《The fourteen fables, fairytales, and folk stories of the Fairest Maidens in the USA™ã€‹
FRAME STORY: A challenge for the fourteen Fairest Maidens?
Once upon a time there was a beauty pageant, and it was a motherfluffing train wreck.
The feminists weren''t the problem. Sure, the producers didn''t love being haunted by instagram call-to-actions urging their followers to demanding the show dropped the "antiquated male pastime of judging women''s bodies on national TV," and sure, it didn''t help that the high-school-aged children of said producers just stared awkwardly into their dinners when their parents shared their woes instead of offering the expected sympathies, but hey, a $10 million contract was a $10 million contract.
The church ladies also weren''t the problem. Their charges that the producers were heralding forth degeneracy in the holy US of A by shoving lewd material under the noses of impressionable youths and degrading women stung the more devout of the producers, who liked to tell themselves they were keeping a widely respected tradition alive, but a $10 million contract was still a $10 million contract.
The youths weren''t even the problem, for the first time in the history of problems. Afromentioned instagrammers aside, the young folk didn''t strike a single blow against the show, seemly unaware that it existed. Although the producers had braced themselves for the stinging online mockery that any corporation risked by attempting to keep their social media pages trendy, the $10 million contracts still seemed like easy money.
The problem was, let the haters hate all they want, but the show still needed...likers. When the contest first began to air and the lesser of the Fairest Maidens? were sent home in waves, almost no one bothered to behold them. The viewership was at a fourth of what the executives had expected, and despite the thousands of dollars the corporation poured into advertising, no one they met seemed to know or care who was crowned the Fairest Maiden in the USA?.
"It''s like I''ve been trying to tell you," the marketing intern said with a shrug when the three producers caught her in the hallway. "People just don''t want to watch beauty contests anymore. The liberals are offended by them, the conservatives are offended by them, and you can see more skin for a fraction of the time on Pornhub. I told you, it''s time to find a different project."
"No, there''s got to be a way," one producer said, wringing her soft hands. "If this tanks, we''ll have just cost the execs $10 million each. We''ll never find work again."
"We just need to modernize it," rushed the youngest producer, a woman in her 30s who had managed to convince herself the green shine of her hair masked the uncoolness of selling out and entering reality TV. "Maybe put more money into scholarships for the girls, or double the time limit for the talent portions--"
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"Yeah, that''ll do it," the intern said between slurps of her drink. "The kiddos will love that. ''So it turns out we''re at the ''strutting your stuff on TV for a desperate attempt to afford higher education without selling your soul to student loans'' stage of late-stage capitalism.''"
"Maybe we could make it egalitarian," suggested the young producer. "Get some hot men from each state in speedos--"
"Oh yeah, the conservative grandmas will will have no complaints there," the intern added. "Look, we''re on the edge of an increasingly polarized culture war in this lovely country of ours, and you''re a show that makes money off judging women''s looks. The best you could hope for is obscurity."
"Then maybe we need to go back. Back to when things weren''t so complicated," the oldest producer muttered to himself, staring at the projections on the intern''s computer.
"No," the intern said flatly.
But he didn''t listen.
"Hold on," Miss. Delaware said, pausing with her false lash hovering a millimeter above her quickly-drying lash line. "They''re adding a new category to the competition? Now?"
"We''re on in 10 minutes," Miss. Wyoming said, not helpfully.
Miss. Oregon shrugged helplessly. "Look, don''t shoot the messenger. All I know is that they''re going to be judging us on how well we tell "fable, fairytale, and folk stories" now. We have five minutes each."
"Do we need to tell one of each, or, like, can we choose if it''s a fable, fairytale, or whatever the last one was?" Miss. Illinois asked.
"With only five minutes? I hope just one."
"Okay, I''m taking Cinderalla," Miss. New Mexico said. "I don''t know what they''re--"
"No, they have to be original. They don''t want to have ever heard them before," Miss. Oregon clarified.
"Do they not know how folk tales work?" That was Miss. Mississippi, who was struggling with a particularly tangle-able string of pearls.
Miss. Oregon shrugged again. "They said they wanted to ''honor women''s natural roles as leaders of the culture, shaping our society''s morals and values through the tales we pass down.'' They''re judging us on the creativity, artistic quality, lesson, and cultural relevance of our stories, and said we have the potential to be ''the heralds of a movement with the potential to move mountains.'' They seemed really excited."
"That gender stuff seems like a big generalization at best," Miss. Hawaii muttered from her bench.
"Look, you can complain all you want, but I need to think up some bullshit about talking frogs or something in the next ten minutes. You use your time as you wish," Miss Oregon said with a final shrug, pinning a bobby pin between her lips and turning back to her mirror. And so the conversation came to an abrupt close, and the confused women were left with nothing more than their half-finished hairdos and the sound of the clock tick, tick, ticking away.
MISS. SOUTH CAROLINA: The Tale of the Wretched Ghosts
As Miss. South Carolina crept onto the stage, sweaty hands clutched too tight around her microphone, the cameramen fell silent and the stage lights dimmed. The announcer introduced the first contestant, and so began the first tale of the evening.
Hands shaking, she passed the mike to the announcer and speed-walked off-stage. "This has to be a joke," whimpered the oldest producer, head in his hands.
But it was as serious as his corporate future, and the next contestant was already walking onstage.
MISS. HAWAII: The Tale of the Pride Which had to Beg for Scraps
Miss. Hawaii strode into the spotlight, back straight and eyes raised to meet the uppermost cameras. As she took the microphone and lifted it to her lips, the producers felt a slight flicker of hope.
Once there lived a fearsome lion pride, ruled by the proud King Ezekiel. His brides Susannah and Sarah groomed his windswept mane and oversaw his hunts, while his followers Elijah, Naomi, Rebecca-Ruth, and Peter earned their keeps by scourging the savanna for meat under the strict surveillance of the lionesses.
When the four followers dragged their unfortunate victims back to their king, the lionesses would carefully divide the carcasses between the seven. To Ezekiel would go the lean meat of the thighs and hindlimbs and the head to mount above his royal bed, while to Susannah would go the rich rump and to Sarah would go the thin sheets of meat and fat coating the torso. As for the followers, they would be left the scraps, thrown by Sarah into the followers'' shared den.
Unbeknownst to Ezekiel and his queens, the followers would not fight over the scraps like kittens over a catnip toy. Rather, they had their own system of division. Old Elijah would claim the warm pelt, while sweet Naomi would take the organs to nibble on. Rebecca-Ruth would crack the bones and drink the rich marrow, and Peter would content himself with the gristle. As such, life continued peacefully for some time.
But good things can''t last forever, and it eventually became apparent that sweet Naomi was with cub. Old Elijah and amicable Peter both swore to the high heavens that they had not sired her baby, but any other option was unthinkable. And so the three other followers turned a blind eye to Naomi''s bashful looks at King Ezekiel and focused on the problem at hand.
"The organs aren''t enough for my growing cub," Naomi said with shame in her eyes, a paw around her rotund belly. "Every night I lay awake, shivering from the cold seeping through my thin pelt and nursing a rumbling stomach. Could I please have a shred of your fur, Elijah, or a lick of your marrow, Rebecca?
Rebecca-Ruth grumbled, "We did not choose to mother cubs we could not carry on our own, Naomi. Your poor choices should not be our burden to bear."
"Now, now," old Elijah meowed, "I wouldn''t be trotting upon this earth if my own mother hasn''t foolishly sired me. You may have a shred of my furs, Naomi."
"Oh thank you," she purred, rubbing her cheek against his. And so he imparted a few of his furs to her, and she slept a bit more soundly for a while.
But soon the weather turned chill, and old Elijah shivered so badly in the cold that he could not drag himself out of the den when the sun rose. "What''s this?" crowed Susannah, surveying the three lions assembled before her on the savanna. "Without Elijah, we will be unable to feed the pride! Naomi, Rebecca-Ruth, Peter -- you''d better bring home the bounty of four lions, or else the whole pack will suffer."
And so Naomi leapt with the length of four lions and Rebecca-Ruth ran with the speed of four lions and Peter fought with the ferocity of four lions, and they brought home a satisfactory bounty for King Ezekiel. But the three were so exhausted that they collapsed at the foot of their den that night, and when they awoke, they took to squabbling.
"Elijah, you lazy oaf!" Rebecca-Ruth scolded. "As you napped on, we worked ourselves to the brink so no one would suffer your absence!"
"The least you can do is give us your furs, if you plan to spend your days lounging in the warm midmorning sun," added Peter, uncharacteristically cross.
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Old Elijah shook his mangy head, slow and feeble. "It''s not my fault," he protested. "Blame Naomi, if you must. She''s the one that took my furs for her bastard cub."
"Hey now!" Naomi protested, backing into a corner. "I''ll die without those furs!"
"Then give us your organs, so we may recoup some of the strength we''re wasting on you," Peter said, his belly audibly rumbling. Naomi''s stomach growled with hunger too, but she divided up her organs between the three and curled up in her corner to shiver the remaining hour away.
