Twisted Fayrie Tales

by Sally Odgers

  "I have been a good wife—"

  "No one's disputing that!"

  "—and brought my own two children here, to this little kingdom, away from proper society, away from their grandparents, away from their friends. Yet this is the thanks we get?!"

  "Children argue! It happens! I said I'll talk to Ella about—"

  "Talk?! What kind of man are you? Talk! You'd best do your talking with a switch, or I shall!"

  Finally, her father exploded. “I will not strike my children! Nor will—” His words cut off in a strange, strangled gasp and he clutched his left arm.

  "Jonathan, what is it?"

  He did not answer. He looked past his wife—straight at Ella, it seemed—his eyes wide in pain and fear. Then his body gave a sudden spasm, and he fell face first across the desk.

  Ella was sure she'd screamed then. Maybe they'd all screamed. Still, in all her nightmares all she heard was the small choking gurgle he made just as he died.

  Her stepmother never did beat her with a switch—perhaps the memory of that fatal argument was too painful—but she found other ways to take out her wrath on Ella. At first she simply denied her the privileges she was so used to having with her father. Then she started heaping responsibilities upon her, mostly tending to her stepsisters; she was, after all the “oldest,” even if only by months. Finally, as the money started running out and the servants had to be let go, her stepmother placed their duties on her. When the last of the maids was dismissed, she alone was left to clean each of the 40 rooms in the chateau. All but one. She could never bring herself to enter the study where her father died. By some miracle, her stepmother never crossed her on it, until by silent, mutual agreement, they boarded it up.

  She withstood all of this in silence, hoping that someday someone, a relative, a neighbor, even a stranger, would see what she was being subjected to and take her away. No one ever noticed, except to comment on how obedient and helpful she was. Eventually, they even seemed to forget her position of birth, and she became little more than a personal slave.

  The clock tolled the three-quarter hour.

  The drumming stopped. The procession halted. The guards made a sharp facing movement. Ella turned to face the royal box.

  She gasped. There, seated with the nobility, was her step-family. She'd expected that at the trial, but at her execution?

  Her stepmother dabbed at her eyes with a silk kerchief yet still managed to cast a few long glances at the King. Her stepsisters weren't nearly as subtle in their flirtations. They preened and flipped their hair, and leaned just so as they tried to comfort the man between them. Ella focused on the center of their attentions.

  The Prince.

  Darryl.

  He stared stoically ahead, his face set in firm lines, but she could feel his grief. What did he regret? Making her stay, or calling for the guards when the horrible transformation took place and she became as she was, a poor abused girl in rags? Despite everything, her heart still leapt at the sight of him, just as it had the night they'd met.

  The funny thing was that, even after the miracles her fairy godmother had performed—the coach, the dress—Ella almost didn't enter the castle. After all, she was alone, without an invitation. The castle was so large—could she even find the ballroom? She'd only visited the castle once before, with her father for a royal audience, and she'd clung to his waistcoat the entire time. He'd smiled at her and put his arm around her and she'd felt so protected...

  "M'Lady? The ball is this way.” A royal guardsman broke through her reverie and she'd hurried in.

  The castle had seemed so huge and scary when she was a child. Now, it seemed equally large, but somehow less intimidating once she got inside; as she wandered the halls, staring at the glamour of the polished marble and crystal chandeliers, she found her mind constantly wondering, “How long does it take to clean that?"

  It was in the middle of such a thought that he appeared. “You look a little lost,” he said and smiled.

  "Oh, no, I just—” Embarrassed at her speculations and flustered by the sudden warmth that spread over her, she stopped talking and curtsied. He bowed in return and their eyes met. Her pulse fluttered in her throat and in her breast. Somewhere violins started, or was it just the singing of her heart?

  "Dance with me,” he asked, and she gave him her hand.

