Wishes & Dreams

Contributor: Linda M. Crate

- -
She never loved her boyfriend. Not once. Not even for a fleeting second. She had never liked the thought of being someone’s prize. She was not interested in cooking or cleaning house or popping out fifty babies. Yet her mother seemed to think she ought to have a boyfriend. It’s how this all came about. Her mother was forever chastising her about fulfilling her role to society. Women were meant to marry men, carry their offspring, and to offer something to the world.

She had no problem with the latter one — it was the first two that she had a problem with. It wasn’t as if she had a problem with the institution of marriage, if someone wanted to marry they could, but to her it was archaic. It was being chained in an enslavement of someone else’s needs.

It may have been selfish, but she wanted to soar on her own wings without anyone weighing her down. The fae kicked out angrily at the ground.

Her mother had landed her the menial task of tedium that required painting the roses red. Said it was a better way to spend her time than stewing.

Clearly her mother had not forgiven her for the spat that had broke out between them earlier.

A quilt of white snow would be falling soon after the lilt of the last remaining autumn lilies had bent their cupped heads back for their last spell. She hoped that was soon. Winter was a season of solitude and she would wear his ivory robes proudly.

She didn’t even know if she even particularly liked the boy her mother had chosen for her.

He was handsome to be certain with his purple wings trimmed in the same silver as a crescent moon, and his silver and white webs that etched themselves upon them like a spiders. His wings were some of the loveliest in the land. Yet when he smiled his perfectly pearly teeth at her or when his amethyst eyes twinkled with love for her, she felt nothing. Not even his words or his beautiful black hair laced with purple could stir any emotion in her. She was completely numb to the entirety of his existence.

After she was done giving the flowers their beautiful crimson wings, she flew off on her own. Her blonde hair rippled behind her like the flaxen hands of grains moving in the zephyr. Her scarlet eyes were the same color as her wings which were trimmed in gold, the design she had been born with on her wings were ironically flowers.

She was the least girly person she knew.

She kept soaring through the air until she made it halfway into the wood. Sitting down with the mandrakes, she took part in their lively conversation sometimes merely laughing at a joke or granting them advice on how to prevent themselves from being picked from prying mortal hands.

Alotta lifted her head when she felt the presence of another.

There Asimov stood, gleaming and glittering like an overlarge insect. She really didn’t want to deal with him right now, and before she even realized what she was doing — she was running.

He called out her name, but still she did not stop. She didn’t want to face him today or the next day or any other day after those days. She wished that he would leave her alone. She did not want nor need the sheltering of his arms. She was her own person, she was more than capable of standing on her own two feet.

She was sick and tired of people insisting upon the fact that she needed help.

Couldn’t they see that she were an independent creature? Evidently not. Storming into the stables, she began grooming her father’s favorite unicorn. It just so happened that Moon Silver was her favorite unicorn, too. He was the most patient of all of them (people had the false impression that unicorns were mostly patient they were usually all in a hurry especially the younger ones) and he was one of the rare unicorns that spoke.
“Something is bothering you?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, did I brush you too roughly?”

“No, I could sense it,” the old unicorn smiled. “Tell old Silver what it is.”

“It’s that boy they’re trying to foist upon me.”

“Ah. How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t love him, I never had. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t want to disappoint my parents.”

“Somehow, I think following your heart is more important than that,” the unicorn insisted. “They might be angry at first,” he admitted. “But they’ll see that you’ve made the right choice for you. You should not live out anyone else’s dreams but your own.”

She smiled. “Silver, you’re so wise.”

“Well, at one thousand fifty years old I’d hope so. I’d be a shame to unicorns, otherwise,” he insisted, as he proudly shook out his silvery mane.

“Silver, stop that, that tickles!” she laughed.

“It’s nice to hear your laugh again, I have not heard it for many moons.”

Alotta nodded. She knew now what she must do. She knew that her mother would be furious, but Moon Silver was right. “I know, it has been too long,” she agreed. “Wish me luck, Silver, I don’t think that this is going to go over well, at all.”

She pushed open the door to find herself nose to nose with Asimov.

“Why did you ignore me in the forest, Alotta?” he asked, grabbing her arm roughly. “We are to be married one day you can’t just —.”

“About that,” she remarked firmly. “That wedding will never come to being.”

“What do you mean by that?” her mother interjected, coming upon the scene.

She spotted her father eavesdropping nearby.

She tried hard not to lose her temper completely. “Mother, father, Asimov, there is something that I should have told you all long ago.” She shook loose her curls from her dark eyes. “If I want children, I will have them. If I wish to marry, I shall. However, to me marriage is nothing less than archaic. Asimov, my mother handpicked you to be my husband I never have nor ever will love you — I have no intentions of marrying you or bearing your children. I will not be locked in a house all day slaving away to the work and wishes of others and ignore my own heart!” she shouted. “I must be true to me, I must follow my own hopes and dreams and aspirations. Maybe one day I’ll be all the things you have always wanted from me, mother. But today is not that day.”

Her father beamed proudly. “Well said, Alotta.” He draped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders before his wife could stop him. “We’re going into the house, Edwarvina. I think you should clear up this thing with Asimov, hmm?” With that he led his daughter into the house.

Alotta drew in her breath. “You’re going to berate or admonish me about my poor timing, aren’t you?”

“No,” her father smiled. “No, I think you had perfect timing. Your mother will be angry for a certain season, it is true, but I’m glad that you spoke up for yourself. You truly are the daughter of Ryithivar Squillings.”

“Of course I am, father,” she laughed, tapping him gently on the nose. “I have your eyes.”

“That you do,” he agreed.

She smiled politely, excusing herself out the door. Before her mother could reach her, she took off to the forest, and rejoined the mandrakes. She would let her parents duke it out for a while. Right now, she would sit here and talk freely with her friends. Her heart felt better now that it were unburdened and the guilt of lying had washed it’s stain away. She knew that her mother would never understand her, but she was meant for something more than a provincial life. She could feel it in her bones.

- - -
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native currently migrated to Maine. She has a degree in English-Literature and her poetry and short stories have appeared in many publications the latest of which include: Birds Eye reView, Mirror Dance, Blue & Yellow Dog, Crisis Chronicles Online Library, Super Flash Fiction, and Dead Snakes.
Read more »
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
  • Digg
  • Sphinn
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Mixx
  • Google
  • Furl
  • Reddit
  • Spurl
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati

Help keep Linguistic Erosion alive! Visit our sponsors! :)- - -