“Of course not,” said the witch. “I was just teasing. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
The queen smiled.
At dawn, they arrived at the cottage. “We must wait until the little men leave,” whispered the witch. They hid in the bushes until the seven men paraded out of their house and down a path to the mines, carrying their picks and singing about finding treasures. Except the last one in line. He wasn’t singing, but he was dancing around stupidly to the tune of the others’ voices.
“Do they really think they’re going to find treasure?” said the queen. “If there were any treasure in these woods, wouldn’t the king or the witches have found it by now?”
“These men are simple creatures, my queen,” said the witch. “Look at their house. It’s pathetic. They need to keep their dreams of riches alive, otherwise they’d have nothing to live for.”
The queen nodded. She supposed if she were a peasant, she’d be the same way: either suicidal or else completely and willfully deluded about how things work.
“The witches allow these men to stay in our woods because they amuse us,” said the witch. “They pose no threat to us. They are too stupid. We leave them alone, and they us.”
“Okay, whatever,” said the queen. “Now, let’s go get her.”
The witch cast a spell on the queen so that she looked like an old, ugly hag instead of a beautiful woman. This way, there was no chance the girl would recognize her mother. The hag queen got up and knocked on the door, while the witch waited in the bushes, watching. “Is there anyone home?” called the hag queen. “I’m just a poor old woman, lost in the woods! I’m quite hungry and tired. Could you help me, please?”
Snowflake’s seven fathers had instructed her not to answer the door for any old, ugly women, because these woods were full of witches. Although the witches did not harm the little men, they weren’t sure how they would react to a beautiful child. Children were one of witches’ favorite things to eat. Snowflake’s seven fathers had also instructed her not to answer the door for any beautiful younger women, because it could be her mother trying to kill her again. If her mother ever found out she’d survived, she’d be out to get her, for sure. So basically, Snowflake was supposed to be suspicious of all women, unless they were prepubescent girls like herself.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not supposed to open the door for any old women,” Snowflake said. She stood next to the door, her hand clutching the lock, as if some puny piece of metal would protect her from a witch intent on child murder.
“Why, I’m not old!” said the hag queen. “Don’t you know it’s rude to call a woman old?” The hag queen pretended to sob.
“Oh, please don’t cry,” said Snowflake. “I didn’t mean anything by it. If it makes you feel better, I’m not supposed to open the door for any beautiful, younger women, either.”
The hag queen continued to fake-sob. She devised a plan. “Well, if you won’t let me in,” she said, “will you at least open the window and pass me some food?”
“I don’t know,” replied Snowflake. “What if you try to grab me?”
“Well,” said the hag queen, “I’m just an old woman, remember? I can’t possibly be very strong!”
Snowflake supposed the old woman had a point. Her body was thin and wobbly like some little twigs tied together, like you could snap her in half easily with a shoe.
Snowflake went into the kitchen, got some bread, berries, and deer meat and put it all on a plate. She filled a cup with wine. That’s what everyone drank in this house.
While she was preparing the meal, the hag queen got her gun ready, and hid it behind her back.
Snowflake went back to the front room and opened the window to give the food and drink to the old woman.
The hag queen swung the machine gun out from behind her back, aimed at the girl’s heart through the open window, and opened fire. “Die, you little bitch!” she screamed. Blood spurted everywhere like the grandest confetti. The girl fell over with a thump, and the hag queen fired the rest of her round through the open window just to add insult to injury, breaking glass and several objects inside the house.
“Yes!” yelled the hag queen. She tossed the machine gun aside, jumped up and down with joy. “I’m the fairest of them all! I’m the fairest of them all!”
The witch came out of the bushes. “You don’t look so fair to me,” she said.
The hag queen had almost forgotten that the witch had disguised her as an ugly old hag woman. “Oh, right,” she said. “Change me back at once!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the witch said.
“What?” said the queen. “Oh, no. Oh, no, you don’t—” The queen went over to her machine gun and picked it up. The witch promptly aimed hers at the queen. The queen’s gun was empty. She couldn’t get the extra bullets from her pocket and load the gun. The witch might shoot her at any sign of movement.
“Throw the gun aside,” said the witch.
The hag queen complied.
“Sit down.”
She did.
“Now,” said the witch, “this is how it’s going to be.” Suddenly, the witch transformed into the spitting image of the queen how she used to be, the fairest of them all.
“No!” cried the queen. “That’s me!”
“Not anymore, it’s not,” said the witch queen. She cackled. “Imagine how powerful I’ll be, with this beauty and my sorcery. It’s simply fantastic. I’ll enchant all those guards and do whatever I want! As for you, my queen—oops, I misspoke. You’re not the queen anymore, are you?” She cackled again. “Well, I suppose I’ll just leave you here to do as you wish. I could kill you, but I kind of like this better.”
“What?” said the hag. “Do as I wish? What can I possibly do? I have nothing, and these woods are full of witches!”
“You’ll fit right in,” said the beautiful witch queen.
“You’ll never get away with this!” said the hag. “I’ll find my way back to the castle, and tell the guards the truth!”
“Ha!” said the witch. “First of all, good luck finding your way back. I’ll enchant the stream so it leads you somewhere else. You’ll never get back. And even if you did, do you really think they’d believe you? They’ll think you’re just some witch. They’ll probably have you executed. Especially if I tell them to. Which I will.”
“Curse you,” said the hag.