  It had been years since she'd danced, and then only with her father in their little ballroom at home, with him carefully counting the steps and entreating her not to look at her feet. Yet in the arms of this stranger she moved effortlessly, with no need to count or look down. Maybe it was the shoes? Maybe it was the way he gazed at her, with such joy. Relief. Recognition. That's what her mother had called it: that sudden feeling of rightness when your soul discovers its one destined mate. That was the look in his eyes. She wondered if she had it, too. It was certainly how she felt.

  Still, as he led her to the courtyard, away from the music and crowds, she found herself frightened to tell him anything about herself. What could she say? Oh, she knew she would tell him everything. If only he would ask the right question, it'd all come pouring out, from her father to her fairy godmother. But she couldn't bring herself to volunteer the information. She tried, dropping hints, making innuendoes, trying to let her thoughts show on her face, but he never picked up on them. Finally, she contented herself with listening as he told her of his adventures in his travels and at the university and how his father was forcing him to marry soon.

  "Not that he's interested in whom I marry,” he said ruefully, “as long as she gives him lots of grandchildren."

  "I'd like a big family,” Ella replied wistfully, “especially sons...” Perhaps if she'd had a brother, he could've protected her.

  "I suppose I do, too,” he answered, then stopped and put his arms around her. “First, though, I want to fall in love. Of course, I think that's already happening."

  He kissed her then, lightly, sweetly, as if she were something fragile and to be cherished. She could feel tears sting her eyes. She looked down to hide them. He leaned down, tried to catch her gaze. She smiled, embarrassed and happy, and he took her hand and led her to the fountain.

  "Well, enough about me. Tell me about you."

  "Me?” After the gentle thrill of her first kiss, the request sent her mind into a panic.

  He laughed gently at her confusion. “Yes, you. Tell me about your life, your dreams."

  Dreams. Dreams, like wishes on a birthday cake, the candles flickering, beckoning. Her mother leaning close, so that the lace on her collar tickled Ella's ear. “Now make a wish, love,” she'd whisper, “but don't tell! Blow them all in one puff!” Then she'd add a whisper of breath to Ella's, just to be sure. Ella noticed once, but never told. It couldn't be cheating.

  Then the birthday after Mother died, the candles didn't all go out, and she'd cried.

  That night, she'd dreamed of a new mother, leaning close, blowing with her. It'd been so beautiful that she told her father that same morning. Not long after, he came home with a strange woman and her two daughters. “This will be your new mother,” he'd announced. “Just like your dream!"

  Dreams. Only unsaid can they really come true.

  The clock, cruel as always, had chimed.

  "Oh, my goodness! Midnight! I must go!” She stood to run, but he grabbed her hand. She struggled to pull herself free.

  "Why are you leaving?"

  "Why? I—We—we shouldn't be here. It's unseemly, and—” She realized then how stupid that sounded. He still had her hand. The clock chimed. Was that the fourth or fifth time? “Please, you don't understand! I have to go. Maybe we can meet—"

  "No. I won't let you leave me. Tell me what's wrong! I love you!"

  "But if I stay, I'll—You what?"

  The ninth chime.

  "I love you. Please. Stay with me. Whatever happens, I want to be with you."

  "It'll be awful!” But she felt her resolve weakening and she didn't resist as he pulled
her closer.

  The eleventh chime.

  "Nothing can be worse than losing you."

  They kissed.

  The twelfth chime.

  Midnight.

  Noon. The clock sounded its twelfth chime as they approached the pyre.

  At the sight of the stake stretching up from the pile of kindling and wood, her survival instinct broke through her resigned depression. She screamed, pushed free of her captors and threw herself toward the royal box.

  "Please, stepmother! I'm sorry! I'll do anything you ask, anything! Help me! Darryl, you said you loved me! Please!!"

  Her stepmother stared dispassionately. The Prince gave her one confused, despairing, look then buried his face in his hands. Her stepsisters quickly moved to comfort him, blocking her view of him with their bodies. One actually turned long enough to stick out her tongue at Ella.

