The prince in gold was a girl, but she’d earned it and the word princess made her nose wrinkle. So on went the mantle of paint-stained canvas. On went the sword, a broken board. On went the rings of broken chains and stolen baubles. Last came the crown. The crown was all too real.
Her eyes flashed white, then were no eyes at all. They were pools of mist that snaked and slithered up her curls. Where she stepped, coins fell behind her that the street rat scooped up. Where she touched, their sickness faded, and so they hugged her, kissed her, clasped her feet.
Then they went into the fat, old side of town. For the prince in gold gives, but all that he gives, he must also take. Poverty. Plague. Pallor. Panic.
The old town turned gray.
While the little prince woke the next morn, full bellied, well-loved, and rosy-cheeked. She wasn’t a prince anymore, but she didn’t mind it much.
The poor children are said to never steal. And they don’t.
They sing silly songs about imaginary gods. Or forgotten ones.
Prompt: via textonlynopromises
the slums are bitter/and/cold under the mist/like bubbles catching all the rivers of the venetia/i am rising for you and with you and with you all/we will walk the star bridge for whenever.
(C) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins