Heroines: An Anthology of Short Fiction and Poetry

The Goddess Texts All Her Exes

Maddie Godfrey

the goddess of loneliness sips her tea from the top of mountains. she leans back on a blanket fort of storm clouds, stares at her fingernails with the forgetfulness of humans. she conjures wine from the wells of mortal makers, stirs this liquid through the red sea until it tastes almost holy. soon she is slurring her wisdom into poetry. sketches Aphrodite from memory, spells her name wrong in the caption.

the goddess of loneliness opens Spotify and plugs her Aux cord into every streetlight. they flicker to the bass line of Nemesis’ new diss track. the powerlines sag like frowns. she orders a burger on Chariot–Eats, curses the slow delivery time. tries to call Athena for a gossip session, but her owls answer instead. their hoots sound too much like pity.

the goddess of loneliness swipes through Tinder at 3:30am. Zeus sends her a pic of his lightning rod. Poseidon shares a string of wet emojis. Ares texts, y u up so late? and claims he has a motorcycle nearby. nobody asks her how soft the sky feels tonight. she dips her hands into the ocean, slips continents through the unoccupied spaces between her fingers.

the goddess of loneliness promises herself that she is still ethereal when reaching out. that being a little off balance does not mean you don’t deserve a pedestal. she looks down at her armour and sees only vulnerability. does not know how honesty can form a force field. how petals are strong, not because of their substance, but because they regenerate.

the goddess is too human tonight. she does not want to sleep alone. she commands the sunrise to hurry. Helios says his chariot is busy fetching her a burger. she sighs, and for a moment, all mortals ache with her loneliness.

The Girl and the Narratorial Intrusion

Annika Herb

There was once a young girl, born to a fine, upstanding family of wealth and success. She had a delightful childhood, with everything she could ever want for provided to her. Her family loved her dearly; her parents doted on her. She grew into a kind, beautiful young woman, one who would one day make a fine wife and mother. But as she grew older, she began to long for something more, something outside the ivory walls of her home. She wanted adventure, to fight dragons and see the real world, to eat fruit she had grown herself.

Her parents were worried and they discussed it at length in their bedchambers. Her father was against the idea but his wife convinced him. She recognised the longing in her daughter’s eyes, and she remembered what it had been like to be a young girl, so excited to see the world. And so, not wanting to trap their daughter, and as always, wanting desperately for her to have everything her heart desired, they kissed her brow and sent her out into the world.

The girl set off at dawn, brimming with excitement. The narrator decided to come along too and offer some useful advice, because sometimes they got really bloody sick of just watching these same old stories, you know?

It wasn’t long until they came across a wizened old woman, begging at the steps of the church in the town centre.

Ah, the locals are about, said the narrator. Quick question before you run over there and demonstrate your ridiculously kind and trusting nature: have you been betrothed to any princes, lately?

No, said the girl.

Carry on, then.

At once the girl fell to her knees in front of the old woman, clasping her hands.

You poor thing! What fate has befallen you to leave you so?

My dear child, it is nothing but life; I am grateful to be able to sit in the sun, and be blessed by the kindness of passersby. I am fortunate; there is no need to cry for me so.

The girl drew out a loaf of bread, still warm and fresh from that morning. She pressed it into the woman’s hands along with a gold coin, enough to buy a hundred more loaves.

How are you with today’s exchange rate? the narrator enquired, but the girl didn’t appear to hear them.

Oh, thank you, sweet child, the woman cried. She waved to the girl and the narrator as they set off again.

Why did you ask if I was betrothed, before? the girl asked.

Oh, it’s no big deal. If you had been, the wizened old woman would have been a jealous stepmother or even a witch, come to poison or maim you to prevent you marrying her son and taking over the throne. As you’re not, she’s just your garden-variety beautiful wise witch disguised as a beggar woman. You showed her kindness, so I’m sure we’ll run into her again when you’re in a jam and she’ll reward you, yada yada yada.

The girl had gone quite pale. A stepmother—a w-witch?