  The guards dragged her to the pyre and roughly tied her to the post. She kept fighting, screaming, pleading. Again she tried to prove her innocence by shouting the Lord's Prayer. A guard punched her in the mouth before being pulled back by the Archbishop. She spat out teeth and blood. Another yanked her head to tie her to the post with her own hair.

  She saw her.

  "Godmother! Godmother, help! You started this! Save me! You promised to make my dream come true! You—” Her cried ended in shrieks as the fire lit, caught on her tattered clothes and burned. Then even her screams were drowned out by the animal fury of the crowd.

  Only one, an old and frail woman, did not join the mad rejoicing of the mob. Ella's fairy godmother watched the scene until she could bear no more, then buried her head in the shoulder of the Archbishop. She'd known the night she'd found the heartbroken Cinderella that her powers were failing, yet she'd mustered all her magical abilities to make one last incredible wish. Of course it couldn't last.

  If only she'd come home by midnight.

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  Angel with an Attitude

  by

  D. J. Sylvis

  Slowly, Andy surfaced from sleep into twilight. It had been mid-afternoon when he had gone to bed; now, he could hear his sister downstairs making dinner, and half his room was shrouded in the cobweb-gray shadows that anticipate night.

  When he was fully awake, he slid to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet over the side, searching for his slippers. Sitting, he could see the reason why only half the room was shadowed; the fish tank beside the door cast its own light, rippling gently as it filtered through the water. Andy smiled; and as his feet found the slippers, he reached out to stroke the smooth, cool side of the tank. “Hello, Amanda,” he crooned.

  Just beyond his fingertips, a small fish flipped sinuously from end to end, as if performing for his benefit. She was primarily a dark blue in color, laid over extravagantly with stripes of white and a lighter blue that became more vibrant at the edges of her fins. He opened the lid to tip in a few flakes of food, and she darted to the surface eagerly. He watched as she ate, her mouth opening and closing to catch each floating morsel.

  "Andy! Get down here for dinner!"

  At the sound of his sister's voice, Andy shot to his feet so quickly he almost lost his balance. He lowered the lid to the tank gently, looked down with longing. Then he sighed and padded quietly out of the room.

  The dining room was brightly lit; even the large windows reflected the inside instead of offering a view out. While Andy set two places with plain china from the cabinet, Marsha stepped in from the kitchen, tapping a spatula impatiently against her aproned breast.

  "I'm having meatloaf tonight,” she announced aggressively, the utensil keeping time. “I guess you're just having salad and corn.” Six months before, Andy had decided to become vegetarian, but his sister would neither adapt her own cooking nor allow him into the kitchen to cook for himself. His lunch during the day, while she was gone, became his major meal, and he survived on side dishes in the evenings.

  As happened most nights, they ate their dinner in silence. Between toying with the wilted lettuce and sodden bits of tomato, Andy thought about his fish tank. He wondered if he should raise some brine shrimp to augment Amanda's diet, then he wondered whether brine shrimp tasted like shrimp, or somehow different. After that, he considered whether vegetarians should even be feeding their fish other living things, and rattled his fork idly against the plate until Marsha glared.

  When he finished, Andy stacked his silverware and dishes, and was about to take them to the sink when his sister cleared her throat. Startled, he sank back into the chair and waited.

  Marsha scraped up the last shreds of meat and juices, sucked them off her fork, and swallowed delicately. “I'm talking to some realtors about selling the house.” She lay her fork down, pushing her plate toward Andy to stack under his.

  Andy's stomach sank. Beneath the table, he clutched at the hem of his shirt, tugging it out of shape. “You ... you can't do that. The house belongs to both of us. Mom and Dad—"

  The plates crashed together. “I'm sure Mom and Dad didn't expect me to still be taking care of you at your age. Do you think I enjoy coming home from work to make dinner every night, after you've sat at home mooning over your computer and your aquarium?"

