Rapunzel had been waiting years for this moment.
          She let the information slip casually, playing it off as a mistake, but knowing that Mother Gothel would be furious with her for allowing anyone else into the tower — especially a prince. Therefore, she was expecting a punishment. So, when Mother Gothel pulled a pair of shears from her cloak, Rapunzel acted quickly.
          She seized the witch’s wrist, twisting it as hard as she could. Mother Gothel let out a cry of rage, not only at Rapunzel’s defiance, but also at her unexpected strength. But Rapunzel did not falter; after a moment longer of struggle, she was able to tear the shears from Gothel’s grip and pierce them straight through her heart. 
          Rapunzel pulled the shears out of Gothel’s chest — allowing the body to collapse on the floor with a thud — and stood up, pushing her hair back over her shoulders as she admired her work, chest heaving with her heavy breaths. Of course, there was the matter of getting rid of the body and cleaning up the copious amount of blood before the prince arrived for their nightly meeting; she couldn’t have him suspecting anything was wrong — not with what she had planned for him. 
          It was exceedingly difficult, but Rapunzel managed to get the job done before nightfall. She dragged Gothel’s body to the closet that held her cleaning supplies — including the mop that she needed to clean the blood that was now smeared across the dark hardwood floors of the tower. 

dear mom,

Lately I’ve been moved by how
I recognize the bags under your eyes
from every night I splash
water on my face and look up.

I hate having my photo taken
because I have a hard time recognizing
myself (sometimes) and it
scares me (all of the time) and–

I have this compulsion to write
every poem in the first person
and I want to ask if you think
that makes me selfish.

We like pistachio ice-cream and clouds.
I can’t snap because you taught me
to do it with my ring finger instead
of the middle one. I like to tell people
I am chronically late because I get it
from you. I feel happy when you
hug me. I know myself mom
but I’m not sure I’ll ever recognize myself
the way I think I’m supposed to.
And I think it’s good you’ll never
read this because I hate to make you sad​–

​the minute I was born, you apart were torn
yourself you left behind, your teeth you had to grind
the walls of your world you clicked, and as I my eyes blinked
the colours of your prison you picked

buy a haunted house
                          yes
check the ads’ page
and go for the most haunted
                of the most haunted houses
a glass of whiskey
        two of rum
are the kids still sleeping?
did I forget to turn off the stove?
                I’m sorry, honey
                may you light my cigarette?
        where was I?
ah, yes
buy a haunted house, darling
        I have to do laundry         go shopping
polish that cutlery that keeps laughing at my jokes
at my solitude         at the fat rolls I’m growing
at the money I can’t spend
                        because my husband
                        ​that son of a b-

Beatrice McCoy had lived next to a volcano for all eighty-two years of her life, and she was almost certain it was never going to erupt. 

Mt. Ursula had been dormant long before Beatrice was born, and she expected it to remain that way long after her bones were laid to rest under the dirt and moss that made up her home. When she was a little girl, she’d stay up, staring out her window where she could see the volcano’s peak in the distance. She used to worry about it waking suddenly, destroying her beloved town with ash and smoke. When she expressed her concerns to her mother, she’d smooth down her hair and assure her Ursula was fast asleep. 

“Everything is just fine, bumble Bea,” she’d tell her. “You’re safe.” 

Despite her skepticism in her earlier years, Beatrice had formed a bond with the sleeping volcano. She no longer saw Mt. Ursula as a threat, but as a friend watching over them, a reassuring presence. 

So when the TV flashed the evacuation warning that morning, Beatrice went about her usual routine without so much as a pursing of her lips or a creased brow. She walked into the kitchen, spooned her coffee grounds into the filter, and reveled in the sound of it brewing. The slow drip turned to a steady stream as it filled her favorite mug—though it was chipped now, she could never bring herself to use another. Lenny had gotten it for her for their 10th anniversary. 

The Jury is Out
I sit in the courtroom,
not sure if I’m the prosecution,
or the defense,
or the judge, or the jury.
I may be all of them.

You sit at the stand,
tap the mic, and ask if this thing is on,
and it is, but it’s popping and cracking
and making that awful, high-pitched sound.
We all cover our ears.
There’s a slight murmur among the crowd.