Tag: fiction

Every time Minette saw the dress, it gained form. It was simple, but it was royal and delicate, and it punched the breath out of Minette with each new dainty detail.

It was gorgeous, fit for one of Sir Edric’s many rescued princesses.

“Mort! Get your clouds out of your head!” Maw squawked, sending Minette careening out of her fantastical distant valleys and back into their cramped little kitchen.

“Yes, Maw,” Minette said, slipping past her mother. Maw was by the sink, scrubbing at some dirty dishes with a vigor that felt somehow murderous, like the dishes had wronged her.

Maw’s behind was large enough that Minette bumped into it as she wormed past, scooting her way over to the kitchen table on the other side of the room. The bread and butter was already set out for her, and a tasty-looking apple.

Minette collected her food, munching and crunching on the tart apple. Maw always had something out for the family to eat, and the kitchen was a natural congregation space where most of Minette’s fondest memories took place.

Speaking of. “Where’s Rhys and Irma?” Minette asked past a mouthful of fruit.

Maw dropped her brush in the sudsy sink slush and turned to face Minette, propping her broad hip against the counter. “Off in town, most like,” she said. “Paw sent them out on errands.”

“Irma too?” Paw was usually so careful with Irma, a fact Minette knew drove Irma absolutely bonkers. Sending her out on the town was a true test of faith for the man.

“Oh, yes,” Maw said. “She’s there to keep Rhys in shape. He’s going on about school again.

School. Rhys’s only dream, and the only thing he’d asked for for his last three birthdays.

It was also the only thing he’d never get.

Well, that, and a gilded carriage or an estate in the woods. The Coppersmiths were in no way rich or well-connected. And in Droz, there was only one school. Paw thought it a waste of a good working boy and Maw thought the few Drunes it required were too large of an expense.

Minette felt for Rhys. He was smarter than a crow. She could imagine him in some far off land, too; as a scholar or an inventor.

“That hair of yours,” Maw added, continuing from some long ramble that Minette had completely missed, “is gonna get you in some trouble with your Paw.”

“Don’t tell him,” Minette pleaded past a mouth full of apple.

“Tell him? Irma’s blind, not your father, dearie.”

When Minette had purchased the book, her father had shook his head and called it a waste and a farce. That all that fluffy nonsense would cloud her head.

Maybe he was right. The stories in the little novel did fill up her head. They set her to daydreaming, sighing as rainbow-colored visions filled her head. She could see Edric on his tall horse, galloping into the countryside without a care in the world, his only obligation serving his people.

“For justice!” he would scream, brandishing a shimmering sword given to him by a naked lady in a pond. He’d fight and swashbuckle and charm. Sir Edric had seen far-off lands, bewildering beasts, and fair maidens.

He’d been on breathtaking adventures, encountered heinous villains. He wasn’t tied down to any place or anything except helping other people. Everyone loved him, wherever he went. His valor and honor were unquestionable.

Minette could hardly imagine a life like that. All that freedom. Making decisions for yourself. Having people see you as you were. Seeing new sights every day. All Minette had ever seen was the walled-in town she lived in.

It wasn’t even that Droz-Upon-Wooton was all that bad, really–

“Mort! Morty! You’re late! Daylight’s dying, boy!”

And there was Paw, right on schedule.

Minette poked her head out the window. “Coming!” she screamed.

She got dressed, pulling on her scratchy shirt and hopping into her saggy pants. She grabbed her tool belt and saddlebag and slid down the rickety balustrade into the kitchen. She hadn’t even crossed the threshold when Maw’s voice barked at her, saying, “Oi, Mort, what I have I told you about sliding down the bannister? You’re a right sack of potatoes! If you fix it, you break it!”

“If you fix it, you break it” was one of Maw’s many backwards mantras. It was better to just nod than correct her. Minette had tried that only once. Maw was like a fat and loveable marionette, who reliably waved a spoon at you and fed you chunky soup and told the grossest stories you’d ever heard.

She was more than just a good Maw. She was a talented seamstress, though she did more as a hobby than a vocation. Right now, she was working on a dress for Irma’s tenth birthday. The tenth was a special occasion in their country of Treesia, a rare celebration with cake and candles and mirth and no talk of the plague or of taxes. And Irma was growing like a weed, blossoming into a headstrong young woman. Maw was making Irma’s birthday special in a way Minette had never experienced. 

That dress. 

That glittering, blue dress, made with a care and art that Minette thought turned Maw from a seamstress into some kind of magical fairy who’d waved her wand at a pile of fabric and turned it into a dream.

Where was the beginning? Minette couldn’t tell you. She couldn’t track down any convenient, sparky “inciting incident,” couldn’t choke up while talking about a highly specific and traumatic childhood moment.

She’d always been like this.

And she’d always felt alone.

Minette had never met anyone that remotely operated like her. She’d never seen herself in someone else’s eyes. Not even sweet Rhys. No one thought and re-thought and triple-thought normal things the way she did. No one thought their clothes were weird or the body was weird or that something should be different.

Everybody seemed so happy in their skin. So unquestioning. Everything was Right and Good and Made Sense.

Everything except Minette.

But why? Why her–more specifically, why no one else? Minette asked herself this every day. Why was Minette the only one that saw the world as a stage, and not a welcoming one? Why did she look in the mirror and look away just as quickly?

And why did no one else give a single fly’s fart?

These were the thoughts that plagued Minette every morning like clockwork.

If there was one thing she was proud of, it was her reliable schedule: wake up, suffer in silent agony, read a bit, have breakfast, go to work with Paw, have dinner, stew in bed in an existential crisis, pass out, repeat.

That was where Minette lay in this very moment, staring up at the ceiling of her little attic room as roosters shrieked outside like the little blockheads they were. The clock ticking on her nightstand told her she only had about four and a half minutes before Paw would start shouting outside her window for her to come down and move her ass.

She sat up, her hair falling in front of her face. It was ratty and dull but it was long. So blessedly long. She carded her fingers through it, knowing soon Paw would take a knife to it and hack it all off. Then she’d be left with a nightmarish haircut that looked like a butchered coconut. She’d be indistinguishable from all the empty-headed squire boys and chest-puffing apprentices running around town with their muddy boots and loose-fitting tunics. It was her nightmare.

She shook her head, casting out all the annoying, flea-like thoughts. Minette didn’t want to be bitter or sad or grow into some gnarled, hunched curmudgeon screaming at kids in the street. But she couldn’t help the sinking spirals her brain wove her into.

She picked up the worn, doggy-eared copy of Edric’s Tale on her nightstand. She’d been reading a few pages every day to make it last. It was her thirty-seventh re-read.