When it again came time to hunt, only two lions appeared under Susannah and Sarah''s watchful eyes on the cold morning savanna. Poor old Elijah was curled into a ball in his den, shaking violently from the cold, and Naomi was wrecked with hunger pains so strong that she could barely walk.
But the pride needed feeding, and do the two lions hunted with the fever of a pride twice the size.
That night, Peter dragged himself into the den half blinded with rage. "Do you think I didn''t want to nap, as I tore through half the savanna without a moment''s rest?" he roared, shaking the day''s organs in Naomi''s direction and eating them in one gulp. "Do you think I didn''t want to curl up in the sun, as I tore my claws to shreds trying to make up for your wasted time?" he screamed at Elijan, throwing the day''s pelts into his own corner of the den, far from Elijah''s shivering form. "Do you think I didn''t want to laze the day away, as I pushed myself to the brink and beyond for you all?" he yowled, waving Rebecca-Ruth''s bones above his head and lunging to devour them.
There was a flash of fur and a scream, and Peter stumbled across the den floor, bleeding steadily from a nasty gash on his head. Rebecca-Ruth licked blood from her claw, gathered her precious bones against her scrawny body, and growled. Peter did not, could not, do anything but collapse on his furs and nurse his wounds.
And so as the sun rose the next day, Susannah and Sarah stood on the savanna, awaiting their army. And yet only mangy Rebecca-Ruth plodded out of the den.
"Parasites," hissed Sarah. "Your comrades have abandoned you, Rebecca."
"Lazy little good-for-nothing," Susannah snarled. "Do your fellows think they''re entitled to their scraps?"
Rebecca-Ruth, gaunt and exhausted to the bone, looked from one fat lioness to the other. Even one day of hunting for four would leave her as nothing more than a corpse rotting under the sun. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we do." And then she lay down in the sun and took a well-earned nap.
The lionesses looked at one another, and then they looked down at Rebecca-Ruth. They prodded her with their paws. "Rebecca?" they said. "What are you doing, Rebecca?"
But Rebecca-Ruth was too busy being a lazy good-for-nothing to respond.
"Bah! They''ll come crawling back, tails between their legs," vowed Susannah, and the two returned to their king to share the horrid news. And he roared with rage and told his queens to gather their belongings; they''d find a new pride--a hardworking pride--out in the savanna, and leave the good-for-nothings to rot.
But it was not to be. Sarah was too round from years of snacking on fat to chase prey, and Susannah''s claws had become too brittle from years of disuse to slay even the smallest of the plains-mice. And so Ezekiel cast his brides aside and lowered himself to all fours to hunt his own meal, but alas -- his slow pace sent his prey scattering like leaves in the wind, leaving him to return to his brides with nothing but the jeers of the antelopes ringing in his ears.
And so it was Ezekiel and his brides that returned to the cave with their tails between their legs, and it took mighty begging from all three for their followers to acquiesce to helping them become hunters as fearsome as the lions they''d once lorded over. And they caught a banquet fine enough to welcome Naomi''s cub into the world, and enough left over for Elijah''s retirement besides.
Sometimes, now, you''ll see them tearing across the savanna -- Rebecca-Ruth and Sarah in the lead, Peter and Susannah in the rear, Naomi and Ezekiel in the middle with their cub swinging by the scruff of his neck from his mother''s mouth. See how lean and strong Sarah and Susannah''s have grown? See how well Rebecca-Ruth''s gaunt body has filled out, and how luscious Peter''s coat has become? Savor it, because you''ll see few prides so successful on these savannas -- a healthy pride, and a happy pride, never again to bear the humiliation of being the pride which had to beg for scraps.
The auditorium filled with hesitant applause, and Miss. Hawaii was promptly disqualified for breaking the time limit.
MISS. IDAHO: The Tale of the Bird in the Cage
Miss. Idaho walked onto the stage like she owned it. Raising her arms to boisterous applause, the contest favorite whooped and clapped. "I have a story for all you trad trophy stay-at-home-girlfriend ladies and corporate gents humping your boss'' legs!" she called. The applause petered away as quickly as it had started. Unfazed, Miss. Idaho began her tale.
Way back when the earth was young, there were two fledgling chicks, barely bigger than my thumb, who took flight from their childhood nest together. They flapped their little wings with all the strength they could muster, but still they tumbled to the ground. Again and again they tried to take to the air, moving only a few meters each time before falling back to earth, and their beaks trembled with exhaustion by the time the sun had set. In the darkness, the smaller of the two lost track of his brother and, overwhelmed by the looming loneliness he¡¯d never before experienced, opened his beak to call for help.
His desperate plea fell upon the ears of a nearby human, who rushed out and scooped the baby bird into her hands. ¡°Oh, what a beautiful voice! I shall treasure you forever,¡± she swooned. His brother watched, helpless, as the human swept her brother out of the forest.
As the weeks passed, the bigger bird struggled throughout the entire forest, trying to find where his brother had been taken. As time passed, his little body grew stronger and his wings grew larger, until he was able to screen the entire forest from upon high and pinpoint the woman¡¯s house. Floating down, he landed to see his brother sitting, fluffy and clean, in a little golden cage. ¡°Brother, I¡¯ve come for you!¡± he cried. ¡°When the woman comes to clean your cage, fly out, and we¡¯ll escape together into the forest!¡±
¡°Oh, but brother, if only you knew!¡± the smaller bird chirped. ¡°Life is so wondrous in a cage. I¡¯m protected from the raptors high in the sky and the cold seeping from the earth. I eat like a king and laze my days away, and all Lauren asks of me is my beautiful voice. Sing for her, brother, and we could live with the dignity of eagles for the rest of our lives!¡±
¡°Eagles don¡¯t dangle from windows in little golden cages,¡± the larger bird said sadly. ¡°I will return for you when you¡¯ve grown from your childhood ignorance.¡±
True to his word, he returned the following spring, wiry and battle-scarred. ¡°Brother, come with me,¡± he pleaded again. ¡°I¡¯ve got a fine nest you can recover your strength in, and a fine flock of chicks who want to meet their uncle. It¡¯s not too late, brother.¡±
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¡°Oh, but it is,¡± the smaller bird replied, reclining on his plush perch. He had grown yet smaller than his brother, although he was a great deal rounder. ¡°I have traveled on my Lauren¡¯s shoulder to the finest galas in the kingdom, to deserts and icy tundras and lush rainforests you could never imagine. I¡¯ve sung for kings and priests, my brother! Look at you, scarred and scrawny¨Cwho will sing your name once you¡¯re gone? Offer up your beautiful voice besides mine, and you¡¯ll never need to suffer again.¡±
¡°You¡¯d have me abandon my family,¡± his brother said with a defeated sigh. ¡°I¡¯ll return again, once old age has imbued you with wisdom.¡±
True to his word, he returned three springs later, flanked by his two oldest grandsons. He was wizened and missing a talon, but his eyes were bright. ¡°Well, brother?¡± he called. ¡°Will you come with me, and live out your golden years among your grand-nieces and nephews?¡±
¡°My poor brother,¡± the smaller bird responded, ruffling wings frail with disuse. He was so plump and well-groomed that one could mistake him for a bird half as young, if only he weren¡¯t betrayed by the rasp rotting his voice. ¡°Live out my golden years, amid maggots and dirt and a sky full of predators? What, do you wish me dead? Why should we toil over swamps for flies when we could have our every whim catered to in exchange for the music of our beautiful voices¨C¡±
He fell silent, beady eyes widening.
¡°Our beautiful voices?¡± the larger bird whispered. ¡°Sing for me, brother.¡±
The smaller bird opened his beak, but only a squawk emerged. He tried again and again, sending nearby songbirds scattering. Finally, he retreated into his corner, trembling. ¡°Save me, brother,¡± he whispered.
¡°I¡¯m just a bird. I cannot open cages. You need to fly when she opens your cage next,¡± his brother urged. But the smaller bird shook his head, eyes wide with fear.
¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m strong enough.¡± He tucked himself into his wings. ¡°I have sung for her faithfully for four years. Surely she¡¯ll forgive me for my inabilities. Perhaps she could find use for me as a¡as a¡.¡± he trailed off, shrinking into himself.
¡°I¡¯ll return with an army of my grandchildren, when they¡¯ve grown strong,¡± his brother promised. But when the forest grew golden under the autumn sun and the flock finally arrived at Lauren¡¯s cabin, no trace of the cage or the bird within was left.
MISS. PENNSYLVANIA: The Tale of the Men on the Bus
Miss. Pennsylvania stumbled onto stage, staring up at the spotlights like a deer in the headlights. Taking the microphone, she laughed awkwardly and said, ¡°Oh wow, I don¡¯t know where those girls pulled those stories from! Oh my gosh¡.¡± She looked back into the wings. ¡°Good job, ladies!¡± Scattered chuckles. Miss. Pennsylvania uneasily faced the crowd again and wrapped her free arm around her waist. ¡°This isn¡¯t much of a story¡I mean, it¡¯s¡it¡¯s real, though, and from Pennsylvania, so¡um, I hope you enjoy.¡± She took a deep breath and began.