Yes, well, it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? I even described her as wizened. If you’re wizened, you’re either a good or bad witch in disguise— or you’re a rotting apple.

They continued on their way, the girl considering the narrator’s clever words.

"What if I’d overlooked her completely, or been

cruel?"

Well, then you would’ve been looking at your stock standard vengeance/ teaching curse. I mean, most of them say it’s to teach you young upstarts a lesson, but we all know that it’s more about the vengeance than anything else, don’t we?

As they walked further into town, they began to garner more stares. Well, the girl did, anyway, what with her rich clothes and long skirts and hair that had little to no lice in it.

A young boy, no more than five, ran up to the girl. He stared at her shyly, one thumb in his mouth and the other hand behind his back.

Why hello, the girl said with a smile, crouching down to meet him. How do you—oh!

For the boy had thrown a handful of mud at her and snatched her ruby necklace from around her throat, then sprinted off.

The girl blinked up at the narrator.

"To be fair, you were wearing rubies, they reminded her. Do you normally adorn yourself with fine jewels for hiking trips?"

It was from my mother, the girl said sadly, and the narrator patted her hand.

Never mind, I’m sure you’ll come across it again at some point through some series of contrived coincidences. Speaking of, I suggest you start running.

The little boy had clearly fetched his older brothers to alert them of the rich lady in town; they entered the town square with eager eyes. The two ran, darting around corners and narrow laneways. As they passed an almost hidden doorway, a hand shot out and grabbed the girl’s arm, dragging her inside. The narrator followed her in cheerfully.

I’m sorry for startling you, young lady, their rescuer said. I heard those boys chasing you, and I wanted to help.

Oh, thank you ever so much! the girl cried, wringing his hand. You are a good man, sir.

I am just a lowly shoemaker, the shoemaker said modestly. Perhaps you have seen my work—your own father often commissions my services for your family.

Of course! the girl said warmly. Why, you must be the finest shoemaker in all the land, and a hero to boot!

I love puns. I must try include them more often, the narrator said thoughtfully. I do find it hard to slip them in, though. The other two ignored this.

If you don’t mind me asking, my lady, what are you doing outside of your castle walls?

I wanted to seek my fortune, the girl confided. Her eyes lit up. I wanted to see the real world, to seek adventure. She wilted for a moment. I suppose you must think this is all rather silly.

Not at all! the shoemaker cried warmly. The narrator sneezed. In fact, my lady, let me help you on your way!

Oh, thank you, good shoemaker. I must say, I knew I was slightly naïve, but I wasn’t expecting all that out there.

Not to worry, said the shoemaker, rummaging through a closet. We shall soon have you sorted. Here—some of my finest walking boots. Even if your body grows tired, your shoes will never weaken.

The girl thanked him and slipped her feet into the boots.

Also, the shoemaker said. Ah, well, you had better disguise yourself in these clothes of my son, and hide those locks under this cap. My wife will help you bind your chest, and we will smear ashes from the fireplace across your face to better hide your true nature.

Our lovely heroine blinked in confusion. But why must I pretend to be a boy? Can I not dress as a peasant girl?

The shoemaker shifted, looking uncomfortable. Ah, well, my dear… we don’t want to cause any unwanted attention, you see. A young girl, wandering the countryside by herself? You could be set on by thieves or vagabonds!

HE MEANS YOU’LL TOTALLY GET RAPED, the narrator explained helpfully.

No, no, it’s not that, the shoemaker hastened to say, glaring at the narrator when he thought the girl wasn’t looking. It’s a safety precaution, yes, but it’s also a grand tradition! Princesses and girls of noble stature have been coming through these parts for years, and they always dress up as boys to have adventures.

The girl frowned. Why? Can’t I head out and have an adventure on my own, without cross-dressing? Are you saying girls can’t have adventures?

No, said the shoemaker.

Yes, said the narrator.

So what about when your wife goes out for a walk in the afternoons? Do you make her dress up in your clothes, as a ‘safety precaution’?

"No, not at all, my lady. For one thing, my wife would