Three Little Girls

THREE LITTLE GIRLS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The three little girls, Ritzi, Mitzi, and Bellamora, spun in circles on the front lawn of their father’s estate. When the dizziness began to overtake them, they spun in triangles, which is really much harder than it sounds, especially for children. However, since these girls had no meaningful work in their lives and had downloaded their educations years ago, they had nothing else to do but spinning practice and triangles were second nature to them.

It was several hours before they became dizzy again and by this time they were more than happy to fall to the ground to watch the shivering clouds go by and breathe in lungs full of the
freshly-cut grass air.

Then it was up the trees in the late morning and onto the roof of the servants’ quarters. They made the weekly sneak into Sally’s room. Sally was the stable bride, the stable groom having passed away in a highspeed brushing accident (the unstable bride had been let go for improper behavior), and she was the only adult woman the half-orphan girls knew with more than garden party familiarity. Sally was now deeply involved in the horses’ algebra lessons. The horses still struggled with stomping out fractions and had been stuck on lesson four for twelve years. Thus, the three little girls could study Sally’s underwear drawer at their leisure. Before they left, they took great care to remove any errant strand of hair from the bra cups and return everything to its proper place.

Outside once more, they took down a miniature cow with their bare hands and grilled lunch beneath the great umbrella that stretched a hundred yards in every direction. Before the evening’s party, they had time to sail out to sea and found a colony on the ocean floor. They had time to do this, but in fact they didn’t. What they did do was fast-grow a small orchard so they could whip up their killer Waldorf salad for tonight. They always made the Waldorf salad when they wanted to attract a mother. It always went untouched and they always buried the remains out behind the pond and washed the bowl. If anyone ever tried their salad, the girls reasoned, they would have to be mother material.

That night, after washing the bowl and bathing in the pond, they climbed into bed. The bed was vast enough to hold a schoolhouse, but the girls always slept right up next to one another in the Northwest corner. Before sleep washed over them, they stared into the center of the slow, hypnotic ceiling fan and made plans to do tomorrow what they hadn’t done today.