Glass rings as her growl crescendos.
She says, “You shouldn’t make assumptions.”
I shiver. “I didn’t know you could speak.”
“Let me give you some advice.” She leans closer, snout foreshortened in my vision, breath a humid mix of rotten meat and blueberry scones. “Female to female. From someone who’s been in the world longer than you have. Who’s borne a cub and met a thief and slept howling winters into spring.”
I rub the goosebumps on my forearms. Her ursine stare is all crags and glaciers and white water rapids.
Along the back of my neck, where the hairs are raised, I feel a sting — not just of fear, but of hope. Maybe she has the answers to questions I don’t even know how to ask.
Levelly, she stares at me. “You look stupid in go–go boots.”
§
Here’s the thing:
You can’t win.
You can’t win if you’re a princess. You can’t win if you rescue the prince. You can’t win if you cross–dress and become the royal huntsman. And heaven forbid you try to slip into another fairy tale by pricking yourself with a spindle — in the real world, the only thing a spindly prick gets you is up the duff.
No one else is doing better. The mice always wondering if they’re supposed to walk on two legs. The prince so vapid he can only recognize the chick he’s fallen in love with by her shoe size. Your poor, ugly stepsisters who half the time are hobbling on chopped–up feet.
Animators can come in with fake smiles and truckloads of bleach and Zip–a–Zee–Do–Dah away the blood and eye–pecking birds. Post–modern lit grads in ironic t–shirts can tear you up and stitch you into Frankenstein’s femme fatale.
Still there are a thousand girls resting their heads on fireplace stones. Still a thousand streaked with ash and spit.
Still a million going to sleep each night with the knowledge that no one gives a fuck whether or not they wake up.
§
Little cinder girls, we’re raised in fire.
Either you melt and become the simpering thing you’re supposed to.
Or else you temper into something calloused and unbreakable.
§
Ditched the hotel to search for Griselda. Was hoping I could wheedle a cut of the cash, but before I can chase her down, someone’s grabbing my arm and dragging me down the sidewalk, and she–bear is right, I am stupid to be wearing go–go boots because if I’d chosen something else — something with steel toes maybe — I could kick this fucker in the shins and get away.
Instead, I’m shoved into a swarm of people. My assailant shouts, “What about this one?”
More people grab my arms. There are women in black sheath dresses and pink pearls, and men in ponchos and eyeliner, all talking rapidly over each other. “Could be the one! Could be her! She could work!” Hands push me down onto one of those folding chairs people take camping, and there’s some guy at my feet —
Oh, look. Epaulettes again.
Gently, he tugs on my left go–go boot. Leather slips down my calf. His tongue brushes the side of his mouth as he pulls, slow–as–slow. He pants, quick and shallow. Saliva pools in the corner of his mouth. His lids lower with creepy–ass pleasure as my heel pops free. He reveals my arch and then my toes. His index finger traces my sole. “Mmmmmm.”
Whole crowd’s eyes on my bare foot. The prince’s eyes. The eyeliner–and–pearls attendants’ eyes. The eyes of the encircling ranks of morning commuters in business casual who cinch in closer so they can get a better ogle.
The prince passes off the go–go boot, and holds out his hand, impatiently. Sheath–dresses and ponchos confer. “Blue doeskin?” suggests one.
“Blue doeskin!” shout the others. “Blue doeskin!”
A ponchoed ponce presents a shoebox. Sweeps off the lid with a flourish. “Blue doeskin!”
Prince lifts out a four–inch sling–back heel. “Doeskin. Mmm.”
He leans forward to slide the shoe onto my foot. I surprise him with a kick to the stomach.
He doubles over. The pearls–and–eyeliner people flutter their hands in alarm. “Five–bow wedges?” “Studded cowboy boots?” “Gladiator sandals?”