  He lifted his head, flinching at the ice in her gaze. “I work. I do my—"

  "You write. That doesn't count as working. I'm the one who cooks, and cleans, and keeps this house in a condition where it might be sold.” Marsha shoved her chair back and stood, wisps of fading red hair escaping like bolts of electricity from the bun at the back of her head. “I don't see how you have much say in it."

  Andy's whole body pulsed, heat rushed to his face. “That's not ... it's not like I don't ... you can't just decide—"

  But Marsha was already walking toward the kitchen, carrying her water glass and napkin. She only looked over her shoulder for a moment at the doorway. “I've already decided. Now, bring the rest of the dishes off the table."

  Climbing the stairs back to his room, Andy trailed his hand along the railing. He remembered stretching to reach up to it as a child; now it was just at waist height. He knew each place where there were splinters to avoid, just as he knew which step would creak the loudest beneath his weight. There were photographs of him descending these stairs on his bottom, one at a time, when he was still learning to walk.

  "It's not right, Amanda,” he said as he entered his room. He stopped to watch her again, absently tracing the corners of the tank's frame. The soft gurgling sound of the filter and the weaving dance of movement in the tank soothed him, as they always did, and finally he moved away to sit at his desk. “There's got to be something I can do,” he murmured.

  There were several email messages waiting for him. One from his editor at Interpedia.com, laying out his writing assignments for the week; three pieces of spam that hadn't been filtered, and a message from rayman@angel-care.org with a subject line reading, “Haven't seen you in a while":

  Noticed you haven't been on as much lately. Is everything okay? We could use some help on the forum—a rehash of the old breeding debates. Your elegant way with words is missed.—Ray

  Andy selected the bookmark for Angel-care.org in his browser. The site loaded slowly, giving him plenty of time to wince at the badly-photoshopped background and the little cartoon fish with a halo replacing the “A” in the page's logo. As soon as it was possible, he clicked into the page for the Forums, which was plain text against a field of soft blue.

  It didn't take long to find the argument that Ray was referring to. It was actually a revival of an older thread discussing breeding issues, with the new conflict stemming from a post by user 'Guest32':

  I know I'm new to the site, and I've only had an Angel for a few months., but I don't see a question to breed or not to. It doesn't matter what animal; god designed them to breed. it's what they're made to do.

  From that beginning, the debate had ranged far and wide, with fervent anger and self-righteousness and Biblical referen
ces that were almost always followed by profanity in the replying post. At the bottom of list at that moment was Ray's three-paragraph summary of the opposing viewpoint, beginning with, Just when I had vowed to stop calling the youth of America fuck heads ... and continuing until, Oh, and lest your Bible verses go unanswered, let me quote the Bard in closing: “The devil can cite scripture to his purpose."

  Andy couldn't help but grin. Ray had been a member of the forum from its beginnings in the early 90s; it was common knowledge that you could search back to the earliest archives and there he was, foul and intelligent and rampaging wherever he pleased. He apparently taught at a university in the south, as he would occasionally make derogatory references to his students, the surrounding community, and continuing education in general. Despite his rough edges, he had been asked several times over the years to become a forum moderator at Angel-care, but every time he'd declined. I do better outside the establishment, he had written the last time, when Andy invited him personally.

  For Andy had, quite quickly, become a moderator himself. A few months after he had begun reading and posting regularly, Angel-care's first real flame war had broken out, and there was a call for more mods to help calm things down. Andy, to his surprise, was the first person they asked. The post announcing his acceptance was followed by congratulations from most of the long-term members of the group. This included Ray, of course: I think I'm the least surprised of anyone. It's been obvious since your first post that you're passionate, knowledgeable, and you have some insights into the world of angelfish that put all of us to shame.

  Later, in a private message, he added, of course, it doesn't hurt that you're cute. There had been a thread, a year or so before, where the long-term members posted pictures of themselves and their fish, and Ray had made it obvious that he found Andy particularly enticing. Since then, there had always been a flirtatious undertone to their friendliness.