Cinderella Reimagined
Page 1
Cinderella
Reimagined
AN ANTHOLOGY OF CINDERELLA RETELLINGS
Edited by
Anna Jailene Aguilar and
Theresa J. Barker
Copyright © 2017 by Anna Jailene Aguilar & Theresa J. Barker
Individual stories copyrighted by their respective authors
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Stephan van der Merwe
Cover Art by Franciska van der Merwe
To all who believe in fairy tales
Contents
Inner Cinderella
Ella and the Rock Star
Lost Slipper
Just Deserts
The Tribulations of James the Second
City of Magic
The Chariot’s Chagrin
Cinderella and her Diamond Heels
Borrowed Bounces
Drizella, Cinderella’s Stepsister: My Story
A Kingdom for a Shoe
LIGHTS
Cinderfella
Little Rich Girl
The Perfect Pair
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Inner Cinderella
by Meenakshi Sethi
There is a Cinderella in every soul
Seeking freedom is her goal
From cruel, unfair ways of life
Torturing and making her cry
Just like Cinderella our lost soul
Is in search of peace and light
All she needs is a vision to see
Right opportunity gifted by divine
Sitting on wagon of meditation
Pulled by peace and calm vision
When she starts her journey inwards
She reaches a divine ball room
To dance on tune of new insight
Here she meets her Prince charming
The pure source of calm light
Who was waiting to meet from ages
His lost part to end her night
While dancing on these fine tunes
Our Cinderella may lose sometimes
Shoes of patience and hope
And run back barefoot in a hurry
Towards this illusionary life
The Prince will surely find her back
If she will stay pure and white
Life is nothing but search of self
Keeping faith and moving inwards
Towards source of that divine light
Which can help this inner Cinderella
To end her fight making her light
Providing freedom
From clutches of cruel step mother
Which is illusion and dark night
Finally merging in him
Getting married with faith and wisdom
Reaching the magnificent palace
The home of divine!
Ella and the Rock Star
by Sascha Darlington
“Ella, your rhymes are silly,” her step-sister, Jillian, mocks. “Do something useful like ironing my outfit for the Kashmir concert.”
Ella nods. She no longer picks her battles; in truth, she no longer battles. She irons Jillian’s expensive blouse and designer blue jeans with their artfully shredded knees then withdraws to the kitchen where Cook prepares a light supper.
At the table, Ella composes more words. She has this dream, a silly dream perhaps, that Dylan of Kashmir would take her words and transform them into a song. She couldn’t envision a better fairytale than to hear words she’d written sung by him.
Imagine Ella’s surprise when Cook places a front row ticket to tonight’s Kashmir concert upon Ella’s lined journal.
“Cook! Why? How?” Surprise, confusion, and then joy surge through Ella.
“My son gets perks through his company. He couldn’t go. I told him I knew someone who would love to go,” Cook says, her apple cheeks glowing.
Ella stares at the ticket as if it is gold. Front row at a Kashmir concert. Even Jillian doesn’t have a front row ticket.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Cook gestures to the mudroom where a gray garment bag hangs. Ella’s eyes widen. Inside is a cobalt blue blouse that matches Ella’s eyes and a brand new pair of designer blue jeans. She’d never worn anything but hand-me-downs.
“I can’t,” Ella begins. “These must be expensive. You’ve already been so kind to me.”
“My son’s girlfriend is a model for petite clothes. Her closet overflows. These are a gift.”
Ella hugs Cook and then runs to the basement to her windowless room to change.
Dylan feels the music pulse through him. A reporter once asked if he grew bored performing the same sets night after night. Dylan laughed. “Are you kidding?”
Tonight standing on stage he looks out at the rows of fans, each mouthing the words to his songs. His eyes fall upon a woman with auburn hair, whose eyes shine like sapphires. Suddenly he’s singing to her, holding his hand out to her. He grins when she blushes. She looks around for an escape, but puts her hand in his and lets him guide her to the stage.
Kashmir has one love ballad, which he sings to her, his eyes drinking in her shy smile, the luster of her eyes. At the end, she slips a square of folded paper in his hand, no doubt her contact information, and he feels disappointment that she would be just another groupie when something about her had seemed different.
After the show, he retreats to his dressing room and is about to ball up the paper and toss it into the bin, but decides to take a look.
He falls in love. Her words, a song lyric, blossom on the page, fragrant with hope, weaving a magical tale that curls around him, like wisteria vines laden with purple flowers.
He hurries back to the stage, hoping against hope that she might still be there. The only people in the venue are the roadies taking down the set and the clean-up crew. He stares at the words as if they could point him in her direction. How can he find her?
The elegant house fits her, he thinks. He’s shown to a sitting room, where there are shelves and shelves of books, the bindings showing wear.
“It is you!” a brunette says.
