Stories

by Sharmila, Grade 11

I love stories. 

The dragons. The magic. The princesses in ball gowns. The white knights on horses. The simple, Oreo-like division between good and evil. 

For all the time I spend in these storylands, I haven’t been able to bring any part of them over to my significantly less interesting world. I can’t sing. Birds don’t braid my hair every morning. I don’t look like a doll; no fragile small mouth, pale skin tone, slim nose, and doe-like eyes. I seem to be the dictionary antonym of perfection. 

I’m just a regular junior in high school, trying to do the best I can while navigating the tangled web of yarn that appears to be my thoughts, my world.  

I suppose I’m somewhat smart, certainly smart enough not to accept and eat poisoned apples from strangers, prick my finger on deadly spindles or sell my voice to a sea witch in exchange for legs. 

I don’t need a prince to show up on a horse and slay the dragon. I will kill, or, even better, befriend the dragon and save myself. I’ll drive myself off into the sunset. 

Sigh.

It’s easy to think that, though. To confide that absurd dream to nothing but my innermost thoughts. 

I’m scared. I’m scared of the world and everything that makes it so. This fuels a soul-deep fear and fury that I’ll limit my dreams but never live them. 

I don’t want a happily ever after. I want so much more than that.