It wasn¡¯t many years ago, maybe 2017 or 2018, when I was on the bus with¨Ca pretty full bus. There were women with children and some elderly folks, and across from me sat two men. Two middle aged white men, both casually dressed in jeans and t-shirts. I think the larger of the two was wearing some goofy graphic tee, and the smaller was wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Anyway, the bus is quiet, and then the Hawaiian-shirt-man¡¯s phone rings and he answers it.
Pause. ¡°Hi, Lucy! How are ya?¡± Pause. ¡°Aww, thank you so much! I wish I was home with you guys, too. We can celebrate Father¡¯s Day when I get home¨CFather¡¯s Day on Tuesday, ha!¡± Oh, right, it was Father¡¯s Day. Anyway, there was another long pause. ¡°Oh, honey, thank you so much. I¡¯m so lucky I get to be your father, too.¡± Pause.
By this point I¡¯m almost tuning him out¨Cjust reading my kindle¨Cbut out of the corner of my eye, I notice the woman beside me staring across the aisle. I look up, and I see that the man in the graphic tee is crying.
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He¡¯s not loud and the Hawaiian-shirt-man doesn¡¯t notice, but his eyes are red and tears are definitely streaming down his cheek, and he¡¯s just staring down into his lap. I look around the bus, and a few other people are noticing. They look at me, unsure, and I just helplessly stare between them and the man.
¡°Oh yeah, how did your presentation go? Were you able to cut it down to five minutes?¡± Pause. ¡°Oh well, next time. Given how funny your analysis slides were, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve cinched an A, anyway.¡± Pause. ¡°The conference was¡well, honestly, it was a total snoozefest.¡± Pause, eyeroll, smile. ¡°Yes, yes, you were right and I was wrong. Do you want a medal? Maybe a cookie?¡±
Besides him, the man puts his head in his hands and begins to tremble with silent tears.
¡°Oh, my stop¡¯s coming up. Love you, honey! See you soon!¡± The man stands and strides out of the train when it comes to a stop, oblivious to what¡¯s happening around him.
I think I ride for ten more minutes. At each stop, a fraction of the people get off, staring at each of the other passengers and back to the man with what do we do? plastered on the lines of their faces. He never looks up. I¡¯m not sure he¡¯s aware of any of us, the way we¡¯re looking between ourselves.
The train is pretty empty when I get off, but the man is still there. I don¡¯t¡I know he must have gotten off, but in my mind, he¡¯s still there, alone on that train.
I¡¯m¡I¡¯m sorry, there isn¡¯t an ending.
Miss. Pennsylvania shuffled out of the spotlight as though in a daze, and the audience almost forgot to applause.
MISS. OREGON: The Tale of the Man who Tried to Escape Society
Miss Oregon marched onto stage, nodding curtly at Miss. Idaho as she passed. With a quick, clipped voice, she began:
Once, my mother told me, there lived a man who learned his city had voted to build a public housing project on the grounds of his favorite park. Now, this was no ordinary park¨Cit was the park of his childhood, where he¡¯d climbed his first trees and watched his first meteor shower, fed his first ducks and snuck his first kiss under the shade of a willow tree! Horrified, the man leapt to his feet and raced to the park, but alas, it was too late. Ugly yellow bulldozers were already crushing the fresh grass, and the last of the trees were being hauled away in noisy trucks. ¡°How could we be so cruel? Who are we to tear up the ground and harvest nature for its parts?¡± he lamented, but nobody listened. And so he hardened his heart to humankind and devoted himself to living among nature, among the animals and plants that would never dream of bending the world to their will.
He sold his possessions, bought an RV, and drove into the wild Oregonian mountains until he found a grassy field off a logging road in which to park and start to clear land for his farm. But what was this ¨C another RV pulled up within a day, and a loud, boisterous family emerged with fishing rods in hand! My mother tells me that the man turned his back and tried to tune out the chattering of their children, but it was soon too much¨Ctoo much noise, too much intrusion, too much humanness¨Cand he drove right back into the city to sell the RV and buy the raw materials for a shack¨Csheets of metal, windowpanes, an old sink¨Cand a truck to haul them in.
The moment he was lost from view of the dealership, he sped as far from mankind as roads would take him, down miles of gravel roads until the track petered out into the dark woods of the Cascades. There, he dug the foundation for his one-room shack and began drilling the metal sheets together. It was tiring work, and soon he chose to curl up on the dirt (my mother made sure to tell me it felt so right to sleep against bare earth) and nap. But he was awoken by a blast¨Ca gun, shattering the silence and sending animals skittering down the hill! The hunters hadn¡¯t even walked into view when the man threw down his hammer in disgust and drove back down the hill.
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He sold his truck to a used dealership and bought a tiny car, into which he put nothing more than a tent, a camping stove, and a water filter. His meager belongings so arranged, he drove into the dust of the Oregonian badlands, past hills of nothing but sagebrush as far as the eye could see. He pulled off the highway onto a sideroad, off the sideroad onto a barely-visible dirt trail, and then abandoned the car and carried his supplies over the desolate hills. The light faded, the night turned cold, and eventually the man pitched his tent and fell asleep in perfect solitude.
He was awoken in the dead of night by a nagging thirst¨Che¡¯d brought a water filter, but he had yet to find a stream and it had been hours since he¡¯d last drunken. Tired and disoriented, he stumbled outside and set off to find a source of water.
He hiked up hills and down valleys, tripping over sage bushes in the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds above. He heard something¨Ca bird?--and set off eagerly in its direction, eyes aching as he tried to piece together shapes in the darkness, until he realized he no longer knew the direction of his camp.
And so he wandered and he wandered, the night growing colder and the burn in his throat growing stronger and his head growing cloudier. Eventually, something grabbed his attention ¨C something neon and unnatural, swaying in the breeze to his right. Something distinctly manmade.
Bile rose in his throat, and his face turned blood-red with anger. He''d frozen and thirsted and abandoned his life to live among the last shreds of the untouched world, and still he could not escape humanity? With a roar and the last drop of his energy, he tore at the synthetic orange material until it was a scrap of fabric at his feet. The clouds above slid out from under the moon, and as the man sank to his knees from exhaustion, he beheld that the destroyed campsite was his own.
"Jesus, guess the hippies got to her," the oldest producer muttered from his front-row seat.
Miss. Oregon''s eyes swiveled to him. "Some of them," she said, matter-of-fact, and with that she turned on her heel and marched offstage.
MISS. MAINE: The Tale of Annika, the Seafaring Cat
Miss. Maine padded softly onto the stage, brushing her long hair out of her face. Raising the microphone to her lips, she said, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, this has been thought-provoking, but...is there some rule I haven''t heard that says folktales can''t be, y''know, fun?"
"Nope!" Miss. Idaho yelled from backstage.
Miss. Maine cracked her trademark cute grin. "Do you guys wanna hear the story about Annika, the seafaring cat?"
"Hell yeah!" Miss. Idaho yelled again. Miss. Hawaii cheered behind her, and so the tale began.
Once upon a relatively recent time there lived a cat named Annika. Now Annika may have had four little paws like any other cat and she may have had a long twitchy tail like any other cat, but Annika had a secret: she loved the sea.
Towering waves? No bother. Dastardly whirlpools? Not a single hair on her fluffy back would raise. Now, cats are not technically compatible with the sea, and it cost her her first five lives to figure out exactly how to sail Point A to Point B, but by the time her sixth life rolled around she was a master of the high seas, dashing around the globe with the ease of kittens killing a catnip mouse.
During her annual trip to Malta, word fell on Annika''s pointed ears that a ship of pirates were scourging the Mediterranean and leaving no prisoners. Without a moment''s pause, our good-hearted Annika began hatching a plan.
When the new moon let fall a blanket of darkness over her sleepy town, Annika snuck into a local department store and dragged the mannikens out, on by one, by the motion-sensor front door. Once she had a small ''crew'' assembled, she dragged them to a fancy police cruiser in the bay and happily tramped on their plastic faces until they were a sore sight to behold. Lifting anchor, she set sail into the gaping blackness of the sea with her tail held high.
With her superior sense of smell and hearing, it wasn''t long before she managed to slide into sight of the pirates. "Hey! Who goes there?" screamed the watchman, peering into the darkness through his spyglass.
"Meow," Annika primly replied, standing on the edge of the boat. The dim starlight illuminated the silhouettes of the destroyed mannequin surrounding her.
"Cap''n?" called the watchman. "There''s, uh, a boat here full of corpses. And a little pussycat ''n the middle."
"What? Who''d kill a pussycat?" demanded the pirate captain, emerging from his cabin.
"N''sir. Pussycat''s alive and well. I think she''s eat''n one of the corpses, sir."
"Let me see," the pirate demanded, grabbing the watchman''s spyglass. Holding it to his eye, he whispered, "Holy mother of cow, that pussycat single-handedly destroyed them policemen that''v been hounding us. With her on our side, we''ll be able to take the Italian isles. Pull her up, men, pull her up!"
The men threw down a rope, but instead of waiting to be rescued, Annika leapt over the waves, grabbed the twine, and nimbly climbed to deck. The assembled pirates marveled at her skill and dexterity. Annika rolled at the feet of the captain and purred, then hissed and yowled when the first mate tried to pet her belly.