I lurch to standing, awkward with one foot bare and the other go–go heeled, and grab Prince Droolface by the collar. “I always figured a fucker that obsessed with shoe size had to be a fetishist. Look, fine by me, okay? You want me to wear stilettos and walk your spine like a runway? Skippy. But first you tell me what you’re offering in exchange.”
He sputters. I grab one of his epaulettes.
Patty’s Party World. ’Nother fucking fake.
§
It’s all so clear the day before you’re supposed to go to the ball.
Walk away and they can’t make a real Cinderella out of you.
But once you’ve washed the taste of your stepsister’s pussy out of your mouth with a tequila shot… What then?
Now you’re hungover, and your eyes are bloodshot, and you haven’t slept in thirty–six hours — and still, everything you do is heading toward some kind of meaning.
All you wanted to do was run off so you could say, “Her? That’s not me. I’m someone different.”
But Cinderella’s still the center. Everything you do is bound to what she did. You’re her marginalia. You’re the commentary on her body of work.
Everything you do is going to be read in relation to her. You can’t ever really be your own.
§
I’m still running — well, hobbling, given the one–shoe thing — away from Creepy–Ass McFootFetishist when suddenly I spot Griselda. She’s sitting on the curb, taking coins out of the wallet once possessed by Faux Prince #1, and flipping them one by one into the gutter. They make a lonely ringing sound as they clang into the sewers.
I pause, wondering if I should set myself up with a catcher’s mitt — because wasting cash? What? — when shifting clouds change the light, and my shadow tumbles over Griselda.
She looks up. Tears streak her ugly face.
“Oh,” she says, looking sadly back toward the gutter. “You.”
“Uh. Hi.”
A big coin that looks like it might be a Susie B. clamors its way down.
“Could you stop that?” I say.
Her face snarls up. She pulls out a fistful of change and it looks like she’s going to throw it all in the gutter at once, but then she turns and hurls it in my face.
“Take it then!” she shouts.
“Um,” I say.
I can’t help glancing at the passersby who are now giving the crazy chicks wide berth. For dignity’s sake, I probably shouldn’t bend ass to collect a few dollars in change, but I pull off my second go–go anyway and start scooping quarters into it.
Griselda grunts disgustedly. “He wasn’t even a real prince. I let him feel me up and everything. And he wasn’t even a real prince.”
She bares her teeth.
“Should have known,” she says. “Thought maybe I could get some royal nookie even if you got the veil. But no. With you around, everything’s fake.”
She throws the wallet smack at my chest. It hits me then bounces to the ground. I bend down to get it. When I stand back up, she’s gone.
§
You’re an astute reader. So let’s cut the bullshit. You’ve read enough metafiction to think you know where I’m going. And you probably do know because basically what I’ve been saying this whole time is that everything that happens from here is going to fall into one category of commentary or another.
You’ve probably become aware that I’m not exactly Cinderella. I’m not bricked up behind the fourth wall, but I’m not driving the bulldozer either… I’m going to go with the charitable angle and call my identity complex. But I won’t argue if you want to call it confused, ill–defined, or pretentious bullshit.
For the purposes of this story, you may consider me to be any one of the following, or any combination thereof. Feel free to switch up
at any time.
• Cinderella
• The metafictional compilation of Cinderellas
• A prop for anachronistic jokes
• A stand–in for the author
• The pissed off ghost of the chick who told her story to some asshats named Grimm
• A caterpillar with sixteen feet wearing sixteen glass slippers, dreaming of smashing its cocoon and metamorphosing into the black hole that will devour the universe
§
Not sure if wandering the streets is such a good idea given my luck so far, but I keep pounding the pavement anyway, walking barefoot, with the wallet in one hand and the coin–filled go–go boot in the other.
Come upon a dried–up patch of grass trying to pass as a park. Asleep on a bench, there’s Bethesda. Mulberry skirt torn into a mini that makes her legs look uglier than usual.
“Hey,” I say, looming.
She wakes up. Her breath smells like the bear’s but without the trace of sweet. “Shit.” She rubs her eyes to get a bleary look at me. “I should slap you.”
