Mary Paplham is a lover of stories, enjoying a wide variety of tales and texts with her appetite for knowledge. What she wishes to do with this information is, of course, her own business. Yet what else can be said about one who loved carrots so much as a child that she very nearly turned yellow? Her story is thus no surprise, a meta-fiction depicting the characterization and stereotyping of tales which must have a hero or heroine. Yet what is one to do when she (or he) finds herself in the position of a character who would not serve well as the protagonist? What are we to do with someone whose pursuits might be better led to a side character, or even a villain? Mary’s fairytale begs the question of what we are to do with someone who is not cut out for a fairytale, and not for any particular flaws or deficiencies on her part, but rather for how she would go against the grain, trying to fill a role that many would agree would not suit her.
Dennis Swiecichowski
Dennis Swiecichowski
finding a fairy tale
By Mary Paplham
“Why are you here, Miss Morrissey?”
I stared at him across the desk, anxiety fluttering in my chest. Why? What did he mean, why? I mean, why not? Was this a trick question? “I want a fairy tale,” I managed to say. How do you answer an obvious question with anything but the obvious answer? “Same as everyone else.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “but why are you here?”
I couldn’t read him. Which word was important? Which question was I supposed to answer? I hadn’t prepared for this! I felt my mouth going dry. I swallowed.
“I…I just want to be happy. I want a happily ever after.” It felt strange to say the words aloud, especially to someone else. “My life…as it is…leaves a lot to be desired. And I’m not sure it’s going to end happily. But fairy tales always end happily.” I met his gaze, trying to communicate to him that I was finished. His gaze flickered, but he didn’t answer. “Right?” I added, to fill the silence. He still didn’t answer. My stomach turned. “Right?”
“Not for everyone,” he said finally, carefully.
“What do you mean?” Why had I even come? Why was I still there? The sudden nausea in my stomach and weakness in my legs answered the last question.
“The stepmothers. The witches. The ‘bad guys.’ They don’t get a happy ending.”
“But…they’re just—they’re not—”
“Someone has to be them.”
“But I wouldn’t become one… Would I?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
I started to open my mouth to speak, then realized I had nothing to say and closed it before I had committed myself to anything, letting my blank stare and flushed cheeks say it all for me. Even if I’d had anything to say, I don’t know that I could have said it right then for the chalky feeling in my mouth.
He sighed, unfolding his hands to push some papers around on his desk. “Look,” he said, “here’s how it works: We’ve got a panel of writers here. They write the stories—the fairy tales. I run the interviews and put together the files. Then they analyze the interview and the file and match you to a character in their stories—whatever they think fits you best. That’s all there is to it.”
It sounded simple enough. And surely I’d fare decently—I wasn’t coming across as a witch, was I? But how could deciding someone else’s life ever be simple? And--
“Why are you telling me this?” He was doing more to dissuade me than, well, a proper businessman probably should.
He smiled wryly. “Just because I’m a man of business doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart. I—and the panel—just happen to think you should know what you’re getting yourself into.”
All right. I could believe that. “Then…can I ask your honest opinion? I mean, again?”
“I’m an open book.”
“If you were to guess…where do you think I’d end up? How would you place me? As a character, I mean.”
He sat back in his chair, considering me. He must have seen that I meant it, because he leaned forward again, opening up a file. My file.
“Susanna J. Morrissey. Twenty-three years of age. Single. Employed part-time. Degrees in English and history. Habits include reading and writing. Plays a couple instruments, never played a sport, no special talents or unique abilities. Appearance—” his gaze flickered over me “—tidy, but pretty plain; not what you’d call pretty.” The truth in his words stung. But I’d asked for it. Setting down my file, he sat back again. “Look, Ms. Morrissey—”
“Please.”
He sighed. “You seem like a nice enough girl. You didn’t come barging in here claiming some God-given right to a fairy tale, so I certainly wouldn’t peg you as the witchy type. But…” He cleared his throat. “I can’t say that you seem like the princess type, either. Frankly, I’m not sure that you have what it takes to get a starring role. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re most likely to end up as a background character, perhaps some member of the general populace.”
My heart sank. A background character. I was a loser in life; how could I have thought I’d be anything other than a loser in a fairy tale, too? At that moment, I wanted nothing other than to leave with what little of my dignity I had left intact. Forget the whole thing and return to my unremarkable life living out of my parents’ house. The assured loneliness and despair of that life was surely better than the potential loneliness and despair of a fairy-tale existence. It even made becoming the next in a long line of wicked stepmothers sound good in comparison to what was probably in store for me. All I’d ever been was a minor character in other people’s stories. And all I’d ever wanted was a story of my own. To have influence, power. To feel influential and powerful. And have a happy ending to boot.
But he was right. I didn’t have what it took. I would always be a wallflower. A background character.
Apparently I didn’t contain my emotions very well. Seeing what must have been a pretty crestfallen expression on my face, he added gently, “But don’t take my word for it. As I said, it’s not really for me to say; I’m not the one who will make the decision—that’s up to the writers. And you know, sometimes they’re even inspired to write new stories to fit the person instead of fitting the person to the story. You never know. In any case, they’re all very experienced and good at what they do. They wouldn’t put you in a role you wouldn’t be fit for. They’re good judges of character; they have to be.” Though I could tell he truly wanted to make me feel better, his words didn’t have any effect. So he tried a different tactic, another truth, harsher, but even more gently said. “You have to remember, Ms. Morrissey…we can’t all be Cinderella.”