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"I''m ''fraid she doesn''t like you, sonny," the watchman laughed. The captain, adoring, scooped Annika into his arms and set off to fit her with the proper gear.
Once she was dressed in a small mouse-print bandana and two pairs of the finest leather booties, she set to work annihilating the ship''s vermin--to the captain''s delight--and stashing the tiny bodies in the first mate''s clothing--to no one''s delight, since no one noticed her doing so. But when morning came around and the first mate lifted his tri-point hat, what should fall splat on his head but a dead mouse?
"Sir!" the first mate declared as he stormed into the captain''s room. "That cat¨C"
"What ''bout our fearsome huntress, who I love so dearly?" the pirate captain asked.
The first mate gulped. "I...I heard the watchm''n say a fat barque is heading our way, loaded with rich old guppies. Let''s put our ferocious kitty to the test, and send her t'' clear the ship!"
"Jolly good!" said the captain. "Bring the kitty hither!"
And so Annika was sent in a liferaft off across the sparkling blue seas to bring the barque down.
No sooner had the pirate ship become a smudge on the horizon that Annika''s boat knocked against the barque. Clambering aboard, she raised up such a catterwaul that all the ship''s passengers came running. "A pirate cat? Whatever could this mean?" asked the cook.
"Look! She came in the direction of that ship on the distance! It must be the dread pirates of the warm sea!" cried a little girl, pointing. The passengers began to wail in alarm.
Quickly, then, Annika raced to the far side of the boat and pawed at the liferafts. Picking up her cue, the passengers began to load themselves into boats. Conversation broke about who would remain to lower the last boat, but then all hushed, for Annika lifted her furry paw and began to lower the liferafts herself!
When all passengers were thus saved and rowing towards the distant shores, protected from the pirates'' view by the body of the abandoned ship, Annika set to work. She scratched the planks. She scattered the kitchen knives across the floor with flicks of her paws. She drowned the deck in vats of tomato soup, and shred the passenger''s leftover clothes until the deck was coated in scraps. When she was done, she loaded the raft with spoils and sped back to the pirates.
"Our pussycat returns victorious!" cheered the captain, hoisting Annika and her raft ashore. "Quick, men! Hoist the sales!" When they were close enough to behold Annika''s handiwork, the men whooped and hollered, and tripped overthemselves to lower the gangplank and overtake the waiting, wealth-ladened barque.
The captain ran from room to room, gathering coins and throwing them in the air like rain, and the watchman gorged himself on the rich food stores in the kitchen, but the first mate was far more surely. He paced on the deck, muttering angrily to himself. And then he slipped and fell face-first into a pile of blood.
Only...it wasn''t blood. Why did it smell suspiciously like...
"Tomato soup?" he hollered, scrambling to his feet. "That dangnabit kitty tricked us!"
But it was too late. The pirate ship was already a league away, with Annika at its helm. And the pirates'' cannons, guns, knives, and all other goodies safely stored beneath her paws.
It wasn''t long before the guard arrived at the barque, sent by the passengers who''d washed to shore, and there they found the most sheepish cast of pirates you ever did see. They gave up without a fight, and the whole town came out to see the pirates ¨C dressed in the finest velvets, with the richest of cake crumbs sprinkled across their chests ¨C marched through the streets with iron shackles around their wrists. But that old pirate captain, well, he cursed Annika''s name to the high heavens and beyond, lathering so much hatred on her good name that it was said her soul must have withered and died right there!
But she had three more lives left, so it was just another feather in the cap of Annika, the seafaring cat.
"You''re at 4:58, babe," Miss. Hawaii yelled from offstage.
"Darn it. Guess I''ll need to figure out what happens in the rest of Annika''s lives another time," Miss. Maine said, dropping into a little curtsy for the audience. "It''s been an honor, America!" She walked offstage to thunderous applause.
MISS. DELAWARE: The Tale of the "Courier"
Visibly shaking with excitement, Miss. Delaware speed-walked onto stage, eyes glowing with...adrenaline? Fear? Something more illegal? The producers had no time to wonder, because the moment Miss. Delaware had the mike in hand, she took a deep breath and recited in a feverish exhale:
Once upon a time past and future and right this moment, a man is trying to deliver a letter. He races through meadows overcrowded with flowers and is chased by a band of angry ground hornets. He runs through icy deserts and bypasses the fairy queens coming out to worship to the dark of the year¡¯s first new moon. He¡¯s dashed half to bits against his ship¡¯s scratched deck on the stormy seas off a long-forsaken island, and survives only by proposing to a mermaid spinster (whom he abandons the moment he''s safely on dry land). He¡¯s delayed a week in the coastal town of a treeless desert, where the kindhearted people take away his ship with which to build fires to warm their young. He slays a fearsome dragon to rescue the dragon¡¯s kidnapped witch, with whom to seek advice on which of three forked paths to continue. He ends a dictators¡¯ siege of a trans-arctic railway, making way for daring heroes to rescue the poor citizens of his frigid dystopia, and is declared the Liberator of the People. At last he reaches the castle, drops his letter at the foot of the queen and collapses, dead from exhaustion. He shall forever be remembered, as reads the gravestone the queen bestowed upon him in postmortem honor, as ¡°A courier.¡±
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INTERMISSION: first round of voting
The host strode onstage and forced a laugh. "That Miss. Arkansas, bringing the fire!" he said. "Do remember ladies, there''s kids at home watching. We want to be good role models, don''t we, girls?" No response from backstage. In the front row, the intern guffawed.
The host cleared his throat and addressed the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the first round of beautiful stories from our beautiful ladies. What do you say, folks? Which of these stories do you want to see immortalized as true American folktales? Remember, everyone gets three votes each. The top three winners of each round will go on to compete in tomorrow''s swimsuit competition."
As the curtain closed and the auditorium''s lights turned back on, the oldest producer pulled out his phone. "How is it going? What are people saying?" he asked the intern.
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She pulled up X. "Well, the top comment on our voting livestream is urging people to vote for Miss. Idaho because "brothers, now is our chance. Our chance to see those milkers popping out a bikini top." The second top comment is "shoulda guessed the Chinese chick would be a commie."
"Hawaii''s story was communist?" the middle producer asked, wrinkling her brow in concern.
"Emily''s talent portion was singing a Cambodian folksong from her grandparent''s village," the intern sighed. "Anyway, the third comment is "the libs are at it again (throwing up emoji)." Do you want me to continue?"
The youngest producer waved her off. "How many comments does the livestream have?"
"Uh...2192."
"And how many views?"
"27k?"
"Oh my gosh." The youngest producer pulled out her own phone. "Guys, it''s working!" It''s working! We''re actually getting traction. Oh my gosh." She composed herself. "Valentina send Ted the sign to start the voting. And tell the girls to keep things a little more...enjoyable." She clapped her hands together and squeezed. "We might pull this off after all."
MISS. ARKANSAS: The Tale of the Girl with the Bloody Heel (If the Shoe Fits)
When the auditorium lights dimmed once more and the host announced the eighth story of the night, Miss. Arkansas pushed her way forward from the back of the crowd of contestant in the wings. "Look, I''m not here to start drama, but you''re just as much a sexy lamp as the rest of us," she whispered to Miss. Idaho, pausing before the edge of the stage. "Do you think we''re fighting to be crowned the most talented woman in America?" Miss. Idaho just smirked and gestured her forwards.
"Oh, this should be good," Miss. Connecticut whispered to Miss. Oregon. The latter shrugged, and the two settled to watch the show.
I know you don¡¯t like her, and that¡¯s okay; I don¡¯t really like her either. You could call her cruel, and no one would argue against that. You could call her vain, and I¡¯d wholeheartedly agree. But I¡¯ve gotta resist you calling her stupid.
She wasn¡¯t always pretty. She¡¯s had to grow into herself, I think; grow into her long legs, her big ears, the volume of that brilliant blonde hair that makes her and her sister the envy of all women on this side of the Rhine. She told me that the first time she saw herself in the mirror and felt proud of what she saw, she cried. With her looks came more friends, and that¡¯s how she got her job at that brewery. No, no boyfriends (although she could have gotten a boy if she wanted to)--friends. And then one of her friends got her some powder and a little rouge for her birthday, and her tips began to increase, and I think that¡¯s how she began to get obsessed with her looks.
I mean, who knows, maybe it came from her home. When her father died, her mother really began to flounder. Oh, you didn¡¯t know? Yeah, they were living hand to mouth for a while, two little girls and only one unwed woman to feed them. Anyway, lucky woman, her mother caught the eye of Cinderella¡¯s father and that was that. That¡¯s how she, her sister, and her mother came to live in luxury. Her aunt, a sweet girl but very plain, was widowed young as well but couldn¡¯t remarry, and last I heard she and her sons were living in a church-provided house.
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Or maybe her vanity came from having Cinderella to boss around, a silent servant to plait her hair and lace her dresses and polish her jewelry. I did say she was cruel.
