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For the child

Inspired by a coworker’s wonderful Halloween costume this year…

I must kill Snow. For me, and for the child growing inside me.

The huntsman will regret his betrayal. He will never know his baby, his daughter or his son, and he will soon understand why I am believed to be a witch, though I have never pretended to understand how such power flows through me nor claimed to have mastered it as an art. It is dark, to be sure.

I cannot walk so gracefully as I did months ago, but I sweep up to the mirror and my entrance is a triumph.

“Show me the girl,” I command.

The mirror’s surface shivers and shrinks away from me, revealing a brightly-lit wood and a fresh-faced young woman dancing dead-eyed through a clearing.

Snow White.

She is ugly to me, carrying that stupid basket and wearing that hideous fake grin of a pampered life. For the huntsman to have fallen for this, a mere three hours from my presence, disgusts me. I command the mirror to turn its gaze elsewhere and go to the window.

I put my hand on my belly, feeling my child kick. This will be a fiery one, a warrior, able to tame the powers of magic and the blade both. But to allow the babe to survive, there can be no others in the line of succession. The next king or queen of this kingdom must be my child, no other.

I turn away from the mirror, casting my intentions out, out through the window, out to the horizon where the forest curls and crawls.

“Make me an apple,” I tell the mirror.

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Published inWriting