No, I agreed silently. But it seemed I could never be more than Susanna. Plain, unremarkable, in the background. And that was all there was to it.
But maybe that was it.
He sat back, watching me. “So…” he began slowly, testing the water before plunging in with his question. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
For the first time during the whole interview, I smiled.
“Yes,” I answered, rising slowly but surely to my feet.
“I’m going to write myself a fairy tale.”
I stared at him across the desk, anxiety fluttering in my chest. Why? What did he mean, why? I mean, why not? Was this a trick question? “I want a fairy tale,” I managed to say. How do you answer an obvious question with anything but the obvious answer? “Same as everyone else.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “but why are you here?”
I couldn’t read him. Which word was important? Which question was I supposed to answer? I hadn’t prepared for this! I felt my mouth going dry. I swallowed.
“I…I just want to be happy. I want a happily ever after.” It felt strange to say the words aloud, especially to someone else. “My life…as it is…leaves a lot to be desired. And I’m not sure it’s going to end happily. But fairy tales always end happily.” I met his gaze, trying to communicate to him that I was finished. His gaze flickered, but he didn’t answer. “Right?” I added, to fill the silence. He still didn’t answer. My stomach turned. “Right?”
“Not for everyone,” he said finally, carefully.
“What do you mean?” Why had I even come? Why was I still there? The sudden nausea in my stomach and weakness in my legs answered the last question.
“The stepmothers. The witches. The ‘bad guys.’ They don’t get a happy ending.”
“But…they’re just—they’re not—”
“Someone has to be them.”
“But I wouldn’t become one… Would I?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
I started to open my mouth to speak, then realized I had nothing to say and closed it before I had committed myself to anything, letting my blank stare and flushed cheeks say it all for me. Even if I’d had anything to say, I don’t know that I could have said it right then for the chalky feeling in my mouth.
He sighed, unfolding his hands to push some papers around on his desk. “Look,” he said, “here’s how it works: We’ve got a panel of writers here. They write the stories—the fairy tales. I run the interviews and put together the files. Then they analyze the interview and the file and match you to a character in their stories—whatever they think fits you best. That’s all there is to it.”
It sounded simple enough. And surely I’d fare decently—I wasn’t coming across as a witch, was I? But how could deciding someone else’s life ever be simple? And--
“Why are you telling me this?” He was doing more to dissuade me than, well, a proper businessman probably should.
He smiled wryly. “Just because I’m a man of business doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart. I—and the panel—just happen to think you should know what you’re getting yourself into.”
All right. I could believe that. “Then…can I ask your honest opinion? I mean, again?”
“I’m an open book.”
“If you were to guess…where do you think I’d end up? How would you place me? As a character, I mean.”
He sat back in his chair, considering me. He must have seen that I meant it, because he leaned forward again, opening up a file. My file.
“Susanna J. Morrissey. Twenty-three years of age. Single. Employed part-time. Degrees in English and history. Habits include reading and writing. Plays a couple instruments, never played a sport, no special talents or unique abilities. Appearance—” his gaze flickered over me “—tidy, but pretty plain; not what you’d call pretty.” The truth in his words stung. But I’d asked for it. Setting down my file, he sat back again. “Look, Ms. Morrissey—”
“Please.”
He sighed. “You seem like a nice enough girl. You didn’t come barging in here claiming some God-given right to a fairy tale, so I certainly wouldn’t peg you as the witchy type. But…” He cleared his throat. “I can’t say that you seem like the princess type, either. Frankly, I’m not sure that you have what it takes to get a starring role. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re most likely to end up as a background character, perhaps some member of the general populace.”
My heart sank. A background character. I was a loser in life; how could I have thought I’d be anything other than a loser in a fairy tale, too? At that moment, I wanted nothing other than to leave with what little of my dignity I had left intact. Forget the whole thing and return to my unremarkable life living out of my parents’ house. The assured loneliness and despair of that life was surely better than the potential loneliness and despair of a fairy-tale existence. It even made becoming the next in a long line of wicked stepmothers sound good in comparison to what was probably in store for me. All I’d ever been was a minor character in other people’s stories. And all I’d ever wanted was a story of my own. To have influence, power. To feel influential and powerful. And have a happy ending to boot.
But he was right. I didn’t have what it took. I would always be a wallflower. A background character.
Apparently I didn’t contain my emotions very well. Seeing what must have been a pretty crestfallen expression on my face, he added gently, “But don’t take my word for it. As I said, it’s not really for me to say; I’m not the one who will make the decision—that’s up to the writers. And you know, sometimes they’re even inspired to write new stories to fit the person instead of fitting the person to the story. You never know. In any case, they’re all very experienced and good at what they do. They wouldn’t put you in a role you wouldn’t be fit for. They’re good judges of character; they have to be.” Though I could tell he truly wanted to make me feel better, his words didn’t have any effect. So he tried a different tactic, another truth, harsher, but even more gently said. “You have to remember, Ms. Morrissey…we can’t all be Cinderella.”
No, I agreed silently. But it seemed I could never be more than Susanna. Plain, unremarkable, in the background. And that was all there was to it.
But maybe that was it.
He sat back, watching me. “So…” he began slowly, testing the water before plunging in with his question. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
For the first time during the whole interview, I smiled.
“Yes,” I answered, rising slowly but surely to my feet.
“I’m going to write myself a fairy tale.”