A Mother's Lament
a flash fiction story based on a fairy tale
This was written for the 30 Days of Fright Writing Challenge, prompt 10: the baddie’s not so bad.
It’s another silly one, I’m afraid. But a little sinister, too, I hope.
A Mother’s Lament
I’ve kept you safe, don’t you see?
Dark woods all around, bare trees in winter reaching high and gnarled like skeletal witch-fingers. Beautiful against the grey-white sky. In summer, a lush green coverlet filled with birdsong. A natural blanket, tucking you in tight. I hear you, you know, singing along. Leaning out that single window.
People who are unhappy don’t sing.
Yet, still you complain.
Why don’t you appreciate your mother? I give you everything you ask for, don’t I? Each floor of your tower filled with toys and games and dolls when you were younger; fine fabrics, clothing, books on every subject, musical instruments and paints now that you are older. You’ve learned more here at home than you ever would have out there.
Studies show that homeschooled children are above average, are more well-rounded, more self-confident. You should thank me. You will one day.
Why, you are even more physically fit than those fat, lazy children I see around the village square. Climbing up and down those spiral stairs, day after day, serves your body well. You are rosy-cheeked and well-muscled and curved in all the right places.
Just another reason to keep the young men well away from you. I’m being generous really, calling them young men. Boys, they are still, with their gawking mouths and gangly limbs, and only one thing on their minds, I can tell you!
I saw that one, you know, trying to climb his way into your room. Oh, don’t worry—I don’t blame you. He tricked you with his smooth words and boyish good looks, wormed his way into your heart with compliments. I told you not to let your hair down for any of them, didn’t I?
I took care of him. He won’t come round here again. Oh, don’t look at me like that, as if I’m some monster. A mother does what she has to, to protect the ones she loves.
Ah, my dear Rapunzel. At one time or another, every teenage girl thinks her mother is a witch. I can be patient. In time, you’ll appreciate me. Now, sit still, girl. Stop that squirming. It’s time to cut your hair.
If you’re interested in doing this 30-day horror-writing challenge, or reading other stories by other writers in the challenge, it’s hosted by
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This reminds me of "Mother knows best" in Tangled. Great job!