“Well,” said the beautiful witch queen. “Goodbye, then.” She walked away, carrying the machine guns and all the queen’s things with her.
All the hag had left was a pocketful of bullets, a broken plate of dirty food, and the clothes on her back. She sat on the steps of the little men’s cottage, wondering what to do next.
The seven little men were taking their lunch break. Every day they each packed their own small picnic to eat in the middle of the day. This refueling was necessary, because working in the mines was hard physical labor.
Dopey had forgotten his own lunch on this particular day. Even though it was a simple task that he performed on a daily basis, he sometimes still forgot to do it. Dopey fluttered around to each of the other men, making eyes and silently begging like a puppy. But none of the other men wanted to share.
“Dopey, you’re so stupid!” said Grumpy. “How could you forget your own lunch? You love to eat!”
Dopey shrugged.
Grumpy said, “Why don’t you just go home and eat there? Then come back when you’re done. Or don’t come back. I don’t even care! Just get out of my sight.”
“Yeah, Dopey,” said Biscuit. “Why don’t you just go home? You can help Snowflake clean the house and cook our dinner!”
The other men giggled. They often made jokes meant to emasculate Dopey.
Dopey pouted. He turned around and followed the path home, angrily kicking little rocks as he went.
Dopey went into the bedroom, into the closet where the seven men kept their seven guns. He grabbed his shotgun, then went outside to where the old woman was sleeping. He nudged her with the gun until she stirred and opened her eyes.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Mm—” tried Dopey. He hadn’t spoken words since he was a child. It was not in his nature to speak. He did not like conflict. He preferred to express himself through actions, through hugs and giving presents and doing favors for people. Finally he managed to say, “Who you? Did you kill?”
The woman shook her head. “No, please—” she whispered. Dopey could see she was struggling to speak, too. He looked at her hands. There was blood on them and it reminded Dopey for a moment of beautiful red tulips and then the moment was over and he saw only blood and the blood on Snowflake’s head from being killed and how her eyes couldn’t shut and she couldn’t put her teeth away and she was hideous so hideous he hated that he had thought of tulips just now seeing that blood.
Dopey screamed. He looked up at the sky and fired several shots in the air. The old woman jumped up. “Away!” yelled Dopey. The old woman started to run. “Leave!” said Dopey. He collapsed on the ground and wailed.
Later, after the other six little men had come home from the mines and found Dopey outside wailing and waving his gun, after they had gone inside and found the corpse, after they’d covered it and moved it outside, after they’d cleaned up the blood and the broken glass, Dopey sat outside on a log with Window. Window was always the best at comforting Dopey, being the wisest.
“Do you want to tell me how you feel?” Window asked. “You can write it in the dirt.”
Dopey shook his head.
“Well, if you ever want to,” said Window, “I’m here.”
Dopey looked into Window’s eyes and patted him on the knee.
“Well,” said Window, “would you like to help me write a poem?”
This was a game they played. They always made the first two lines the same, and altered only the last two. It was Dopey’s favorite game, but he would only play it with Window. He didn’t like to even write words to the others. With Window, writing was okay.
“Roses are red,” said Window, as always.
As always, Dopey wrote in the dirt with a stick, “Violets are blue.”
“Things don’t always turn out the right way,” said Window.
Dopey wrote in the dirt with a stick, “But sometimes they do.”
acknowledgements
Thank you to the editors of the literary magazines in which some of these stories originally appeared:
“Tulips,” The Literary Review
“A Red Winter Shadow,” The Rupture (formerly The Collagist)
“The House,” Maudlin House
“Doctor’s Office Paperwork,” Entropy (BLACKCACKLE Series)
“Pheromones,” Bodega
“The Hills,” Bad Pony:
“The Paper Garden,” Washington Square Review
“Snowflake,” Whiskey Island
Thank you to 7.13 Books and Hasanthika Sirisena for publishing and editing this collection.
Thank you to the English & Creative Writing departments at Colby College, Syracuse University, and the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Thank you to my teachers: Jessica Alexander, Adrian Blevins, Patrick Donnelly, Arthur Flowers, Skip Fox, Jennifer Geer, Natalie Harris, Peter Harris, Sarah Harwell, Brooks Haxton, Sadie Hoagland, Mary Karr, Christopher Kennedy, John McNally, Laurel Ryan, George Saunders, Bruce Smith, Dana Spiotta, and Debra Spark.
Thank you to the many people who gave me editorial feedback on earlier drafts of stories in this collection. Thank you also to my friends, family, and teachers for providing support and enthusiasm, which is where I found the ability to keep writing. Thank you Jess Acosta, Katie Baxter, Nana Adjei-Brenyah, Hannah Chapple, Chen Chen, Brent Daly, Martin Fulmer, Becca Shaw Glaser, David Gustavson, Cate McLaughlin, Mei the cat, Diane Michels, Erin Mullikin, Casey Nagle, Lindsay Norville, Patti Pangborn, Jess Poli, Jessica Scicchitano, Tyler Stephens II, Em Tielman, Ali Ünal, Bill Vance, Jane Vance, Vivian Vance, and Gina Warren.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caitlin Vance is the author of the poetry book Think of the World as a Mirror Maze (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019) and the chapbook The Little Cloud (dancing girl press, 2018). Her stories and poems have appeared in Tin House, The Southern Review, The Rupture, Washington Square Review, and others.
The Paper Garden Page 16