by Sally Odgers
Tre calmly replaced his hood and eased into the passenger seat. Jolene waved at the speechless Mags and Aaron, put the car into gear and drove off, leaving them staring after her. Wahoo!
She well knew the future was uncertain for the G. Tremorg family, and would never be easy. She ought to be worrying about what would happen in Ojibway. Instead, she savored her moment of triumph.
"Tre,” she said after a while, “before I knew you really were one, I called you ghoul-crazy. Funny, isn't it that I turned out to be the ghoul-crazy one?"
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Cinderella Ten Years After The Wedding
By
Kandy Phair
The ornately gilded carriage carrying four, trundled over a rickety bridge on the way to the castle. The occupants were loud and rude as they discussed their proposed visit to the royal family.
"Mother, do we really have to call on snotty Cinderella, today? My stomach turns every time she looks down her nose at us ... her needy, destitute relatives."
"We must keep in touch, Brunhilde. After all, she's married to a wealthy prince.” Lady Bollington pointed her aristocratic, long nose in the air, her curled lips revealing a set of teeth in desperate need of repair.
"What's that got to do with it, Mother?” Ethelreda's tone was delivered in a nasal twang, her double chin bouncing in perfect sync with the wheels of the coach.
"You silly pair of twits,” scolded their mother, “That sanctimonious prig of a prince keeps us in the lap of luxury."
The girls laughed suggestively.
"Stop snorting, Brunhilde.” Lady Bollington cuffed her daughter's ear with a resounding slap. “You girls should be grateful. The prince has paid through the nose for the last ten years for our upkeep while neither of you have done an honest day's work in that time. Every thing has been handed to you on a silver platter, which is as it should be.” She patted her hair and then ran her fingers down the diamond and pearl necklace.” Her large bosom heaved with a sigh. “I admit, he could have done better by us had he purchased the monstrous plantation in South America. We would have been rich beyond our wildest dreams."
"I've never understood why he forks out hard cash the way he does,” stated Ethelreda, her mud-colored eyes even closer than usual as she screwed up her face.
"Yes, Mummy, why does he do that?” Brunhilde took her finger out of her nose long enough to speak.
"Wipe your chin, daughter,” Lady Bollington said. “And don't call me Mummy; it lacks dignity.” She took out a scrap of dirty linen and blew her nose noisily before stuffing it back into her blouse.
"Have you got some kind of hold on the prince?” asked Ethelreda with ghoulish curiosity. “Come on, give us the dirt on him; don't keep it to yourself."
A large bony paw swiped at Ethelreda's head with lightning speed. “Watch yourself, young lady. The men around here aren't exactly knocking down your door. I might find myself persuaded to marry you off to the Prince's Uncle Bognor and you know what an old soak he is.” She chuckled at the look of horror on her eldest daughter's face. Serve Old Boggy right she thought. Ethelreda would drain a man dry within six months and then throw away the husk.
The young women looked at their mother with mulish expressions.
"Oh, all right, I'll tell you, but not a word to anyone or I'll enroll you in finishing school.
Their expressions soon turned to ones of disgust at the mention of finishing school. It was a place of unrestricted torture for them. They had been evicted from the last school for refusing to comply with regulations regarding cleanliness, and bathing every week, not to mention keeping their room tidy was beyond their comprehension.
"One night, not long after the wedding, I discovered our high and mighty prince in a compromising position. Thinking to use the information to our best advantage, I approached him. He decided, quite quickly I might add, he'd rather pay me than risk the chance of me spilling the beans to Cinderella over his little peccadillo."
"What's a peccadillo?” asked Brunhilde.
"You're such a moron.” Ethelreda said. “A peccadillo is a giant lizard with armor.
"I'm not a moron, Brown Hill.” Her forehead furrowed into a frown. “And I don't believe you. I'm sure a peccadillo is a bird ... you know, one that pecks the ground.” She smiled smugly and turned to her mother, “Isn't that right, Mummy?"
