Fairy Tales

When I was a fish I was beautiful. My scales shone bright, as if they were polished. And so they were, if you looked closely. I polished my body on the smooth sides of rocks, against the hands of seaweed, in the salt of the sea. My gills were elegant, like wings. I breathed the air through waves and water, and I was graceful.

When I was a fish I was strong.

When I was a fish I shimmered. When I was a fish I rode the waves and I was weightless. When I was a fish I could never be ugly. You would never guess what I’ve become, now.

When I was a fish, I was beautiful.

***

Once upon a time there was a cat.

(Over the vast expanse of time, there have been many, many cats. But I will tell you a secret – they are all the same cat. This cat has thousands of lives, and will never ever die.)

The cat lived in a castle, in a land far away. The land was green, and the trees were full of birds that twittered and sang and chirped, and flashed like bright jewels. The hills were full of fast clever rabbits and slow silly moles. Life in the land was grand. Life in the land was majestic.

(Cats have always lived in castles. Don’t kid yourself into believing your cat spends all her time in your one-bedroom apartment. She has a home, and it is hers only. You will never be invited.)

The cat took his tea every day at noon, just after his morning nap, and just before his afternoon nap. The cat’s tea consisted of one pot of Earl Grey, mostly milk and some sugar to taste. When he asked for it – and he often did - his tea included a small dry biscuit and a large grey mouse, not quite dead and not quite alive.

The cat yawned, and stretched luxuriously. He arched his back and flexed his claws. The mouse watched blearily with small black eyes as the cat opened his jaws and tore into its fat belly.

The cat enjoyed his tea.

(It’s not a pretty story, I know. The fish story was so sweet. You only get pretty once. Look your cat in the eye and tell me she isn’t a killer.)

The cat was engaged to marry the moon. Long the province of werewolves and unicorns, the moon was a valuable bride. When the cat had finally claimed her as his own, he sat tall and haughty on his cat-throne in his cat-palace and licked his paws in that cat-way. Nighttime was the cat’s time, and the moon was a boon and a prize to own.

When the cat stalked his land in the night, the moon watched him with one wide staring eye. The moon sighed down at him and her breath pulled the ocean up and down, back and forth. The fish glinted as they were tossed from wave to wave.

(I suppose the story of the moon and the cat has been done before. What is it meant to illustrate, really? The tides, the eternal relationship between animal and moon, strange sexual rites of the Druidic cults, who knows. It’s all stories, isn’t it? The story of your cat is the story of my cat is the story of the world is the story of creation is the story of the King of Cats is the story of the cat and the moon, who were engaged to be married. Don’t believe in fairy tales, but don’t ignore them either. Read them for the sex and the gore, but also read for the unwritten, secret words beneath them – read them for the truth.)

The cat stretched his long limbs in the sun. He had found a perfect spot, in the tall green grass. He closed his eyes and purred. He was waiting for nighttime, for the careful eye of his lover, the moon. He would sleep until she opened her eye and the fur bristled on his back.

(You didn’t expect the cat’s story to end, did you? The cat and the moon have been living this story through countless nighttimes now. A cat’s story is a cat chasing a mouse – round and round and round, tail and nose and whiskers and paws. There is no end to it, a circle of tails and whiskers and hisses. A thousand lives, once upon a time. There is no moral to this story. Only the nighttime. )

***

There is, however, a moral to this story: a princess will always break your heart. Girls who wear pink taffeta cannot be trusted. Right now, there is a girl gazing in a mirror, with blonde hair (like spun straw, of course) and wide innocent eyes (like a field of bluebells, obviously), wearing a shiny pink dress (Don’t you dare touch it! Your hands are filthy!) and glass slippers so clear (don’t make her mad, she will hurt you), with forest animals all around her (shitting on the floor, screeching like mad), smiling like a doll (vacuous and empty) at herself, and herself only.

When you meet her, you will love her. You will love her like a thunderstorm, like a heart attack, like a virus – love in the feverish moment of meeting. She will smile her wide white smile and turn her bright eye towards you, until you are a fish on a hook, dangling. She will consume you and devour you and you will love her. She is unattainable, like a cat, like the moon.

Girls who wear crinoline ought never to be trusted. They are so sweet and so kind. They hide their blood-stained hands behind their backs - out, damn spot!

You will love her, when you meet her, like a fever, like a poem. She is pretty (like a thread on a loom) and kind (like her dead mother). She will kiss you (like a snake, tongue lolling); she will offer you an apple (you will take it, tongue lolling). You will bite (always knowing) and she will laugh (a lilting giggle). You will love it (and you will die in the end, quite willingly).

Never trust girls who wear tiaras. Jewels and beauty and charm and charisma are never free.

***

When I was a fish, I was beautiful.

I was everything a fish should be.

I was a fairy tale swimmer, so graceful and quiet and free.

When I was a fish I leapt across rivers, teased my lovers in waterfalls.

I was beautiful; goddess of the ocean, of the sea.

I never wanted to be a girl, or a doll,

Or a cat purring from bird-ripe tree to tree.

When I was a fish I was beautiful.

I was everything a fish ought to be.