Flash Fiction

Only the rat is my friend. While the dwarfs are out mining and the other woodland creatures are frolicking outside, building daisy chains and polishing the apples, he plays checkers with me, and never snitches when I cheat. He takes the blame willingly when I slip laxatives into Grumpy’s prune juice, or feed Doc’s violin to the goat that never seems to leave the living room. The beady eyed rodent nods sagely as I bitch about my stepmother in unprincesslike syllables, gnawing on goat droppings and wiping his whiskers on the divan. Only the rat sees me with my hair down, nibbling a few ebony strands loose to feather his nest with. Which is why, as he scampered over and danced on the key, I let the old woman in with her combs and laces.

"Snow White is Bored," by Helen R. Peterson.

Helen R. Peterson is the managing editor of Chopper Poetry Journal out of New London, Ct, and has previously published in Fell Swoop, Main Channel Voices, Gloom Cupboard, Tonopah Review, Cartier Street Review, Poor Mojo’s, Wilderness House Review, Battered Suitcase, diddledog, Hiss Quarterly, Right Hand Pointing, and many others. Her work was also featured in The Work Book, an anthology put out by Poet Plant Press in 2007.