Lady Bollinger closed her eyes and shook her head. How could her daughters possibly be so addle-pated? She brought them up properly, taught them how to conduct themselves like ladies, and yet they were obviously a little tight in the attic. “You take after your stepfather all right, and he wasn't too bright either. A peccadillo happens to be a naughty little escapade."
With renewed enthusiasm, they turned to their mother. She flinched at the onslaught of fetid breath and unwashed bodies accompanying their interest as they shifted in their seats. “First, I found him cavorting in the cowshed with the kitchen maid and not long after, fondling the cook while she prepared the evening meal. Need I say more?"
The girls nodded and licked their lips, eager to hear more.
Lady Bollinger folded her hands in her lap and zipped her lips, enjoying the disappointment on her daughters’ faces. She loved withholding information, depriving them of enjoyment. If amusement happened to crawl out of the cellar, she'd be the only one to enjoy it.
Minutes later, the gilded carriage arrived at the castle, and there stood Cinderella, waiting for them by the door. The prince was nowhere to be seen.
Horses snorted as Lady Bollinger and her daughters squeezed through the small door of the carriage and clambered to the ground. Chaos reigned for a moment as the footman calmed the beasts assuring them they'd done their duty and could now rest for a spell.
"Good afternoon, Stepmother. I hope you had a nice journey.” Cinderella smiled brightly, hiding her dislike for the visitors. “Sisters, are you well?"
Moving through the large foyer into a nearby drawing room, Ethelreda asked, “Where's that handsome hubby of yours, Cinders ... off having a bit of fun in the cowshed, is he?"
"What is that supposed to mean, Reddy?” snapped Cinderella. “My husband never goes into the cowshed. It's beneath him to fraternize with the help."
After receiving a sharp kick from her mother, Etherelda reached down to rub her ankle and whined. “Forget it, Cinders, I just wondered where he was hiding that's all."
"He's probably in the kitchen,” Brunhilde put in her two cents as the women lowered themselves to chairs. “Getting something tasty from the cook.” Her laughter was abruptly halted by a scathing look from her mother. Making sure she was out of foot-range from a sharp-toed foot, Brunhilde narrowed her eyes and turned to Cinderella again. “I wouldn't mind a bit of that hasty pudding myself."
Cinderella had already found out what her prince had received from the cook. It wasn't hasty, took all night and half the next day. After trying the dish herself, she concluded she better do something about the situation immediately.
"I'll ring the bell for refreshments.” Soon after Cinderella pulled the cord, a maid arrived with a tray of tea, and next the cook arrived with a platter of biscuits and cake. With a curt nod from Cinderella, they set curtsied and left the room.
"I don't know why you don't get rid of them,” Lady Bollinger said. “I wouldn't have them under my roof were I you. They're far too incompetent."
"I keep them on because they keep my husband busy."
Heads turned in her direction, eyes wide, mouths open.
Eager for more malicious gossip, Lady Bollinger pressed on, “What on earth do you mean, dear?"
"Well, if he isn't busy doing things for the maid and the cook, he's trying to find another pair of slippers for me. There are now forty pairs of glass shoes on my armoire shelf, and not one pair fits."
"Oh dear,” gasped Lady Bollinger. “He should have asked what size you wear."
As she helped herself to another cake, Brunhilde said, “Men never ask, they could
n't care less."
Ethelreda chortled. “Size does matter or so I've been told.” Too busy chuckling over her joke, she failed to duck the blow from her mother's foot again. She gave an audible howl of pain when boot met ankle. “Mummy!"
Cinderella laughed, grateful she was seated out of range of the dragon's vicious kicks. “The prince is driving me bonkers and I'm desperate. Even now, he's out looking for more glass slippers."
"Why don't you tell him to stop?” asked her stepmother.
"If I do, I'll have to get rid of the maid and the cook and I don't want to do that."
"Why not?” Brunhilde asked sipping her tea. “They can be replaced."
"Because I want the prince to be happy, more importantly, I want him out of my way. I've been having daily meetings with the shoe salesman and,” she paused, “we've become quite close. He knows my shoe size."