“Yeah. But you won’t.”
“Nah,” she agrees.
That’s the central difference between Bethesda and Griselda. Piss off Griz and she’ll punch a motherfucker. Beth runs hot for an hour or two but can’t keep grudging.
She presses her hand against her head and moans. “The fuck did you let me drink so much?”
“I’m not your mother.”
“Fuck my mother. Where’s Griz?”
“Sulking because she made out with some dude who wasn’t a prince.”
“Fuck her too, then. But not like I fucked you.”
“Speaking of,” I say, “That’s over. No offense. Was just a one–time kind of thing.”
“Figured. After mohawk guy.” She shrugs. It turns into a full–out stretch. “So what the hell’re you going to do now?”
“Been thinking about that.”
“And?”
“Not coming up with much.”
“What happened to your shoes?”
“Sold ’em for some boots.” I lift my change purse cum go–go. “Then lost one.”
“So you’re a streetwalker who can’t even keep her heels on.”
“And you’re a recently dumped, hungover ugly chick wearing a ball gown miniskirt.”
“So you done yet?” she asks. “This all weird enough for you finally?”
“Hell no…”
Cuz it’s not, is it? Not twisty. Not really.
Even if I could somehow break us out of this place where we started… chew us free from the bear trap of our story… go someplace no had ever heard of glass slippers and running away at the stroke of midnight… how would we even recognize ourselves then?
I shift foot to foot. Sun’s making the asphalt hot. I’m regretting not having made off with the blue doeskin slingbacks.
“One idea,” I say. “We should go home.”
“So you can grab some shoes?”
“Yeah, but also, I bet if we toss the place, we can figure out where your mom keeps all her valuables before she even wakes up. Live hog–high for a week or three.”
Bethesda smirks. “Kick the figuring out what to do next thing down the road a while.”
“Correct–a–mundo.”
§
You know what? Never mind all that shit I said before. I’m none of those things.
Unless that was working for you. Then go for it. Far be it for me to tell you what to think.
But here — this is my theory. I’m not just Cinderella. Not just. Not metaphorically.
Take my situation — you could apply it all around.
Listen. We’re all trying to escape archetypes. I’m trying to be me, not just a girl who grew up with a mouthful of ashes. I don’t want to be someone that everyone thinks they already understand. Someone everyone wants a piece of.
Bet you’re trying to escape, too. Trying to be more than just mother, wife, daddy’s little girl, big sister, little sister, baby sis, granny, daft old biddy, crone, trophy wife, castrating bitch, conniving cunt, skank, vixen, hoebag, virgin, Madonna, sweetiepie. Trying to navigate the hairpin turns between bangled bikinis, apple–pie aprons, and power–bitch pantsuits.
I bet you manage it, too. Bet you’re an ice queen exec who bakes cookies on the weekends, or a demure little preacher’s daughter who takes it up the ass, or the marathon runner who’s going to smoke the world record that dudes think belong to them by right of chromosome Y.
Feel free to fill in the blanks with whatever it is you actually are.
But all that aside, at the end of the day, where do we stand? The archetypal feminine, the ur woman with a capital W, she’s this fire we can’t run from. She’s burning constantly, devouring bits of us, turning them into herself.
Here and there, we don’t burn up completely. But even our ashes are her creations.
We always exist in relation to her, no matter what we do.
§
So anyway, Bethesda and I head home.
We pass the dude trading new shoes for old, and I shout at him that his products are crappy. Bethesda makes faces in the magic mirror until it begs her to go away. We break off pieces of peppermint windowsill to eat for breakfast, and when the witch shouts at us, we flip her the bird and grab extra fistfuls of pop rocks from the driveway.
Last night’s bartender is still in the back alley, smoking a clove. In a flash of remorse for stealing his tips, I toss him the go–go full of change.