Anyway, all I¡¯m trying to say is that I don¡¯t think she was stupid, listening to her mother¡¯s suggestion the way she did. She would have gotten away with it, if Cinderella¡¯s weird psychic birds hadn¡¯t done the whole ¡°coo coo, there¡¯s blood in the shoe¡± thing. And can you imagine what it would have been like, if she¡¯d been queen? She could have saved her aunt and cousins, made sure her mother never had to depend financially on a man again, decked her sister in gold and sent her to travel the world! She could have forged peace for us all or condemned the kingdom to war, could have twisted the laws to her heart¡¯s desire. Oh, I think she would have done a terrible job, but who doesn¡¯t want that power?
No, you fool, I¡¯m not trying to imply she did it for herself. Of course she didn¡¯t slice off her own heel for herself. All I¡¯m trying to say is that her mom was right¨Cshe wouldn¡¯t have needed to walk as queen. She wouldn¡¯t have needed to do anything she didn¡¯t want to as queen. So can you really call her stupid for making the shoe fit?
Miss. Arkansas didn''t stick around to wait for applause. Turning on her heel, she marched back to the group, her eyes on Miss. Idaho.
"Hey, I really liked that," Miss. Connecticut said, as though to smooth over any fight before it could begin. "I think you did a great job reflecting on our society''s condemnation of women for the very thing they--"
"I liked it too," Miss. Idaho said. Miss. Connecticut hushed and sank back into her seat.
"W...really?" Miss. Arkansas asked.
"Yeah." Miss. Idaho paused. "Maybe I need to be gentler to myself."
Miss. Arkansas opened her mouth to respond and faltered. Before she could collect herself, the host announced the next girl, and she quietly retreated to the back of the crowd.
MISS. NEW MEXICO: The Tale of the Mermaid Queens
Miss. New Mexico walked onstage, stealing glances back at the girls behind her. Facing the audience, she visibly composed herself and stared off beyond the spotlights. With a calm smile, she began,
Fairytales are rife with legends of mermaids frolicking throughout the seven seas, but few know that these fine folks only represent one branch of the mermaid family tree. Their distant cousins are the lake-dwelling mermaids, whom legend says abandoned the salty seas for their isolated domiciles several centuries ago (although no record holds tale of these fine creatures until the early 20th century!).
The sea-dwelling mermaids and the lake-dwelling mermaids lived in deliberate segregation, never meeting for more than an ill-fitted delegation or conference, until that great bloody battle¨C
Miss. New Mexico winked at Miss. Delaware
¨Cbetween the merfolk and the land-dwellers. At this, it was decided that the two branches must meet and work in allegiance to one another Over barnacle-devoured limestone tables the mermen generals crafted plans of attacks, disbanding and rebanding as the ever-changing war demanded. But the battle abroad was only half of the war, and in the seas, the mermaids struggled to raise their generation of hatchlings and prepare their sons for the war that would soon claim them away, without the aid of their male counterparts. The great mermaid queen of the seas grew concerned for her sisters in their landlocked compartments and, shedding her busy schedule of governing her kingdom¡¯s womenfolk for a few days, journeyed inland to meet the lake-mermaids¡¯ queen.
The lake-mermaid lived in a grand lake in the middle of a secluded forest, her waters shaded by thick droves of trees and perfumed by a ring of wildflowers and moss growing right on the shore. The royal eggs basked in a nest of the finest petrified wood, and the sandy button of the lake saw swept clean and sprinkled with beautiful rocks. The sea-mermaid queen earnestly complimented the lake-mermaid queen on her lovely abode, but their conversation soon soured.
¡°Why, we haven¡¯t had a shred of problems,¡± the lake-mermaid queen said, indignant at the sea-mermaid queen¡¯s concern. ¡° I¡¯m honored to be the caregiver for the King¡¯s sanctuary and the heirs to the throne. I spend my days polishing my clutch of eggs and scrubbing the stones of algae, content in my knowledge that my King will return to a warm and welcoming abode and my children will grow up, safe and protected, from the dangers of the outside world ¨C what more could a mermaid want?¡±
The sea-mermaid queen was taken aback. ¡°And your subjects? Are they as satisfied as you?¡±
¡°Well, I would assume so,¡± the lake-mermaid queen replied, haughty. ¡°I care for my little kingdom within these shores, and they care for their own little kingdoms across the continent. I have heard my husband report no ill-feelings from his subjects, and why should they? We are protected in these lakes, away from the orcas that you sea creatures must chase away from your clutches, away from the corrupting influences of the weaker characters among us. Thank you for your concern, dear, but if anyone should be taking a lesson here, it is you.¡±
And so the sea-mermaid queen left, and the battle raged on, and a great many losses were wrecked upon the sea-mermaids. Their seaweed farms were stricken with blight, a legion of humans collapsed the underwater cave systems holding half their obsidian stores, and one by one word returned of mermen that had been lost to the war. The sea-mermaid queen dashed from coast to coast, comforting widows and delivering clay with which to repair community nests, building dolphin-skin beds in shared caves to house the elderly with no sons left to care for them and delivering messages of hope in her shrill whistle. When her daughters were grown enough to shoulder some of her duties, the sea-mermaid queen decided to pay another visit to her lake-bound counterpart.
When she arrived, she found the lake-mermaid queen almost too busy to entertain her, floundering between her nest of guppies and the small army of juvenile mermaids splashing around the lake¡¯s perimeter. A pair of mermaid assistants fed her squabbling babies shreds of raw trout, and an old mermaid swept the lakebed free of algae with a twig broom. ¡°Problems?¡± the lake-mermaid queen chuckled when she stole a moment to talk to the sea-mermaid queen. ¡°I¡¯m spending each and every moment with my children! When my husband comes home, I have the honor of caring for the ruler of our scattered kingdoms, and ¨C Starfish, put that down! No, that does not go in your mouth ¨C I can devote my life to seeing my children grow. I¡¯m raising the next generation of warriors! Of course I have no complaints.¡±
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¡°And your subjects?¡± the sea-mermaid queen asked.
¡°I haven¡¯t heard a word of complaint!¡± the lake-mermaid queen laughed, her voice high and a little too breathy. ¡°I¡¯m not like you, dear. I¡¯m not racing from school of subjects that wouldn''t care less if I died to school of subjects that don¡¯t know my favorite color, scooping their problems onto my own shoulders while my children grow lonesome back in their nest. You should try it sometime¨CI¡¯m sure your guppies will thank you.¡±
The sea-mermaid queen flushed pink. ¡°My guppies are receive the finest of care from their own grandmother. They¡¯re hardly being¨C.¡± She took a deep inhale of water. ¡°If you are content and I am content, then I have no more business here.¡±
But the lake-mermaid queen was too busy chasing down two brawling sons of hers to hear, and so the sea-mermaid quietly slipped away.
The war flickered and died as leader upon leader on both sides died, exhausting the humans and mermaids alike. At last, the king of the lake-mermaids fell on a human¡¯s harpoon, and a declaration of surrender was signed. Scores of lake-mermaids were expelled into the sea and had to be taken in by their ocean-dwelling cousins, but word said that thousands more were still dispersed among isolated lakes in deep forests and stormy mountains that humans never explored.
The sea-mermaid queen worked herself to the bone, overseeing the accommodation of the refugees and welcoming home her kingdom¡¯s battle-worn mermen, but she had a small army of her children and siblings to help her and soon found herself with time on her webbed hands once more. As much anger as she fostered for the lake-mermaid queen, she couldn¡¯t help but feel grief for the widow any time her husband swept her off her tail. And so she took two of her daughters and set off to visit the lake-mermaid queen.
When they arrived, the lake was still and silent under the moonlight. The shores which had once been lush with flowers and lush with playing children were trampled and empty, and the nest was scattered with long-discarded eggshells being slowly chipped away by the lapping water. The sea-mermaid queen finally found the widowed queen floating at the bottom of her lake, idly sweeping the barren ground.
¡°Where are your children?¡± the sea-mermaid queen asked.
¡°Happy and healthy, in lakes of their own.¡± The lake-mermaid queen smiled but would not make eye contact with her guest.
¡°And your subjects?¡±
¡°Content in their own lakes, of course.¡±
¡°And you? Why are you still here?¡±
The lake-mermaid queen opened her mouth as though to respond and paused. She rubbed her arms and looked around, still not making eye contact. Finally, she whispered, ¡°I devoted my life to my lake. Where would I have to go?¡±
The sea-mermaid queen brushed a strand of algae out of the lake-mermaid queen¡¯s hair. ¡°We¡¯re taking refugees,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯d take you.¡±
The lake-mermaid queen withdrew from her touch. ¡°I¡¯m no pity case,¡± she declared.
The sea-mermaid queen would have left her then, but she couldn¡¯t bear to abandon her to such an empty lake. ¡°You love your children. What will happen as they age?¡± she asked softly. ¡°Is this fate their reward for a life well lived?¡±
The sea-mermaid queen had no answer for her. And so the old queen and her remaining subjects moved into the ocean, and the story of the lake mermaids came to a close.
Miss. New Mexico bowed, waved, and walked off-stage. ¡°How the fuck did you learn to talk so fast?¡± Miss. Hawaii whispered, giving her a high-five.
Miss. New Mexico laughed. "Passion, I guess?" she whispered back. "I used to work in eldercare, and seriously, nothing is as dystopian as the nuclear family in its golden years. It''s why I had my grandma move in with me, y''know? I just get so--."