Lady Bollinger rose to her full height, her tone biting. “I believe I need to speak with the prince. Your behavior is disgraceful.” The woman wagged a finger. “You're having an affair with a shoe salesman."
"Yeah, well that's nothing. The prince has been having an affair with your daughters. I can't tell you what I think of his abominable taste."
Her Ladyship's piercing gaze focused on her daughters as they cowered in their seats. “Is it true?” she asked.
"I only did it because you said we should stay on the good side of the prince,” whined Brunhilde.
"Yeah, Mummy, you told us to do everything we could to keep him sweet, so we did.” The sisters laughed wickedly and said to their stepsister, “And just in case the Prince wasn't interested in us, we secured an alternate plan.” Another chuckle from Ethelreda. “Mummy has been visiting Uncle Bognor twice a week for the last five years."
Lady Bollinger doubled up her fists and knocked her daughters from the spindle-backed chairs. “That should teach you to speak out of turn.” She turned to her stepdaughter. “Now ... where was I, Cinderella? Oh yes, I'm afraid we won't be able to come for tea again until you assure us the shoe salesman has concluded his business here. We don't want people to think we hobnob with the lower classes. It just isn't done. We're of royal blood now, after all."
At that moment the prince arrived with the shoe salesman and Uncle Bognor. Quite drunk, arm-in-arm they strolled into the room singing a French ditty. Uncle crossed the room and delivered a solid kiss to Lady Bollinger's lips, and then the maid and the cook arrived. Cinderella licked her full lips and then turned to face her guests. It promised to be quite a night.
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Beauty Sleeping
By
Kandy Phair
There's no way to hide the facts about Sleeping Beauty. Her real name was Beatrice Schmaltz, Princess of Bratislavia. She was fourth in line in charge of the laundry, sewing and slops detail. Her stepsisters Lulu and Lizzie looked upon her as a servant to be used and abused.
Her mother was Ex Queen Isobel, late of Bratislavia. Instead of being put in a padded cell for not sucking up to her tyrannical husband, she had chosen to be sent away to live in seclusion in a far off land many years before. She had fancied the King of that new country and, after many pleasurable manipulations, become his queen. Beauty was still with her Daddy and had become someone for Queen Isobel to send birthday greetings to via carrier pigeon ... if she remembered.
King Henry married a woman with two pretty teenage daughters with the temperaments of vipers. Beauty was moved into fourth place with no possibility of parole. It was downhill from that moment on. Beauty nicknamed her new stepmother Medusa because she had two snakes attached her neck, and didn't realize she talked in her sleep and gave her secret opinions away. It was all over the castle the next day and disaster struck. Beauty's life of luxury as a princess was over.
Beauty's wicked stepmother, Queen Anne, gave her daughters their every wish. The king had little say about what he wanted his wife to give him. He was a man with needs after all, and he must be satisfied or heads would roll.
If Beauty wanted to eat and have an actual bed in the laundry to sleep in, she'd be slave and errand girl to both her stepsisters. She liked food, so whenever they were around she pretended to work, stitching and mending, wielding the needles and scissors like potential weapons of familial destruction.
That was easy because her sisters didn't know what real work looked like. In the past she didn't either, but now she had learned the hard way.
She had recently changed her name from Beatrice to Beauty to give herself a touch of class. It didn't work. Her family still called her Batty, instead of Beatrice or Beauty. It was half way between the two.
Beauty was basically a lazy slob. She used to climb up to the tower every day to get out of work. She'd pretend to spin wool into yarn but nothing was ever made into anything useful. It was all show and no go. How she came to prick her finger on the spindle certainly wasn't because she was using it. She was too busy reading lurid romances and fantasizing about being kissed by a handsome prince. Frogs came and went in her dreams to but she had no idea why. Green had recently become her favorite color and she would dream of being knee deep in slime.
Sleeping was easy for Beauty. She'd been doing it all her life, especially when the ironing needed doing or there were dishes to be done. She'd yawn widely, show her blackened teeth before she made some excuse to ‘Mummy', Queen Anne, and then off she'd go to the tower for a bit of psychic stimulation via her tarot cards. The future was just a turn of the cards away and she wanted to be prepared. The world was her oyster, or it would be as soon as Lulu and Lizzie leapt off a cliff. She wasn't quite ready to push them. Knowing her luck, she'd be seen doing the evil deed. Maybe they would get married. It was the same difference to Beauty. Either way they'd be gone.
