Fairy Dust
by Johanna DeBiase
In college, Beth took acid. It was not an optimal situation since she was alone and at a Phish concert. Still, Beth swore she saw fairies - points of gold light interspersed in the trees. Later, when similar lights off the water began to chase after her, she still believed she had seen fairies – a little window opened in her consciousness and let them in.
Even after swearing off acid forever, on occasion, she might still see those points of light, only one, only rarely.
Then she had a little girl she named Lily who for some time loved tiaras and wings. Beth confirmed for her the existence of fairies and they both made up songs to enchant them. Years later, after Lily outgrew fairies, tearing pictures from her wall, Beth was disappointed. However, she was pleased to discover, she could sometimes spot a golden point of light just beyond Lily's left ear.
Untitled
by Robin Powlesland
Soft.
Marketing of small letters
And words.
We stop to listen
But get crowded out by all
The people walking
Through.
I have found her voice
By chance
As if by chance.
It is soft
And just enough dance
For me to feel
The twilight
In us all.
Fiesta Princess
-E. Mack
The dancehall is nearly empty. The floorboards pre-date the dozen people scattered in chairs along the side wall, most of whom collect a pension by now. A section on the far side of dancefloor completely rotted away a few years ago, and a ten-foot square section of gleaming new laminate contrasts with the gray, aged pine planks that surround it.
Two guitarists on stage look tired. They're playing a Gospel version of "Sweet Home Alabama" with the chorus changed to "Sweet Heaven, Hallelujah." The fluorescent lighting, stained walls and smell of processed cheese wafting from the snack bar in back make the original version seem more appropriate.
My daughter is twirling alone while the old people look on, red hair flying, gossamer faux angel wings flapping and the unfamiliar plastic crown she must have stolen from one of her friends repeatedly falling to floor.
Soon the Fiesta princesses will be making their grand entrance.
A guitar string breaks in the middle of the second verse, the song stops, but the little girl keeps twirling.
A replacement guitar is found before the princesses arrive 90 minutes late. There are now three little girls twirling, sliding, luxuriating on the slick laminate floor section. Before I notice the royal procession preparing to enter from the back, a few of the old people are directing my daughter to a chair, gently and with a smile.
I sit next to her. Her mother appears with nachos. The jalapenos are pickled. We both direct our daughter's gaze to the line in the back of the room. The fiesta princesses are far from contemporary. No updating of the outfits to be more stylish or sexy, a little more Disney. Instead, there are intricate crowns and long, heavy flowing robes in royal blue.
Rather than be impressed or awestruck, the three-foot tall person sitting next to me is devastated by a case of princess envy.
"It's not fair they're more beautifuller than me!"
She crosses her arms across her chest so forcefully she creates a self-imposed straight jacket.
My pep talk about everyone being beautiful in their own way and waiting for her day to be princess doesn't help. It sounds like bullshit even to a three-year-old, and it is. There's never going to be a Jewish princess of this Catholic celebration.
After the procession and the nachos recede, we head to the other side of the village where electronic music blares from the old theater. A few dozen hipsters from Santa Fe are making jerky movements out-of-sync with the beat on the stage. My daughter finally releases her arms from their locked position and runs in their direction, tiny wings flapping behind.