Outside a salon, we run into she–bear with ringlet–girl in tow. She–bear’s smirking. Blondie’s definitely too zonked out to choose her own haircut. Wonder if she’s due for a knee–length weave or a pixie cut.
At the coffee shop next door, the sheath–dressed women and men in ponchos are lined up for lattes. His Royal Foot Fetishist stands outside the door, licking the blue slingbacks.
“What the —” Bethesda begins.
“Don’t ask,” I say, guiding her quickly past.
Couple blocks later, we see a couple on the other side of the street, gropeslurp groping. Sure enough, they change angle, and there’s Griselda. This time, she’s making out with a drag queen in six–inch stilettos, a sequined slink of a dress, and epaulettes made from the shards of disco balls. Least she knows this one’s fake.
We tiptoe on past so we won’t disturb them.
Not too long later we reach home. Bethesda grabs her key out of her bra.
She toasts. “To home sweet home.”
“Cheers,” I agree. “Let’s rob a bitch.”
And we slap each other high five.
§
And some of you are saying, oh look, I know what this means, it ends with female–on–female violence which pigeonholes women as jealous backstabbers, and what the hell is with the unquestioning perpetuation of the evil stepmother stereotype
And some of you are saying, oh look, I know what this means, it’s a tale of female friendship because Cinderella and her sister are forging a bond through petty theft and how often do you see stories focusing on positive female–female relationships
And some of you are saying, oh look, a wimpy ending that refuses to say anything decisive, I could tell from the beginning this was going to be pretentious bullshit.
And some of you are wondering whether there was any point to the bear scene or whether the author just thinks bears drinking tea are funny.
And look, whatever, okay? You just go ahead and take whatever you’re thinking and go think about it on your own time. Because Bethesda’s searching the house, and I’m the lookout, and I really don’t need your noisy–ass ruminations waking up my stepmother before we’re finished.
§
OK, fine, I’ll tell you this one thing for sure. Right now, a thousand Cinderellas are going to steal back our childhood dignity in the form of an old lady’s life savings. And then we’re going to spend it on booze and clubbing and high–priced high heels.
And when we pass
out drunk, we’re going to keep on dreaming of becoming that black hole that will swallow the universe.
Glittery Authors & Artist
Christopher Barzak
Christopher Barzak is the author of the Crawford Fantasy Award–winning novel One for Sorrow, which is currently being made into the feature film Jamie Marks is Dead (to be released in 2014). His second book, The Love We Share Without Knowing, was a finalist for the Nebula and Tiptree Awards. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Apex Magazine, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, and The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy. His most recent books are Birds and Birthdays, a collection of surrealist fantasy stories, and Before and Afterlives, a collection of supernatural fantasies. He grew up in rural Ohio, has lived in a southern California beach town, the capital of Michigan, and has taught English in suburban and rural communities outside of Tokyo, Japan, where he lived for two years. Currently he teaches fiction writing in the Northeast Ohio MFA program at Youngstown State University.
Amber Benson
Amber Benson is a writer, director and actor. She currently writes the Calliope Reaper–Jones series for Ace/Roc and her middle grade book, Among the Ghosts, came out in paperback this past fall from Simon and Schuster. She co–directed the Slamdance feature, Drones and (co–wrote) and directed the BBC animated series, The Ghosts of Albion with Christopher Golden. She spent three years as Tara Maclay on the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Maurice Broaddus & Kyle S. Johnson
Maurice Broaddus has written hundreds of short stories, essays, novellas, and articles. His dark fiction has been published in numerous magazines, anthologies, and web sites, including Cemetery Dance, Apex Magazine, Black Static, and Weird Tales Magazine. He is the co–editor of the Dark Faith anthology series (Apex Books) and the author of the urban fantasy trilogy Knights of Breton Court (Angry Robot Books). He has been a teaching artist for over five years, teaching creative writing to elementary, middle, high school, and adult students. Visit his site at www.MauriceBroaddus.com.
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