The crone’s skin sagged like a melting
candle. It hung in drips rolling off her face—molten, dying. The eyes were marbles peeking from sockets,
pale and glassy. They faded more each day, dimming windows to the outside
world. Her lips, once blood red, had given way to pale pink and yellowed at the
edges like old paper. Crevices reached out like branches, tears in smooth
fabric, worn with time.
This was what Melissa saw when she looked
in the mirror—a shadow of what once was beautiful. She’d sit for hours, gazing
into the surface, haunted by a distorted reflection. Her beauty stared back at
first, poised beneath a layer of powder, lashes curled, lips stained. But the
image morphed before her eyes. The color faded. Flawless skin wrinkled. The
sand slipped through the hourglass, grain by grain.
Each heartbeat was a wish not granted, a
dream escaped to the cobwebs in the corners of the room. They clung there like
flies meeting their doom, thrashing about as a spider came to feed. Life’s
poison pulsed through her veins, sucking away vitality, seeping in through the
cracks in her face.
There was a time she longed to be older,
to feel freedom and a man’s affection. The foolish girl was still trapped
inside her somewhere, clawing to escape the fleshy prison. She thought she’d be
an actress, embodying drama and moving her fans to tears. Or, she’d be a
lawyer, righting wrongs with her wits. Maybe she’d be a homemaker, nurturing
children and a husband, making warm meals, followed by chocolate chip cookies
and bedtime stories before sweet kisses goodnight.
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The hag’s mouth turned up at the corners,
remembering a simpler time, a hopeful one. But reality leaked in through the
edges, drawing the smile downward, tugging on the loose skin, too tired to
argue. None of these plans had manifested according to her dreams. Her mind
tumbled, looking for someone to blame. Her mother should have warned her
better—made her go to college. Her father could have supported her—given her
the push to pursue law. And her husband, the ghost of the man she’d fallen in
love with, might have shared the spotlight. Now she was nothing but the failed
actress. The college drop-out. The aged mother, only called when a bill is
overdue.
Her gaze hung low, focused on a hairbrush
that held too many loose cast-offs, graying and forgotten. When her eyes
returned to the mirror, she was met with a pointing finger. It hung there like
a fire iron, ready to stir her ashes. The nail had grown out, the remnants of
what had been a lovely manicure, now chipped and uneven along the edge. The
knuckles were swollen, worn from cracking under pressure, angry and defiant. The
finger blatantly accused her, egged her on.
“Don’t you point at me,” she whispered. “I
gave up everything for them. I am a goddamn saint.”
Her nose rose in the air as she spoke, her
ego inflated. But she did not look dignified. Her nostrils flared and her eyes
became slits, threatening, venomous. And the finger pointed.
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice louder.
But the finger didn’t falter. In fact, it inched closer. At first, she thought
it was her imagination. She blinked. She rubbed her eyes. She even sat up
straight, shook her head. But it kept moving, crawling toward her.
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It touched the surface of the mirror and
bulged out, a bubble of reflection intent on grabbing her. Melissa jumped, tensing
in alarm. She tried to stand but fell backward and off the dainty dressing stool.
She struggled to her hands and knees, then took a breath. Surely, her eyes were
playing tricks on her. She shouldn’t have mixed that Xanax with the wine. At
this realization, she rolled her eyes, laughing at her silliness. Of course, it
was the medication. The hilarity took her until she giggled and tears streamed
down her face.
As the laughter dissipated, she looked up
to the ceiling where the shadows crawled with the setting sun. It would be time
for bed soon, and she’d put these demons to sleep. For now, she indulged her buzz,
wondering what life might have been like had she made different choices.
Her lips were still spread in a smile when
she heard the cackle. It came in a delayed echo, bouncing around the room,
growing louder with each pass. Had the laughter ever belonged to her? It was
dark—sinister. Cupped hands covered her
ears, tighter, harder, but brought no relief. She shut her eyes and opened her
mouth to scream but then the silence came suddenly. It engulfed her in perfect
quiet, empty and haunting.
Melissa hesitated, then crawled on her
knees toward the dressing table. Graceful, young hands reached up to steady
herself on its edge. She rose slowly, peering over the polished surface, past
the perfume bottles and makeup brushes, to the looking glass. Within was only
gray, a dull reflection of the fading wallpaper on the other side of the room.
As her knees straightened and she stood slowly upright, the image adjusted, and
her young face emerged.
The woman was beautiful, though her eyes
were wet with tears. The wrinkles were gone, like an eraser had rubbed them
away. Her red lips were pouty, her neck creamy and smooth. She dared not
breath. She wanted to look like this forever. She wanted to freeze time.
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Without her permission, her hand reached
out to touch the image, so beloved. She was an angel, a promise, a muse. To her
surprise, the reflective surface was warm, but she didn’t want to question it.
The likeness moved with her in perfect choreography, swishing this way and
that. She was enraptured
The hum started slowly, like a flapping of
wings. Not one pair, not two, but thousands, moving together, keeping the time
at bay. She stood taller, prouder, reveling in what she saw. She could do
anything when she looked like this—young, beautiful, ideal. People would listen
to her now. Men would do her bidding. Women would envy her. It was everything
she wanted. It was power.
