Princess and the Pea
This week, I’m sharing a short story/poem from my upcoming book AWAKEN.
I’m excited to announce I’m past the 100 pages mark!
Still in its rough draft, a reimagining of “The Princess and the Pea”—
Enjoy :)
(Note: Despite the name and illustration, AWAKEN is not a children’s book. The artwork is yet to come. The illustration below is what I had on hand.)
Call me a princess. Call me a witch. I’ll speak the pain, you choose to ignore. —Illustrated by Ahza Rex, 2021
An old woman loses a pea,
On top of a mattress.
She looks down and says
‘No bother’ —
For nothing so small,
So insignificant, so tiny,
Can cause that much harm—
So unlikely.
And each mattress topped,
The next person sings,
‘No bother!
For nothing so small,
So insignificant—
So tiny—
Can cause that much harm—
So unlikely!’
Until finally—
The mattresses
Piled up to the ceiling,
A little girl forced
To sleep on the bedding.
“Ow ow” she cries,
“It’s hurting!”
“Whatever do you mean?
Such a princess.”
The grandmother snaps,
“Back in my day,
Our comforts were much less!”
“But I can’t sleep,
There’s knives in my bedding!”
“Whatever do you mean?
Such a princess.”
The grandfather barks,
“Back in my day,
Our comforts were much less!”
“But I’m bleeding!”
“Whatever do you mean?
Such a princess.”
The man in high tower scoffs,
“Back in my day,
Our comforts were much less!”
So the little girl
Climbed between each mattress.
Pulling out crumbs,
Sharp pins,
And lost kernels.
At last she comes to the first mattress
And cries with glee,
“I see a tiny green pea!
See it was here all along.
Something so small—
So unlikely—
I see now—
It bleeds me.”
And as you can see,
We’ve found our true princess.
For she understands
The insignificance.
How a tiny pea—
Can turn into a plea.
From something so small—
So unlikely.
So now they laugh
At a body so delicate,
That even a rose petal
Sends daggers right through it.
But tell me,
Who laid the mattress
On top of the pea,
Smothering it?
These peas—
Husky and hard.
Revealers of truths—
Nothing so small—
Too impossible to bleed.
So when we scatter our peas
Upon our doorstep,
For the forest witches,
Caked in dirt,
Dismissed—
As ‘other’.
Instead of crying out,
‘Devil flee!’—
Let us beckon her forward,
To find our hidden peas,
Lost in the layers,
Of our sweet bedding.
These men in towers, pillowed in silk,
Piling up mattress upon mattress,
Smother truths, praying to god—
No one can find them.
But the witches in forests,
Midwives and truth seekers,
With thick dirt under nails,
Cannot help but stoop low,
Compelled—
To find them.
Their eyes sharpened,
They bend low, listening.
They cannot pass a single husk,
Without stopping.
Naming what others dare cover.
It is their gift, their curse,
Their nature—
To find what bleeds beneath layers.
For they know—
Truth is bone marrow,
Truth is a magnet.
Truth is a whisper,
That which cannot be buried.
Truth is what draws them,
Again and again.
See, now it is clear,
Every true princess,
Has always been,
A witch in disguise.
Divine in her truth seeking—
She is the wisdom they fear.
And soon we shall find,
We can remove all those mattresses—
Unnecessary.
Unburdened.
Closer to the ground,
Barefoot, unburdened,
So now we rise with the sun
Hop, skip, and run—
Free as the morning!
If this piece spoke to you, I’d love to hear from you— feel free to reach out directly.