by Cezarija Abartis
SCHEHERAZADE TIMES THREE
THERE WAS A LULLABY in her past, but that was not the story she would tell. No mother’s story about sweet love and sleep. Her mother was a longtime ghost. She had left her a pair of lace gloves for her inheritance, and now the maiden stood before the sultan, gloves in her pocket, while he leaned against his pillows and stared through unsweet and sleepless eyes. She touched the gloves in her pocket and began, “Once upon a time.” No, that was not right. She stroked the gloves and began again. She told a story about a magic mountain and treasure behind a door, but it would not open. She began again.
What if she pulled out a knife? She didn’t have one. What if she conjured one? She could stab him with her story. She began again.
*
There was no lullaby in her past, no mother’s story because her mother had died giving birth to her. The sultan’s hall was filled with gemlike geometric designs on the walls. On one wall was depicted the story of the tragic lovers Layla and Majnun , the two meeting just before they died. The Sultan pointed at the painting. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “I loved a woman, but she was unfaithful to me.” He moved his finger along his dagger. The hilt was a jade horse, the blade inlaid with gold. “Will you lie to me?”
“No,” she lied.
*
“There was a lullaby once,” she said. She heard a dog bark outside the hall. “And a fine hound for hunting. Do not sleep now.” He put down his dagger, told her to write down the story on a paper. “I’m illiterate,” she lied. “My mother never taught me. She did sing to me, tell me stories, wove me pictures of paradise. I could tell you a story but it would make you fall asleep.”
She picked up his dagger and placed it on the tiled floor. The tiles showed triangles and squares infinitely repeating to the rectilinear sides. “I’m tired,” he said. She began again. “I will tell you truths about the loops and curves flowing to the edge of the universe. Stay awake now.”
CINDERELLA IS HUNGRY
The gown gleamed on her sooty body. She held her arms out at the shoulders so as not to soil the dress, which twirled around her ankles like a cat. Swished and purred. When she looked again, her hands were clean, as if washed in snow.
She touched the seed pearls sewn into a rose on the bodice. Her mother had said, “Cling to life, be beautiful.” What seamstress had labored beside a sputtering lamp until her fingers were bloody? Cinderella hoped the girl was fed cabbage soup and dumplings, was not slapped, did not go blind.
Cinderella dreamed of a prince, of a world of kindness and pink soap, cabbage and potatoes.
Earlier, she had retrieved a potato—only one—out of the root cellar and boiled it. It should be ready now. She forked it onto a dented tin plate and stared at it, promising not to gobble it down. She could be a fine lady. She cut it in half delicately, and in half again; she picked up one quarter with her fingers and jammed it into her mouth; she grabbed another quarter but it slipped, slid onto her gown, which became again her soot-gray smock.
Her stomach growled. She pressed her hands against her waist, left a smear of dirt. On the hill, the palace shone against the cold black sky. She had no boots. How could she get there? She would need to pass the dead fields and famished peasants. They might eat her.
Kitty came in. His bowl sat empty in the corner. “No milk, go catch mice.” One tiny mouselet scrambled to the corner. Kitty stretched his paw and played with it as it squeaked. He chomped down on its neck. He would have a small meal.
SLEEPING BEAUTY YEARNS FOR SLEEP
On one side everything is blood-red, on the other earth-black. But out of the corner of her eye, she imagines a halo blinking around her mother’s beckoning hand with its onyx ring. Rosamund knows her mother is long dead—Rosamund slept a hundred years. Delicious, dreamless sleep. When she was little, the world was golden. She shivers. She tightens the shawl around her neck. It’s too red and a gift from her mother. She lets it loosen and drop.
She brings her hand down. There it is, the smear of the flesh, exposed and seeping blood, the prick from the spindle. She blinks and it’s gone.
She smooths the white sleeves of her smock.
Waking up feels red, not peaceful. Sleep felt black, soft. She is a black pebble sinking.
She remembers the spindle and witch. “Don’t go in there,” her mother said. The topmost room has a window from which Rosamund can survey the country, what belongs to her. “Don’t be sad,” her father said. “Look at all the treasures,” the old witch said. “The dresses, rings, and necklaces that will be yours, the whole country. And here’s a spinning wheel with a basket of wool to twist into bright threads.”
At the time, Puff trotted in and meowed. A century ago, as a kitten, he chose her, and she kept him. He’s gone now.
A prince wakened her.
To what? The rings and bracelets are here but Puff is gone. Her parents too.
And now she hears rustling. Birds chirp outside. The wind shakes the undersides of leaves. A mouse runs across the floor. A fly buzzes next to her mouth. Her parents shout downstairs about losses and despair. She misses only her black cat. Everyone has awakened, but she’s sure they all wish they were asleep. The prince walks in, carrying a red water pitcher and cup. He cheerfully, proudly, expectantly extends it to her, as if he just won a race.
She feels empty and dizzy. Queasy.
She yearns for sleep. It’s warm and black. It’s silent and contains all colors.
CEZARIJA ABARTIS has published a collection, Nice Girls and Other Stories (New Rivers Press) and stories in Bennington Review, FRiGG, matchbook, and New York Tyrant, among others. Her flash, “The Writer,” was selected by Dan Chaon for Wigleaf’s Top 50 Online Fictions of 2012 and “To Kiss a Bear” was selected for Wigleaf’s Longlist 2016. She recently completed a crime novel. She teaches at St. Cloud State University.