Ah, Ego. Thou art a giant stomping through a fairy tale world of beauty, trampling pretty stuff with your stupid huge feet.

Once upon a time there was a girl.
She was locked in a cell with cinder block walls and one door.
She stared at the walls.
Clawed at the walls, cried into the walls, laughed at them.
She counted the blocks and prayed for a sign.
She did sit-ups to work on her abs, as to distract herself.
Stories, art and music danced through her head, distract me... distract me from seeing these walls that contain me.
Oh Lord, why would you do this to me?  What have I done to deserve this?
I do deserve this.... oh, I do, I do, she chants and paces and cries out in horror,
her sins and sacrifices drag across her mind like a rake across a barren field.
I am horrid.
I am your princess.
I am a child of yours, a child of yours!
I am nothing, I deserve this cage.
I deserve to be free.
Please do not give me what I deserve....
She gently caresses the walls, traces the patterns, makes them a home.

         Um, hey.  stop for a minute and breathe.
she shakes her head no, shakes off the small voice, covers her ears, her eyes.
         Hey.

(pause, breathe.)

she utters a defeated "what?!?"

pause, silly, and turn around.  you remember V for Vendetta, right?  oh my honey, my darling, such a human... you never tried the door.

So the door was unlocked, always was, always would have been, but here's the tricky part.
I still can't get myself to walk out.
It's scary and wild out there, scary and wild if I am free, if I am not contained, where would I go?
And she (would) live happily ever after (if she could get her legs to move)... the end.

It's not a new story, not a new tale, but each creation, each creature, each character is stunned when
the door is unlocked and 
the walls are not real and
the captor is me and
you are not the problem.
So, as the illustrated persons prancing through Grimm's anthology, I stumble through my story blind, unaware of the next page turn but alas, unlike the Brothers' tales, I have the luxury of questioning the writer, yelling at the writer, being perplexed and wading around in my own self-delusions, as He allowed me free will to do as I please, but he will not let me write it myself.   So the pen and ink drawing of me throws her tantrum, sits down, and pouts in her porridge, not knowing that she will get up on the next page and start a new adventure.

Sara Ammon 4/24/2013