Dylan frowns. This isn’t the woman. “You are?”
“The one you’re looking for.”
“You wrote these words?” he asks, his voice skeptical.
“Of course. Me, I’m always doodling words, making up lyrics. See?” she says, pulling out scraps of paper with the same cursive scrawls.
He looks at her again. Maybe she wore an auburn wig. But this woman is taller, in flats. Hair color can change, but to grow four inches? Probably not possible.
Another face appears in the doorway. It’s her. Her creamy skin, blue eyes, the reddish tinged hair gleaming like embers. He approaches.
Ella knows she should run. Jillian’s eyes spear her. Is this the battle?
“These are your words?” he asks.
She nods. “Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Ella,” she says as if it should be obvious. Her name, after all, is under the lyric. But then she sees the ink has been smudged to abstraction.
“She’s lying. She’s never even been to college. She couldn’t possibly write something you’d like,” Jillian says.
Dylan shrugs. “I’ve never been to college and I write things I like.”
“You like it?” Ella asks, her voice almost a whisper.
“I do. I’ll change the title though.”
“But ‘Happy’ is what it’s about.”
“I prefer ‘Happily Ever After.’”
Lost Slipper
by Theresa J. Barker
"A single inch/separates their two bodies/facing one another/in the picture" - Dunya Mikhail, "Tablets"
; She was only one of uncountable numbers. She was the last lost slipper in a sea of slippers, almost too unremarkable to be noticed. But she noticed it, noticed her place among the oceans of others appearing to be just like her. She knew that there must be more to existence than sitting on a conveyor belt inching her way toward packaging, crating, and ultimately shipping.
At the other end of shipping she could be only one of a hundred, or one of thousands. Perhaps a novelty item in a five-and-dime store — or the Dollar Store, as they called them nowadays. Freighted, unpacked and put out on a cheap shelf under buzzing fluorescent lights, to be pawed through and dropped thoughtlessly into a shopping cart, rung up and forgotten in a flimsy plastic bag in the back of someone's car trunk or upstairs closet.
Yet, who was she? She was gratified to at least be a graceful shape of the lost slipper of a fairy tale heroine, the glass shoe of the illustrious Cinderella, a figure not only of the Northern European tradition notated by Grimm Brothers and Charles Perrault - who had entitled his story after her ("Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper") — but a figure also of many other folk traditions around the world. Korea, China, Africa, South Asia - all had their own stories in the Cinderella tradition. How had she learned this? Although she, a glass slipper ornament, could not read, speak or write, she was fortunate to be stamped elegantly (she thought) with a brief blurb covering the origins of the Cinderella folk tale — the words stamped in lovely gold lettering on the insole of her slipper-shape.
Sitting in the dark, waiting, inside the cardboard box that surrounded her during shipping, she tried not to despair. Perhaps some miracle would occur. Perhaps she would not be doomed to an existence in obscurity and ultimately tossed out — or, perhaps worse — neglected. Lost, again, just another piece of detritus in someone's junk drawer or closet.
Light spiked into her cardboard box at last. Her carton was being opened up, she was being handled by human hands, she was being placed somewhere. She braced herself for the humming fluorescent tubes, for the vast shelves of sameness. She would retain her dignity, no matter the humdrum fate that awaited her in the stale air and cacophonous environment that no doubt awaited her. She was a glass slipper, she was THE lost glass slipper, of Cinderella. Cendrillon, ou La petite Pantoufle de Verre, she repeated to herself. Je suis élégante, je suis belle, je suis unique. Where she had picked up the French was anyone's guess, but there it was.
What was this? She had been set carefully on a small mirrored tray, surrounded by treasured jeweled boxes, sparkling tiara headbands, rhinestone-studded hair barrettes. The air was softly cool and there was music. Not clashy wildly tuneless music, but lyrical symphonic music playing quietly overhead. All along the opposite wall in this small-ish cozy space was an elegant medley of tea services, some bone china, some delicately colored mugs, all soothingly harmonious to her unusually aesthetic sense of taste and style.
A tag was affixed to her heel. The lettering — which she absorbed discreetly from the neatly lettered cardstock through the short piece of twine looped around her slipper's heel — said "Queen Anne Tea Room." Queen Anne! Ah! The words chimed inside her, Queen Anne… Queen Anne… tea room, tea room. She had never heard them before, but she knew instantly that this was it, the fate she had been destined for, the fate for which she had hoped but had almost not dared dream of.
She was, after all, a Princess of a slipper. She had known it from the beginning.
Just Deserts
by Ronel Janse van Vuuren
Kayla tentatively touched the door handle of the boutique shoe store. She was trembling all over. This was it. This was her big chance. But… She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. No backing out now. She straightened her shoulders, pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Shoes of every kind of gorgeous surrounded her. She felt like she’d stepped into a different world. Kayla had to remember to breathe. Even the air tasted expensive.