Her dad, King Henry, was off with the fairies. You'd think one queen per household would be enough, but he had his own brand of entertainment and anyway, his wife was busy with two of the stable hands. Her day was well planned. Riding and being ridden took up all her free thinking.
Daddy had no interest in what Beauty was up to, and she was up to plenty, mostly lying down reading or planning revenge on her acquired family.
One day King Henry brought one of his mates up to the tower believing it was empty. Alfonso was his name. Beauty was leaning on the spinning wheel, daydreaming. She jumped suddenly as they entered, pricking her finger. King Henry and his pal left immediately knowing there was no privacy with his daughter around. She always wanted to know all the ins and outs of everybody's business and he didn't want to be seen enjoying himself.
While in the tower Alfonso noticed Beauty had something he'd always wanted, a lovely gossamer gown of pink and silver. A part time magician, he put a spell on her that night making her go to bed early so he could steal her outfit. A bit heavy handed with the incantation, Alfonso overdid it and Beauty slept for the next one hundred years. He got the dress but didn't wear it more than once. Then he got into a catfight with one of his girlfriends and together they ripped the thing to shreds.
The castle needed a good pruning after one hundred years. King Henry had met his maker in suspicious circumstances and his nephew, King George, had grown up to follow the family tradition of burying his enemies in the back yard. He fed them a good dinner first, laced with arsenic. Then he provided a good vintage of red wine to wash it down. He was never a skinflint when it came to beverages. Now old and crusty, King George was now well past the age of digging his own burial plots so he hired a gardener, his impoverished second cousin's stepson.
The gardener's name was Prince Lance-a-lot. Mostly he just used the name Prince because none of the peasants around had the slightest idea what the name Lance-a-lot meant and he was sick of demonstrating his lance to them. A man had a reputation to maintain, but in winter weather with snow on the ground ... enough was enough.
Prince Lance-a-lot loved to scythe the weeds, dig holes in the ground and clean the drains. Come break time, pervert that he was—a family tra
dition inherited from his daddy—he'd pop into the tower and spy on the Princess. Looking was all he did, because the gargoyles were still cemented to the walls and he didn't know if they were dead or alive, watching him.
Sleeping Beauty was still asleep, and had been that way for one hundred years. He thought someone that old would look haggard and wasted, but she didn't. To a man on the bottom of the food chain, she just looked available. One day the strain of no response from Sleeping Beauty was too much for Prince, even after he'd gone through his entire repertoire of dirty tricks. Touchy-feely didn't seem to cut it with her. He kissed her, beginning at her big toe and working his way along her feet. By the time he reached her lips, he was on rather shaky ground legally but was enjoying himself so much he couldn't stop.
Lance-a-lot nearly died of apoplexy when the object of his passions opened her eyes and shouted hoarsely, “My Prince” and clasped him to her heaving bosom. Prince took one look at her black teeth—which hadn't been cleaned in at least a hundred years—and gasped in fright. Halitosis is a terrifying nightmare to anyone of refined taste. Prince's taste wasn't so much refined, as well used. He would try anything if it were available, so long as it was free.
He leapt backward dragging the now extremely overweight Beauty with him. His sleeve caught in her tangled blonde hair, grown down to her feet like a curtain now. She hadn't had much exercise recently and they'd kept feeding her any way they could. Ice cream left to melt in the sun and poured down her throat seemed to be the way to go, or so the cook said.
Prince Lance-a-lot and Beauty landed on the floor in a tangle of bedclothes and hair. She groaned in expectation of pleasure, her fingernails in bad need of a manicure, getting in the way at every turn. According to the freshly awakened Beauty, it was a match made in heaven. Her prince wasn't quite so sure.
Beauty grinned down at her potential lover even as she crushed the life out of him. She said, “I'm Beauty."