life.
So here I remain, reluctant wife and daughter both, yisel to a lunatic. The burden is light and my belly is
full, but my hair grows long as I stir the porridge and stare longingly through the cottage window at the
forest path and the world to be found at its end.
I want for nothing but freedom. Even the file with which I cut through my bonds was a gift undenied. I
told the poor thing it was for my nails, and a soft memory flashed though his eyes. The long lost wife
shaping her chore worn hands just so after a long day. He found it where she had left it, in the sewing
basket under her rocking chair, and placed it reverently in my waiting palm.
The day the chain broke free, I was alone in the cottage. A winter chill raked at my feet as I ran down the
path. The woods were larger than I’d imagined, and I spent the night alone, under the spreading
branches of a young pine. My sleep was troubled, and in dreams I sought the warmth of my hairy man.
Morning brought a feast of grubs, roots clawed from the ground with my well fashioned nails. I could not
help but think of the fresh bread I had left cooling on the table, the fresh milk given by the goat who
bleated after me as I ran. But I am free, now, to once again choose where I go, how I live. A little bit of
comfort is not worth the bonds placed on me. I press onward down the path.
whatever god she who bore me may have
worshipped. Not so, if you know how to use
your height to advantage. When all they can
see of you as you slip through the crowds is a
mess of curls and pale blue knickers, they never
notice the toothless old dwarf grinning at the
side of the road, seeking the child that made off
with their pocket watch.
So too is the benefit of size, creeping into
homes left empty on market day. A window is
easy to slip through, the crack in the door
never a deterrent. Plenty of places to hide,
when you’re less than three feet high. The trick
is to keep your dress simple, never something
flashy that might catch the eye of a prompt
homeowner. Also, to steal only what is needed
that day, what won’t be missed. A bowl of
cream and a moment’s rest in a comfortable
chair will do. Greed will get you hung, no matter
your size or age.
Yes, it was an imperfect life, but I got by well.
Plenty of freedom to drift from town to town,
all pertinent needs met one way or another. My
sins were small, and I gave little thought to
repaying them. Perhaps I should have taken a
better accounting.
A long held rule among thieves is to leave the
solitary house alone, but on that day the wood
was long, and my bones were tired from
traveling through it. It is also wise to never
trust things that come in threes, but I was so hungry I never counted the bowls, so tired I barely
noticed the chairs as I pulled the cushions from them and heaped them up on the toy sized bed.
It was in such a nest the hairy man found me, his face painted in filth, grief flashing in his eye. The theft
of his wife and child by the fey folk had driven him mad, and in this madness he saw nothing but a
changeling, come to take their place. My sleep was so deep, I did not feel the chain slip around my ankle,
the notches cut in my ear, marking me a slave for life.
So here I remain, reluctant wife and daughter both, yisel to a lunatic. The burden is light and my belly is
full, but my hair grows long as I stir the porridge and stare longingly through the cottage window at the
forest path and the world to be found at its end.
I want for nothing but freedom. Even the file with which I cut through my bonds was a gift undenied. I
told the poor thing it was for my nails, and a soft memory flashed though his eyes. The long lost wife
shaping her chore worn hands just so after a long day. He found it where she had left it, in the sewing
basket under her rocking chair, and placed it reverently in my waiting palm.
The day the chain broke free, I was alone in the cottage. A winter chill raked at my feet as I ran down the
path. The woods were larger than I’d imagined, and I spent the night alone, under the spreading
branches of a young pine. My sleep was troubled, and in dreams I sought the warmth of my hairy man.
Morning brought a feast of grubs, roots clawed from the ground with my well fashioned nails. I could not
help but think of the fresh bread I had left cooling on the table, the fresh milk given by the goat who
bleated after me as I ran. But I am free, now, to once again choose where I go, how I live. A little bit of
comfort is not worth the bonds placed on me. I press onward down the path.
| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
Helen R. Peterson has been published in over 100 online and
print journals, both nationally and internationally. Most recently
she’s had work accepted at Word Riot, Juked, Existere, and
Strong Verse. She was also featured in The Lunch Break Book
published by Poet Plant Press, was the editor of the small print
journal Chopper, and read at the Bowery Poetry Club in
November.
A mother of three living in Connecticut, you can find her blog at
http://mspetersonexplains.wordpress.com/
print journals, both nationally and internationally. Most recently
she’s had work accepted at Word Riot, Juked, Existere, and
Strong Verse. She was also featured in The Lunch Break Book
published by Poet Plant Press, was the editor of the small print
journal Chopper, and read at the Bowery Poetry Club in
November.
A mother of three living in Connecticut, you can find her blog at
http://mspetersonexplains.wordpress.com/