Short Stories

Magpie's Cage

It's funny how you can wear the fanciest dress in the world and still be a prisoner.

I don't know what Frida expected. First, she had the nerve to show me this ridiculous "cocktail" dress and expect me not to make a joke about it. Then she turned down the sexy redesign I suggested and put a glamour on my hair instead. Worst, she got rid of my makeup.

"It's just for a night, Maggie," she had said. "I don't like these parties either, but if you put in a little effort, maybe the other Commanders will see what I see in you. Remember, we're doing this for you, and all those people out there who are like you."

I had just rolled my eyes. This was just like Frida, putting us through another tedious nightmare for the "greater good." When it's not going to change a thing. It's a wonder she's survived this long, given how she's rigid and oblivious at the same time.

"At least glamour your own dress too," I had told her. "You look like a narc."

Frida just glared. "And don't talk like that around them. We don't need to reinforce their negative perception of you."

"Nobody talks like that, nerd."

Frida's off schmoozing Brigid at the moment. Frida keeps worrying about Brigid seeing the good in me, but I still wonder how Frida manages to see any good at all in Brigid. If not for that horrible woman, I'd still be free to do my own thing.

I adjust the ugly tracking bracelet. It's Brigid's way of making sure I can't run off back to my life of fun and mischief. No, I'm stuck with Frida, for better but for mostly worse, playing the role of reformed goody two-shoes.

I look around the fancy room. Frida could have put on any kind of glamour for the decorations, and yet she chose something that looks like a search engine image result for "stuffy party." Candles in gold candleholders, vases with boring bouquets, and heavy curtains on the windows overlooking the outdoor pool. The room packed with Commanders, government officials, and wealthy snobs.

I catch my reflection in the window. That woman doesn't even look like me: wavy black hair piled into a sleek updo, long royal blue dress with a high neckline and glittering rocks, pale face adorned with boring makeup meant to emphasize my "natural beauty" or some garbage like that.

I turn back to look at what Frida's doing. Brigid has left her, and now she's talking to some old guy. The expression on her face looks an awful lot like the one in my reflection.

Might as well rescue her from that. I mean, she's the reason I'm not in actual prison.

How I almost wound up imprisoned last month

I slammed my hand against the maze wall. "No fair!" I yelled. "Mazes don't just appear in alleyways! That's not a thing!"

"It is tonight." Brigid appeared behind me. (Of course, I didn't know her name back then, but I do now. Might as well keep it easy and use it, right?)

"Shut up, Blondie," I said. "What's your problem? I'm just living my life here!"

"You sabotaged a political event and sent a man to the hospital." Blondie/Brigid unhooked a heavy-looking cuff from her belt.

"Only because you barged in! I tried to tell you, I could have fixed it if you weren't attacking me all the time! And thanks to you, it's too late!"

Brigid threw her cuff at my foot. As if driven by magnets, it clicked around my ankle.

No. I wasn't about to be taken prisoner. Unravel. Tug.

Other people always seem to get confused by my gift, but it's simple. People see time as a linear thing, but it's more like threads in a cloth. Tug the threads a little, or swap out one for another, and the tapestry changes. It's not hard as long as you're changing something recently woven in. And sometimes freedom just requires a simple tug.