She would have said more, but the host''s voice broke through the chatter, and the next contestant was called to the stage.
MISS. WYOMING: The Tale of Your (Optional) Adventure
Miss. Wyoming accepted a quick good-luck hug from Miss. New Mexico and squeezed Miss. Maine''s hand. "Mind if I embarrass you for a moment?"
"Go for it," Miss. Maine said, stepping over to allow Miss. Wyoming onto the stage.
Miss. Wyoming walked out under the lights and smiled at the cameras. "I dedicate this story to Bill Watterson and our very own Cat Kipman." She gestured off-stage, and the contestants cheered as Miss. Maine ran out for a quick, hastily-illuminated curtsy. Once she had run back into the wing, Miss. Wyoming began,
Come with me, and we can leap from curved mountain peak to curved mountain peak, so high above the sleeping world below that nothing grows in the moonlight but wind-swept lichen. Come with me, and we can slide down the concave faces of the mountainsides into the gullies below, where we can splash in the river slowly snaking between each rising cliff-face, sending streaks of soft drops drenching lush plant-life on the shore, until we grow too hot and must sprint back up the mountain peaks to the cool breeze above.
Come with me, and we can chase the stars, gaining ground until we are able to leap into the thin air and grasp them by the anchors holding them in place in the sky, climbing up into the dank, rusting room at their bottoms and closing the port doors after we¡¯ve safely pulled our feet in. Climb up creaky iron staircase after patched wooden staircase, past toy horses heavy with cobwebs and diaries whose last entry is in a dialect already lost to time, as we ascend a star ¨C we, humans, inside a star! Come with me, and we can watch the layer of dust grow thinner and thinner with each floor we climb, the few chotskies on the shelves bearing a stronger and stronger resemblance to items we know, until we¡¯re almost-but not quite-homesick. Climb with me until the floors gleam under the flickering lightbulbs, until we see an old woman snoozing in a hammock there, a young boy repairing his shoes there.
Come with me as the rooms grow more expansive, safe in the heart of the star. Marvel at the gleaming moonstones studding the windows, the tables ladened with the finest food from all corners of the galaxy. We can climb into a vast cavern with dozens of people eating together under the bare fluorescent light, and hear them whisper between themselves of how absolutely terrifying it is to live at the bottom of a star, what if an asteroid skims the surface and we¡¯re thrown into the blackness beyond?
Come with me as we enter grander and grander rooms that cool both our skin and our souls; black granite walls with shart spotlights illuminating the wide, barren chambers; silent people walking with an assumed purpose, dressed in smart white robes with small, round black glasses that hide their eyes and their souls. If we listen, we can hear the silence being cracked by a woman mentioning how lovely it is to live at the top of a star, just a layer away from the beautiful eternity beyond.
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We can climb another staircase and find nothing more than a grandmother knitting by a crackling fire with a synthetic kitty on her lap.
We can climb another staircase and find empty, well-lit corridors scattered with the remains of fresh flowers, accented by small, sweet dolls stuffed with the ashes of someone long-gone.
We can climb another staircase and find the most enlightening books, written by fingers longer than humans have managed to grow thus far.
We can climb another staircase and find the cure for cancer, left beside the recipe for world peace and a really tasty muffin (that would kill a modern human in one bite).
We can climb another staircase and find ourselves reaching into nothing, gently pulled into the emptiness of space.
It¡¯s okay! We can breathe in space!
We can leap down, hand and hand, and slide down the faces of shorter, dryer peaks than we¡¯ve seen before ¨C it¡¯s the other side of our planet, so like ours and yet so unsettling, a land with less rain than it should have. We can dig away from the heat and tumble into the tunnels built by the inhabitants, and dine with them for an hour before we realize we¡¯re sitting next to the son of the sister of your godfather¡¯s best friend, who left years ago to chase her love to distant lands. We can hug her and kiss her cheeks and share family tales that would have been lost to an entire half of the world if we had not tumbled into their home. We can take their hand-drawn map and navigate through thousands of miles of tunnels we hadn''t know existed until we find our home again. We can fall into each other¡¯s arms, laughing with joy, and declare that we must do this whole thing again!
We can try. We can fail. After a whole long night of running, we¡¯ll realize we can¡¯t run any further. And you need to run to catch the stars. Not able to bear the thought that the heart of a star will no longer hold space in our lives, we¡¯ll tell our children the secret of leaping into space.
And while they run off, we¡¯ll set off to explore--and discover all the beautiful secrets hidden by--this world. What will we find? I don¡¯t know! But I¡¯m so, so excited to learn. I¡¯m about to run to the highest mountain peak¨Cwill you come with me?
MISS. WISCONSIN: The Tale of the Good Woman and the Beggar
Miss. Wisconsin walked onstage, focused and strangely drawn in on herself. In a soft voice, she began,
This story is about two women and a man, and it¡¯s not a love story.
The first woman is beautiful, ambitious, popular. As a university student, she declines all sorority propositions and their philanthropic promises to head her uni¡¯s Circle K chapter; as a graduate, she declines all offers of corporate six-figures to open a women¡¯s gym in the center of town. The few moments she spends away from her daughter see her in her open-floored studios, teaching free pilates or self-defense lessons to women from all walks of life.
The second woman is not. She joins a sorority of about 50 girls and actually likes maybe five of them, scrapes through her bio classes, and escapes every weekend to the mountains to get high off her ass, convince herself she¡¯s different than her bleach-blonde sisters, and sleep under the stars.
The man is me. I first hear about the women when they go into the hills and, to the best of the newscasters¡¯ knowledge, disappear.
It takes the first woman a week to return to society. She doesn¡¯t expect her edible to hit so quickly and she certainly doesn¡¯t expect Libby to be walking through the grass just one swerve-length away from the road at night, so she¡¯s trapped in a horrible predicament when Libby slams into her hood¨Cpeople will believe she¡¯s a bad person if she lets anyone learn what she¡¯s done, but she¡¯s a good person so she can¡¯t just leave Libby there. And so she tends to Libby¡¯s wounds with her own hands, drives Libby to the safety of her family¡¯s trailer deep in the highlands, and scrubs every speck of Libby¡¯s blood from the inside of her car after leaving Libby securely locked away. The pearl-clutching media mocks the first woman for going into the hills without a spare tire or satellite phone, as a woman alone, what was Juliya thinking?, but then it leaves her to the privacy of her perfect life to bewail Libby¡¯s undoubtedly tragic fate.
Libby does not like being imprisoned in a trailer, no matter how many times Juliya repeats reassurances her that she¡¯ll live out her natural life in peace and serenity. She screams (no one can hear) and kicks the twice-locked and heavily barricaded door (it doesn¡¯t budge) and punches the plastic windows (the shattered plastic imbeds itself in her wrists and the shreds remaining in the frame tear her tendons). The first time she hurts herself trying to escape, she hates Juliya so much that she doesn¡¯t even notice how strong and gentle Juliya¡¯s hands are as she binds her wounds, how worried Juliya sounds as she repairs the windows, re-sets the alarm system, and asks Libby if there¡¯s anything she needs (she needs Juliya to die, you flaming cunt).
But on the seventh disastrously failed escape, she lies on the trailer¡¯s bed with her broken wrist tucked to her chest and crushed fingers weeping blood, and she feels the serotonin bloom of Juliya¡¯s hand on hers before Juliya even turns away from the counter with gauze in her hands.
Now, remember, this isn¡¯t a love story. Libby and Juliya are both straight, anyway.
¡°Why don¡¯t you kill me?¡± Libby asks one day as Juliya sinks into the bedding beside her, reaching for her newest wound. During the first half year, she was so afraid of Juliya that she¡¯d hide when Juliya visited, even if Juliya was just dropping off food. ¡°I keep escaping. Why don¡¯t you punish me? Threaten to kill me?¡±
Juliya grimaces, her hand pulling away from Libby¡¯s, and Libby presses her wrist forward to close the distance. ¡°I¡¯m a good person,¡± she says. ¡°I don¡¯t kill people.¡± And so Libby, not fully satisfied, lays back and lets Juliya take care of her. (I ask her now what answer she wanted, and she admits that she wanted Juliya to say she¡¯d never want to hurt her.) When she¡¯s done and asks Libby if there¡¯s anything she needs, Libby asks Juliya to teach her to knit. The next day, Juliya drops off a pile of acrylic yarn and some knitting guides before running off to volunteer at her daughter¡¯s dance recital.
Libby is so busy telling me about the moments Juliya was in the trailer that she doesn''t tell me about the eternity she wasn''t. It''s not a big trailer, with only a 5x5 space for exercising, a cramped kitchenette, and a double bed indented on one side. Every inch of wall has been painted with what I think are supposed to be fantasy and sci-fi scenes; piles of assorted dog-eared thrift store books clutter each available surface. The windows are shuttered, except for one, which stares into a patch of woods too close to the trailer for most animals to bother with. I wonder how long Libby spent staring at the trees, scanning for movement like a housecat. I wonder when she gave up even trying to scream for help.
