A Pocket Archive (25)

I stuck my tongue out and tilted my head towards the sky as I made my way past my old apartment building near the library. I'd missed wet spring snows like this almost as much as I missed being a student. My angel's hands clasped tightly around my neck, cutting off my airflow slightly whenever her her weight shifted and she giggled, imitating my behavior. I held on tightly to her calves so she wouldn't tumble onto the cement. Her snowboots were pink with fluffy sherpa lining, but her grandmother had also stiched little orange and yellow sequins onto them for her, which I prayed they wouldn't snag or come loose in my fingers as I held her ankles in what I hoped was a gentle vice grip as she wiggled. Even with 20lbs on my shoulders, I'd never felt lighter.

She had gotten so much bigger since I'd last seen her and it made my heart sing, but also ache in a way that is difficult to describe. The closest thing I can compare it to was the feeling I had in my chest when I saw my homeland growing smaller and smaller out the airplane window when I left the states- there was a flutter of nervous excitement knowing I was finally achieving a dream I'd chased since I was a teenager, but also the gut wrenching pain of saying goodbye to those I loved most mixed with a fear that everything would be different when I got came home. Since then, I've come to appreciate that not all change is bad, but it's hard to process things that happen quickly.

A lot had clearly changed here, too, evident by all the new structures and the absence of others. I wondered how much it cost to leave one's car in a bougie parking garage or if most students were like me and parked on the street, barely moving their vehicles once they found a good spot. At least the trees were more or less the same. There was an odd solace in that familiarity. I've always thought that they take on a strange, fairyland-like like quality in the snow, especially when it starts getting darker out. I decided we should make our way back to the car. This place wasn't the safest, and one does not stay in the enchanted forest after nightfall, especially when there's Irish nachos waiting.

Folklore and fairytales are one of my niche interests, and I think about them often, especially when it comes to plot structure. I also enjoy thinking about fables in contrast to modern societal norms and paradigms, and wonder if some of them need some a modern retelling with a fresh perspective. I had one in mind already.

Maybe it was just seeing the contrast of her copper hair against the enormous dog's dark, shaggy fur that brought Red Ridinghood to mind, but I wonder if putting a spin of "the bear or the man" question on the classic fairytale would also be beneficial. Most of us agree that we'd rather our daughters be left alone with a wild animal than a strange man, so perhaps their needs to be a re-write that's a little truer to real life, where the scariest monsters don't have fangs or fur, but rather hide under flesh and bones, blending in with the rest of us. Maybe the huntsman wasn't a hero, but secretly a predator hiding in the woods, peeping at the little girl from behind the trees, breathing heavily as he clutched a blood-stained axe to his chest, thinking far more carnal things than any wolf ever would, and it would be her canine friend who came to her rescue. Not every fairytale has happy endings, but the ones I write would, and every little girl deserves a dog. Even though I'm more of a cat person, I miss mine terribly.

I buckled the carseat and kissed the nose of the changling, who was starting to get fussy, then found a playlist of David Arkenstone for her on my phone. I watched the trees slip past in my peripheral vison, all gold and shadows in the lamplight as we pulled away from the cemetery. I sighed.

Perhaps it was time to start writing again.