My Mirror Never Lies - Flash Fiction By Allen Ashley

 

My Mirror Never Lies

Flash Fiction

By Allen Ashley

 

That spoilt little brat has hacked into my system again so that I am no longer the fairest of them all but have been usurped by a teenage virgin. At least I hope she’s a virgin – that would cause a constitutional crisis that would catch the attention of even my hapless husband, the King. The quieter and less involved he is, the better.

I initiate the usual filters and just a smidgen of deepfake technology and demand of the camera screen, “Mirror Book, Mirror Book, am I the fairest woman in the kingdom?”

That definite adult feminine determiner is crucial in outwitting the algorithms because if I don’t speak it, that mere stripling stepdaughter girl claims the accolade.

But when I confront her, Snow White (stupid, un-regal name) is all sweetness and light and bright little robins perching on her fingertips.

“Oh no, step-mama, your majesty, I am focused on my schoolwork, my embroidery, my duties. I don’t even own a cellphone.”

Yet she is accreting followers like the million flakes that are moulded into a snowball. While my social media standing remains high but on a noticeably downward curve.

A close assistant, Officer John Woodman, brings me news that a team of hackers favourable and loyal to the Princess Snow White are the ones manipulating the ratings and may even have infiltrated my Mirror Book account. Time for new passwords and a reboot.

“They call themselves The Seven Short Fellows,” Woodman tells me.

“Does that have some sort of… kinky connotation?” I ask.

“No, they’re just all not very tall. And at least two of them work in a mine.”

“I thought the King closed them all down with his green energy policy.”

“They’ve reopened. Cost of living crisis, my Queen.”

“Perhaps you could arrange a little cave-in, John…”

The tragic accident dominates the news agenda over the next week. I attend a memorial service and everyone agrees I look ravishing in mournful black dress, coat and veiled pillbox hat. Specially commissioned from Gianucci, haute couture for every occasion.

But a further week later it’s Snow White’s prom night, with my husband her father the King as her proud escort for the evening. The New Court Times runs a report full of phrases such as “coming of age”, “changing of the guard” and “a new rose blooms in the royal garden”. Which is where I will be burying a couple of their journalists when I can get my lace-gloved hands on them.

My approval rating is falling through the tiled floor. At this rate I will have to sign up for a slew of those demeaning yet popular celebrity appearances on inane quiz shows or that forest endurance caper I’m From The Nobility, Get Me Out Of Here just to remain in the public eye. Undergo one of those disgusting “Mushroom or Fungi?” eating challenges for the prying cameras and those two northern goblins who present the programme.

Really? With these lips and this delicate constitution…?

“Mirror Book, Mirror Book, truth or fake, what is the course I need to take?”

I stare at the cursive response for the longest time: “Remove your gaze to save your days.”

Mirror Book? Moron Book, more like. At last, I call Officer Woodman to attend to the infuriating object with an axe and a sledgehammer.

“But, my Queen, it is seven years of bad luck to smash a mirror.”

“Your tongue will not waggle so when I have you hanged from the three-pronged tree. Now do my bidding, insolent knave.”

Soon the shards are all about me like loosely scattered jewels just waiting to be collected by squat miners. My grandmother always proclaimed that what you don’t know can’t hurt you. The wise woman of the village. Until she vanished into an unmapped sinkhole.

What have I done? In my pique, I have condemned myself to a life of ignorance rather than the nourishment of knowledge and influence. What will my fans, followers and subjects think of me now? And how will I find out?

“Woodman,” I hiss, “in recognition of your previous devoted service, I forgive you this misdemeanour. But make immediate haste. I require a new connection, a top of the range Mirror Book device. Delay not. And by the way, you may be required to take Princess Snowy on a little journey soon.”

“A one-way ticket, your majesty?”

“Where only the wolves may find her.”

I can see in his expression that he wants to tell me that the King’s father shot the last living wolf with an AK47 two decades ago, but he remains silent.

Mirror Book, Mirror Book, return to me. Oh then my powers shall be undiminished – indeed, renewed – and my perception almost omniscient. Beware my brain and my beauty, my beauties. Especially that pathetic gang of internet trolls and that sappy little innocent-eyed upstart stepdaughter. I will shatter you.

Allen Ashley is an award-winning writer, editor and writing tutor based in London, UK. His work has recently appeared in “The World of Myth”, “Focus”, “BFS Horizons” and at Green Ink Poetry online. Allen’s new chapbook “Journey to the Centre of the Onion” is due from Eibonvale Press (UK) in September 2023. Allen is the founder of the advanced science fiction and fantasy group Clockhouse London Writers.