Anne Shelby II

Backstage with a Member of the Folktale Troupe

When I was young I could play the pretty girls,
you know, the ones that get handed off at the end
with a sack of gold and a coach and six?
I got into it for a while — costumes, lights, me
center stage. But it took too much energy,
having to act so impressed night after night,
just because he performs some adolescent
trick, or rescues you from some dilemma
he got you in in the first place. It got so
I had to get drunk to do it. Then when I started
stepping on his lines, they gave the part
to somebody else, a younger girl.

Cast me as the ugly sister. Fine by me.
I spent a lot less time in makeup,
got to wear loose clothing, comfortable shoes.
Got to be rude and sarcastic onstage.
But it was always somebody else�s story,
and me ending up with nothing, finally,
but scorpions, snakes and toads.

A few hairs, nothing heavy,
sprouted on my chin.
Now I�m the witch, a part I can stick with.
I�m no longer interested, anyway,
in the handsome young hero,
a doofus, in my opinion.
I like living here alone, deep in the forest.
I like the simplicity of the all-black costume.
I like talking with owls and foxes, stirring up
an amusing little brew now and then.
But all these people keep showing up —
hunters, lost children, young lovers —
The plot demands I eat them,
though I�d prefer
to give them a simple supper,
a place to rest for the night,
and a few wise words, something cryptic
that would prove prophetic later, like

You are the monster. You are the prince.
You are the hero. You are the witch.
Go home, and practice the part
of someone kind and wise.

— Anne Shelby, originally published in Appalachian Studies (Wind Publications).
Reprinted by permission of the author.

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