Scribbled Thoughts

Martha considered herself

open minded,

when young girls requested

an adventure over love,

a career over housekeeping,

a glamorous lifestyle over motherhood

she granted their wish

with her usual smile

and continued to the next client.

No one stood out in her memory anymore,

no bond was forged,

no motherly concern remained.

But this young girl,

no, boy, was different.

She’d never had a male client before.

‘I see,’ she said,

a real smile now on her face,

‘Let’s see what we can do.’

He had been born in the wrong body,

a concept he didn’t understand

for a long time,

but the sense of wrongness

had always been there.

He admired dresses

but preferred them on others.

His own feminine features

made him avoid mirrors,

when his chest began to develop

he bound it painfully,

praying it would go away.

It didn’t,

and no matter how he trained

and gained muscles

he couldn’t achieve the physical presence

of a real man.

‘Please. I can’t do this anymore.’

Martha’s usual melody of greeting

died under the accusing youthful eyes.

Her strained smile

contained a melancholy sigh,

remembering the old wonder and joy

her arrival used to bring.

‘Hello dearie,’ she chirped,

swishing her arms a little for effect.

‘How may I help?’

The young woman didn’t look ill,

abused or distressed.

The dress she clutched was good quality,

the room was small but clean

and the door was unlocked.

Martha guessed a love problem.

‘I need you to make me…’

‘Worthy of a prince?’

‘No, make me a prince.’

Martha swished her wand

as she read her new assignment.

There were no details,

which was common these days,

no one poured their hearts out

to stars anymore,

just demanded an audience.

A ‘poof’ of smoke and

she was in a respectable but small room,

the curtains were drawn,

the bed unmade

and a young woman

was sat on the floor in undergarments,

clutching a beautiful dress

and glaring.

‘It’s about time! I’ve been wishing

for you for years.’

(I think my repetitive rant poetry is getting a bit stale subject-wise and felt more inspired today to try explore a fairy tale twist idea I’ve had for a while. Hopefully more of this will follow.)

It wasn’t what it used to be,

being a Fairy Godmother.

The role used to be appreciated,

sacred,

with young women

longing to wish upon a star

and have a dream granted

Now there were demands,

and complaints,

that had forced restrictions

on the profession

and dulled its magic.

Martha wasn’t sure

she could do it anymore.