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There¡¯s a few nooks and crannies that are painted more intricately than the rest, scenes layered over scenes. These were Libby¡¯s hiding places. She hid when Juliya visited, shaking as she imagined Juliya looking for her. She hid when she thought Juliya might visit, heart pounding as she thought of Juliya grabbing her. She hid when she simply imagined Juliya visiting, crying as she imagined Juliya calling her name. I ask her when the last time she hid was; she says, ¡°four days ago.¡±
I don''t truly think Juliya is a monster until Libby shows me the trailer¡¯s one newspaper. "Missing UWSP student''s parents bury empty coffin: "it''s time to let our baby go." Libby says Juliya only gave it to her to reassure her that her parents weren''t suffering, a year ago when her disappearance was six months fresh. She says that Juliya gave her a hug. She says that, as she cried herself to sleep that night, she hoped her sobs would be loud enough to draw Juliya in on a line of concern.
According to Libby, Juliya originally brings Libby clothes, more clothes than one woman who never sees the sun needs, but she gradually stops as Libby fills her closet with knit dresses. One night, when Juliya drops off a new load of food and yarn, Libby gifts her a shawl. It¡¯s beautiful, the culmination of months of work. Juliya thanks her and admires the stitchwork, and Libby¡¯s face shines in the dim lantern-light of the trailer. But then Juliya tries to leave.
¡°Please,¡± Libby blurts, reaching out to grab Juliya¡¯s wrist. Juliya jumps. ¡°I¡can I go outside? Just once.¡±
Juliya grimaces and slowly nods. She ties Libby¡¯s wrist to her own, and when they step into the cool night air, Libby doesn¡¯t try to escape. She just collapses onto the dew-specked grass, dragging Juliya with her, and drops her head onto her captor¡¯s shoulder under the light of a thousand stars.
¡°What ¨C¡± Juliya begins.
Libby whispers in a voice like a crumbling bridge swaying over a distant river, ¡°Please. Stay with me.¡±
And so Juliya, good woman that she is, spends the night sitting under the stars with her captive. In the morning, Libby showers her with more knit gifts, and Juliya pries herself away without daring to turn her shellshocked face to Libby.
¡°How long ago was this?¡± I ask, letting Libby wrap her hand in mine.
¡°Three days.¡±
Soon, too soon, Libby runs out of things to say. ¡°So¡why are you here?¡±
I shrug. It sounds dumb, compared to her story. ¡°Juliya pointed a gun at me when I went to pick up my kid sister from her yoga class yesterday, and she brought me here.¡±
¡°Did she hit you, too? She says she doesn''t get high anymore¡±
¡°No, I didn''t witness anything. She just snatched me when my guard was down. My fault, really; I didn¡¯t think Ms. Jefferson was someone to fear.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not sure she is,¡± Libby says. ¡°She never hurt me. I think she ¨C I think she worries about me.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure she does.¡± It¡¯s not a lie. ¡°But¡Libby, you know your feelings for her¡they¡¯re not healthy. You know that, right? She¡¯s your captor; she can¡¯t¡she shouldn¡¯t care for you. Not like that. This is a crime scene, not a love story.¡±
¡°I know,¡± Libby whispers. Tears on her cheeks glitter in the light filtering through the single unboarded window. ¡°It¡¯s just¡I¡I¡¯m sorry, I know I¡¯m dumb¨C¡±
¡°You¡¯re not dumb.¡± I squeeze her hand. ¡°But if she¡¯s really the good person she claims to be, she¡¯ll know this is unhealthy for you, Libby.¡±
She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder, and suddenly, I¡¯m Juliya sitting under those stars, and I only now realize how heavy her head is when she¡¯s too sad for her own fragile body. ¡°I know,¡± she whispers again. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why she kidnapped you, too.¡±
And I¡¯m sure that soon, the weight of what¡¯s been taken from me will crash down on me and sweep me away like they¡¯ve swept away most of the girl besides me. But for the moment, I just wrap an arm around Libby, whisper, ¡°I guess Juliya cared about you, after all,¡± and let her have her sad, beautiful smile.
Miss. Wisconsin didn''t wait for her applause (not that there was much) and quietly walked off-stage. "Jesus, who hurt her?" the oldest producer muttered.
The youngest producer had grown strangely silent during the story. "Well, we all need love," she said, with more introspection than the intern was expecting. The two other producers shared a look between themselves.
"Well, she went over time--" the middle producer began.
"I don''t care," said the youngest. "We''re keeping that one." The middle producer opened his mouth to rebuke her, but the intern brushed his hand and shook her head, and even he was smart enough to stay quiet.
MISS. ILLINOIS: The Tale of the Wolf
Miss. Illinois walked onstage with a quiet purpose. Staring intently above the spotlights, she began,
The room seemed to pause. Miss. Illinois stood illuminated in her glaring white spotlight, the inner corners of her eyes glistening and her hands tight on her microphone. The judges sat frozen with pens in hand, and the oldest and middle provider looked at each other, bewildered, while the youngest stared up at Miss. Illinois with the same tears in her eyes.
Finally, Miss. Hawaii padded onstage, wrapped her arm around Miss. Illinois, and led her off-stage. The last thing the producers saw was Miss. Wisconsin enveloping her in a hug.
Miss. Illinois was disqualified for profanity, and the contest continued.
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MISS. MISSISSIPPI: The Tale of the Old Man and the Young Man
Miss. Mississippi walked onstage, casting a quick, worried glance back at Miss. Illinois. Collecting herself, she broke into her trademark angelic smile and began,
Once upon a time, a young man came upon an old man struggling to count his coins at the till. The young man laughed at the senility of the old man, and asked the young lady at the register if she needed him to step in and help the old bat remember his pennies from his dimes. To the surprise of both youngsters, the old man set down his coins and began to laugh, soft and coughing, his eyes twinkling merrily and his stomach jiggling with every chuckle. "Whatever could be so funny?" the young lady asked in confusion.
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The old man cheerily replied between laughs, "When I was a lad, I jeered at an old bird for confusing her sums, and I only now understand why she replied with a giggle!"
Miss. Mississippi beamed, and the crowd enthusiastically clapped. "See, that''s what I was talking about," the oldest producer muttered, audibly relieved.
Miss. Mississippi hurried offstage, and the lights dimmed for the final contestant.
MISS. CONNECTICUT: The Tale of the Very Stupid Boy
Miss. Connecticut strode onto stage with the vague preemptory disappointment of a middle school teacher entering her classroom. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, she began,
Men age like wine and women age like milk, or so the saying goes.
And when young, fresh Darrel snapped these words like a whip against his beautiful little Mimi, she took to worrying. She did not want to curdle!
So she heated her fresh, creamy dairy with the energy of her morning runs, and mixed in the sugar of her love for teaching Zumba with her long-dormant desire to have a studio of her own one day.
While that frothed and foamed, she mixed the plain, finely-ground flour of her color-coordinated daily work schedule and flavored it with the salt of her hatred for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Adding in a sprinkle of the herbs she nurtured in her apartment window-boxes and a dusting of the spices of far-flung nations she''d travelled in her youth, she mixed the wets into the drys and kneaded with five years worth of labor, reward, and evenings spent deep in the heart of Minecraft.
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And when her golden loaf finally emerged from the oven, she whooped with joy and called her friends to gather around for the feast. Debby brought a salad, and Bernard brought roasted honey-glazed figs, and Patrick brought a whole hog gleaming with seared fat. But when Mimi descended into the cellar to bring them Darrel''s beverage, all she found amid the gloom and chill was a single bottle of wine, the glass heavy with dust after having done nothing but age for five years. And five years is not long for wine to age, so Mimi set the bottle back in the dark and grabbed some water for the cheery group awaiting her.
Polite applause from most of the audience; Miss. Oregon and Miss. Illinois cheered, the sound echoing through the wings. With a curt bow, Miss. Connecticut returned backstage, the curtains closing behind her with a final swish.
CONCLUSION: Second Round of Voting
As the host opened the voting, the producers gathered together.
"This is fantastic," whispered the middle producer. "Reuben, Mimi, look how much traction we''re getting online."
"Half of that is people drooling over Miss. Idaho. And mocking her," the youngest producer muttered, almost hiding behind her green hair.
"Both?" the oldest producer asked. He shrugged. "I don''t see the appeal."
"Breasts and butts are made of fat stores too," the middle producer said, scrolling through her phone. "I guess people want to pick and choose what parts of her are big. Anyway, the part that matters: all these comments are racking up views. Like, a lot of views. Guys, I think -- next season -- we could ask for raises. 15 mil each? Maybe 20?"
"I quit," the youngest producer blurted.
The oldest producer blanched. "Mimi? What are you on? This is a dream job. You''ll never have a chance like this."
The middle producer rubbed the youngest producer''s shoulders. "Hey, honey, I get it. I know your divorce is fresh...and, look, I know Joe wasn''t a great guy. Some of those stories, the more contentious ones, must have been hard to hear. And Miss. Connecticut was cruel to use your name."
"No. She was kind." The youngest producer gulped. "I think I like those girls more than I like you two."
The middle and oldest producers exchanged a glance, and the intern ducked her head into her hoodie to hide her laughter. "W...Mimi, if that''s what you actually think--"
"Goodbye. And fuck this." The youngest producer gathered her things and hurried away. The remaining producers watched her leave, and then shrugged and returned to their work.
