Goldilocks, by Linda Lowe

Years later, her locks gone white, she sits rocking, most everything behind her but the memory of that afternoon in the woods. She’d been called impudent, brazen—big words for a girl just six. What else to do but plan her demise? She wanted a large funeral, with violins. She was famous, after all. Would be until all the books disappeared from the face of the earth. She would be known by her name, Goldilocks, whereas the bears were just a little family. A mother who cooked, a father who did nothing to speak of, a youngster who whined. Nameless.