Her chest swooned with hot breath, her
pride growing, her smile spreading. And she focused on the irises that peered
back, vibrant and determined, filled with life. But they flickered—a small
shift that brought with it a memory. And the doubt snuck in between joy and
ecstasy—feelings of regret, fear, worthlessness. The edges of the mirror turned
rusty and the hum dimmed, making way for a scream that held the power of her
youth—the collective dreams she should have released long ago. Her hope had
been locked in a cage, rotting. It made one last bid for freedom as vanity.
The lovely smile morphed into a wicked
grin. It was seductive, unforgiving, determined. White teeth flashed between
rich red lips, the edges pointing toward charming dimples. They danced,
taunted, whispered, “come hither.” Melissa froze and the smile was no longer
hers. Before she could pull her finger away from the surface, a gnarled hand
grasped her wrist. It tightened, twisted, burned.
The scream exploded from her like a
shrieking cat, high and sharp. It scorched her throat, strangling her from
within. She pulled away desperately, but the harder she yanked, the stronger
the vise became. It drew her toward the mirror like a black hole, slowly,
steadily, until she came face to face with herself. Her nose crushed against
silver, breath fogging the surface between screams, until there was a crack.
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Shards pierced her skin. Liquid dribbled onto the table, covering the lipstick, the powder, the delicate perfume bottles in sticky crimson. Skin peeled like an onion layer, and what was once pristine became marred with gore. The blood glittered with diamond debris, a last light for a dying hope. The actress sighed dramatically, the lawyer swore revenge, and mother grieved what once might have been. And the last thing Melissa saw before the darkness took her was her beautiful face in pieces.
Leoson teaches composition and psychology courses at the college level in Cleveland, Ohio. She loves to write with her dogs at her feet and somehow survives on decaf coffee and protein bars. She holds an M.A. in English & Writing from Western New Mexico University and an M.S. in Psychology from Walden University. Her writing has been featured in the Twisted Vine Literary Journal, TWJ Magazine, The Write Launch, GNU Journal, The Gyara Journal, Genre: Urban Arts, Obra/Artifact, and on NPR’s “This I Believe” series. You can learn more at www.maryleoson.com
Continuing our AI journey from last time exploring Little Red Riding Hood herself as the Big Bad Wolf… All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
How very… Phantom of the Opera predatory… this is definitely not what I had in mind. Maybe something more cutesy?
Ugh. Maybe not.
Wow, that seems like such a cop out, cropping off the head so you don’t have to depict it. And I don’t want to lose the Little Red Riding Hood reference completely.
So no surprise there, I knew that was too many references to work.
And as promised in Big Bad Poetry, we shall embark on our next AI journey, this time looking at Little Red Riding Hood. I had wanted to depict her as the Big Bad Wolf one and the same, although maybe not so big nor bad. But it just wasn’t happening quite as planned. All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
So I actually like this even better than my original vision, it is playful and even a bit serene (especially given the Sinister style). The wolf is just being a wolf. It’s quite lovely, really. But it wasn’t what I had in mind, so I revisited the idea later to see if I could get that result…
Over the river and through the wood flashed the fleet-footed Red Riding Hood on her way to her “grandmother’s” house.
When running past, who should she see but just one of the little pigs three cowering like but a tiny mouse.
“But my dear piggy, what do you fear?” Red Riding Hood asked as she slunk near, teeth hidden under a sheepish smile.
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The nervous small pig looked up in fright and decided that Red was alright, missing the subtle clues by a mile.
“The Big Bad Wolf, that horrible beast upon the other wee pigs did feast!” the last little pig said with a squeal.
Red Riding Hood laughed with a great growl and threw back her heavy long-robed cowl, in a vast terrifying reveal.
For she was really the wolf Big Bad hidden beneath the cape that he had stolen from Red Riding Hood at point.
“And now I’ve caught you too my pretty and surely t’wouldn’t be a pity if I gobbled you up in this joint.”
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T’was then the wee pig leapt to his feet And cried, “Big Bad Wolf, I shall defeat, for I am no ordinary swine!”
The little pig also wore sheep’s clothes spun in spells every woodland witch knows; Old Granny herself was quite divine.
“Now give me back my granddaughter’s cape, before I grab you by your ruffed nape and send you pig-squealing down the road…”
The wolf dropped the cape and ran, that cur, but Granny was swifter and hexed his fur and the wolf she turned into a toad.
Thus the moral of this story goes, when in the woods, no one really knows what sheepish sheep’s clothing is a ruse that big bad wolves and old witches use.
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So this is actually an intro to my next AI art journey with NightCafe which developed from me not getting the results I wanted (Little Red Riding Hood herself as a wolf). Here’s a preview with Eric’s versions as he is much more literal in his prompting than I am, but where’s the fun in that? 😉
Prompts (from left to right) in Dark Fantasy style, executed Aug. 1, 2023:
Bipedal wolf in Red Riding Hood’s cloak
Bipedal wolf in Red Riding Hood’s cloak close up portrait
Bipedal wolf in red cloak close up portrait
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.