Slowly she walked through the store, inspecting every pair. Each new design had her dreaming up the perfect outfit to go with it. But none of them were what she was looking for. Until she saw the pair.
Pointy toe pumps completely covered with silver crystals. And a large crystal flower over the toes.
Kayla gasped. The Jimmy Choo shoes were the perfect companions to her dress. She closed her eyes and she could see the voluminous purple silk ruffles…
“Can I help you?” a stiff voice asked.
Kayla opened her eyes and saw a saleswoman standing in front of her. The woman’s hair was as stiff as her voice.
“Perhaps. What’s the price on these?”
The woman pointed to the small plaque on the display case.
Kayla nearly passed out when she saw the price.
The saleswoman smirked and walked away.
The shoes were more than she earned in a month. More than two month’s salary, if she were honest with herself.
But they were perfect. And they would make just the right statement with her dress.
With her heart beating rapidly, her mouth suddenly dry, she took the perfect pair to the saleslady waiting on the side-lines. The woman wearing couture took the shoes with her perfectly manicured hands and went to the back room.
Kayla looked around at the other shoes there as she sat down on the lush chair the saleswoman had pointed out. She hadn’t even noticed the men’s section. Or the rest of the clientele. For the first time she realised that she stood out among the rest of the well-dressed crowd in her work clothes and sensible shoes. She swallowed and didn’t meet their stares. They reminded her too much of her deceased stepmother’s disapproval.
The saleswoman came back and handed Kayla the shoes in the right size, watching her suspiciously.
She slipped the shoes on. She’d never worn anything so beautiful in her life. They were in stark contrast to her serviceable chain store black pants and white blouse ensemble. She took a few tentative steps. The shoes brought her absolute peace and confidence as she watched them in the mirror. They were made for her.
“How will you be paying?” the saleswoman asked, obviously recognising that Kayla and the shoes were a perfect match.
“Credit card,” Kayla answered, her voice hoarse as she handed the shoes to the saleslady to box up again.
She walked up to the register after she pulled on her mundane flat pumps again. Her new shoes, pretty box and all, were already in a nice-looking paper bag. She pulled out her wallet and then the special credit card therein.
“Oh, you work for Castillo Designs?” the saleswoman said suddenly a lot warmer.
“Yes,” Kayla answered.
“I heard that all the staff have to wear plain white blouses and black pantsuits. Apparently the awful rumour is true.”
“Only the clothes designed and made at Castillo should draw any attention,” Kayla answered, trying not to choke on the company line coined by her stepmother.
She reached for the shoes and opened the box to make sure that they were both there. She smiled relieved as the saleswoman handed her back the credit card. She couldn’t really hear anything above her heart beating in her ears.
“Your boss will kill you if they’re not there?” a male voice asked.
Kayla merely nodded, no inclination to explain her actions to a stranger. She had to get back to the office before someone noticed that she had slipped out.
“Have a great day,” the saleswoman said as Kayla left.
She saw the man as she turned to close the door behind her. He outshined the gorgeous shoes around him.
Kayla sighed wistfully before merging with the foot traffic on the busy city sidewalk.
Overly floral perfume warned Kayla that she’d be discovered admiring what she shouldn’t have moments before two women entered her office.
“Can’t you do something about your messy hair?” Amy asked angrily as Kayla closed the door of the closet she’d quickly stuffed her new shoes in. “I know you’re still fresh from design school, but still.”
“Whatever. Where’s the designs for next week’s show? I haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Over here,” Kayla said, trying her best to stay emotionless.
She knew that any sign of emotion from her and her eldest stepsister would explode. She was a lot like Kayla’s stepmother in that way. Probably one of the reasons she was running the company since the funeral.
“Mm,” Amy said as she looked at the designs on display in the corner of the office. Her tightly curled hair reminded Kayla of Medusa. “I thought we’d agreed on dropped waistlines? Why are all of them raised?”
“Oh, that was me. I was watching a historical drama and just knew that it would be perfect with the new hair trends,” Danielle said excitedly, her curly hair bouncing as she talked. “I also thought we should go for a black-and-white floral theme.”
“Really?” Amy asked dubious, eyebrow lifted.
“Have I ever steered us wrong?”
“Very well.”
She glared at Kayla. It was obvious to her that she would’ve been fired had this been her idea. Completely unfair, but that’s just how things happened between the three of them. Amy was always in charge being the eldest; Danielle was always the happy-go-lucky one that seemed to dodge all danger; while Kayla got hit by every missile sent by her stepmother and oldest stepsister just because she was there.
“Supervise her, sister. There’s no room for mistakes,” Amy said to Danielle and left.
Kayla would’ve felt more hurt at the slight if she hadn’t experienced it before.
“That was fun,” Danielle said as she closed the door. “So, did you get them?”