Back in their dressing room, Miss. Oregon hugged Miss. Connecticut. "You blew us away, Ximena."
"Thanks, hon." Miss. Connecticut hugged her back. "If they wanna humiliate us like this, we''d better bite back, y''know?" She turned on Miss. Illinois. "Like you. Freaking amazing, babe."
Miss. Illinois smirked, although it looked a little forced. "Thanks. It felt good. I wish I could have lasted until the swimsuit portion, though -- I''ve worked hard on this body."
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"It shows," Miss. Hawaii asserted.
"Hey, we should start a group chat. We could stay in contact after half of us are eliminated," Miss. Maine said, pulling out her phone.
"Can someone explain Ximena''s story to me?" Miss. Pennsylvania asked meekly as the phone was passed along. "Also, where''s Deirdre?"
"If you didn''t get it, that''s probably a good thing," Miss. Idaho said.
"I think I heard Deirdre getting yelled at by a "Juliya" over the phone, in the other room," Miss. Delaware added. Miss. Pennsylvania flinched in empathy.
"Oh, speaking of -- Ximena, why did you use one of the producers'' names in your story?" Miss. New Mexico asked. "I can''t imagine she liked that."
Miss. Connecticut shrugged. "I guess I wanted them to take this stupid contest as seriously as they''re making us take it. And, I dunno. I can''t say I didn''t feel bad for her, when her divorce went down. And so publicly, too. I guess that''s the risk of dating high-profile actors, but she didn''t deserve that humiliation."
"What happened?" Miss. Wyoming asked.
"Oh, right, you''re not on social media. Crazy girl. Mimi''s ex was just a real Rupert Mannion type, if you''ve ever watched Ted Lasso."
"What''s that?"
"Oh, girl, you''ve gotta watch Ted Lasso. It''s so good," Miss. Arkansas interjected.
Miss. Connecticut waved Miss. Wyoming off. "Older dude, pretty famous, really charismatic and manipulative. For his midlife crisis, he''s making himself out to be some macho playboy. Dude trades his girlfriends for a newer model the moment the first grey hair or, god forbid, love handle, appears, which is funny, because he''s gotta be pushing 50. I don''t like the producers on this show, but--."
The door swung open, and the youngest producer entered. Miss. Connecticut stopped short.
"Hi, girls," the youngest producer said awkwardly. Her eyes were still red. "I just wanted...I wanted to say thanks." She gulped. "I learned a lot from you ladies."
The contestants looked between themselves. "You''re welcome," Miss. Pennsylvania finally said. "Are...are you okay?"
The producer smiled through her tears. "I''ll be okay. I quit the show." The contestants exchanged glances again, this time in shock. "You know, I, uh, have a lot of connections in the industry. If any of you ladies want to use these platforms you''re growing to get a book deal or something, let me know. I can probably lend a hand."
The contestants murmured thanks in an ill-choreographed chorus. The youngest producer looked down, looked back to the door, and began to shuffle out.
"Wait. Mimi," Miss. Illinois said. "Uh...can I give you a hug?"
The youngest producer wavered, thrown off. "Um, sure. Yes. Thank you, Gabby." Miss. Illinois crossed the room and wrapped her arms around the taller woman. "You''re better than this show and that man, okay?" she murmured into the youngest producer''s green hair. The youngest producer melted into her arms crying.
"Thank you," she whispered. She took a moment to squeeze Miss. Illinois. "I don''t know who motivated you to tell your story--but you''re worth more than than them too, you hear?"
Miss. Illinois shuddered. "Thank you."
The youngest producer finally pulled away, and Miss. Illinois rubbed away a tear. "I think the voting is going to wrap up any minute now. Whatever the results, know you''ve had a big impact." With that, she left the contestants in a heavy silence.
EPILOGUE: The Future of the Fairest Maidens in the USA? Contest
The intern looked up from her phone as the lights dimmed and the host walked onstage. Backstage, she could hear the contestants hush. To her left, the two remaining producers bent over their tablets.
"Hey guys?" she whispered, glancing back at the X feed she''d been scrolling through. "People are...they''re getting kind of pissed."
"What? Why?" the middle producer whispered back. "We''re getting so much attention."
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the exciting conclusion of day seven of the Fairest Maidens in the USA? contest! The six ladies you''ve chosen tonight will continue on to represent their states as they battle for the title of the Fairest Maiden of our beloved country."
"It''s Deirdre--Miss. Wisconsin. The one we let go overtime?" the intern whispered back. "People timed it themselves, and they realized she went over five minutes. They''re upset that Deirdre''s getting away with the same thing Emily was disqualified for."
"The first lady who will be joining us back here tomorrow is Miss. Idaho, who captivated us with her story "The Tale of the Bird in the Cage!"
"Figures," the oldest producer muttered, staring up at Miss. Idaho as she strutted onstage.
"Wisconsin didn''t make the vote, anyway," the middle producer whispered around the oldest producer to the intern. "I''m sure they''ll calm down."
The intern shook her head. "Look, right now, our audience sees two women being treated differently for no apparent reason, only one of whom is politically active. I don''t know how much you know about Emily, but she''s pretty controversial online--super leftist, posts a lot, involved with a lot of political orgs. Looks a little like you''re bending the rules to keep everything nice and status-quo, y''know?"
"The second lady who will be joining Miss. Idaho back onstage is Miss. Pennsylvania, who brought us all to tears with her, uh, story, "The Men on the Bus.""
Before the middle producer could respond, the intern held out her phone. "Oh, and it''s not just Emily. One of the backstage assistants or contestants or someone must have been bitching online, because now it''s known that the contestants were never formally told any of the rules for the tales -- it was just Miss. Oregon, updating them backstage. They were never technically told profanity wasn''t allowed."
"It''s live TV," protested the oldest producer, who had finally started paying attention. "The girls are supposed to be role models."
"The final winner from the first half of tonight''s stories is Miss. Maine, who delighted audiences across America with her fantastical tale, "Annika the Seafaring Cat.""
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The intern sighed. "Dude, it''s 2024. Swearing isn''t the scandal it used to be. Anyway, people are upset for Gabby, now, too. They say it wasn''t fair. And Gabby was one of the more politically active contestants alongside Emily, on the left at least, so people are doubling down on the censorship claims."
"We didn''t kick out Miss. Mississippi. She does the same activism stuff as Illinois does, right?" the oldest producer asked.
"Gabby''s involved with Black Voters Matter. Grace is involved with the Black Conservative Federation. Those are not the same."
"The first winner of the second half of tonight''s stories is Miss. New Mexico, who forced us to reflect with her thoughtful tale, "The Mermaid Queens."
The oldest producer rested his temple against his hand. "Jesus. Fix this, Valentina. We''ll double your salary, whatever." The intern turned on her headset and began to whisper away to the crew. A moment later, the host''s brow furrowed, and he pressed his own earpiece in closer. After several seconds had passed, he glanced down at the producers, quizzical, before addressing the audience again.
"Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, just some backstage chatter. Tomorrow, prepare to welcome Miss. Mississippi back to the stage, after delivering sage wisdom in her story "The Old Man and the Young Man."
"Wait, how the hell did Mississippi get in? Her story was two seconds long," the oldest producer muttered.
"Some people on X with nothing better to do figured out that she was one of the women offered to be photographed for the ''sexy conservative ladies'' beer calendar thing, but turned it down because she thought it was too, like, immodest," the intern whispered back. "The evangelicals approved. Grace has some fans now."
"Good lord, we''ve gotta steer the next round of stories away from these, well, controversial topics," the oldest producer said. "People are here to see beautiful women, not political squabbles."
"Wait, the next round of stories?"
"And the final winner of tonight is Miss. Connecticut, who impressed us all with her cutting story, "The Very Stupid Boy!"
"Yeah, obviously," the middle producer said. "It went so well tonight. We can''t lose steam now! Our stocks are--"
"This is a beauty pageant!" The intern sighed in defeat. "Jesus. Just tell me we''re at least changing something. Making the stories longer, adding a theme, I dunno. Just so we aren''t so much of a one-trick pony."
The middle producer glanced at the oldest producer. "W...uh, yeah, of course. We''re making them longer. We''ll have fewer girls; that means more time."
"Ladies and gentlemen, I''ve just received a very important announcement from our producers. During our sudden decision to host a folktale competition tonight, we at the Fairest Maidens in the USA? contest believe we failed to properly communicate a fair set of rules to our contestants. Therefore, it is only fair to welcome Miss. Hawaii and Miss. Illinois back tomorrow. We thank you all for your understanding, and can''t wait to see what these two talented ladies have to offer." The intern could hear audible gasps from backstage.
The two remaining producers turned on her. "What were you thinking?" hissed the oldest producer. "An apology?"
"You told me to fix it!" the intern protested. "That''ll placate people, right? Look, I''m not paid enough or skilled enough to clean up your messes any way but the honest way."
"With that attitude, you''ll never make it far in this industry."
"You promise?"
While they squabbled on, the host bade farewell to the audience. And then the audience''s lights came back on, and the first day of storytelling came to a close.