Pound For Pound
September 16, 2010 at 10:35 am (short stories, works in progress, writing)
A long overdue response to “Charon,” a NaNoWriMo warm-up prompt from Rachel, given to me in October 2009. There are two versions; one is complete but feels far too long, and the other – which I’ve posted here – is nearly complete and ends in a much speedier, snappier fashion. I’m hoping to have a post-worthy conclusion by week’s end. Thanks to Rachel for the very rich prompt material; this one was fun to research! ~H~
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The man stood smugly behind his expansive oak desk, smirking even as the dust from the book he’d slammed shut reached his eyes and made them water. Victory at last, he thought, and he let his hand graze the centuries-old calfskin cover, savouring the moment. A quick glance at the tan line on his left ring finger nearly moved him to laugh aloud. Oh, yes. Today was a very good day.
For years he’d sought the answer to his biggest question, the antidote to his personal poison, the dagger for his albatross. Lois. He should never have married her, but blah blah hindsight blah, and now he was stuck. Seven years in and half his worth, not to put too fine a point on it. Divorce would be too expensive – at least in his estimation of things – and a man such as himself couldn’t tolerate the idea of his life’s work being liquidated into a joint account, his sterling academic career boiling down to little more than a new fur coat for the ungrateful slag. As the best law professor Cambridge had ever seen, he’d been witness to enough divorce cases to know it wouldn’t be a route he could take voluntarily and still live with himself.
He’d contemplated having her snuffed. A few snifters of brandy in his private study late at night always made that seem like a better idea, an almost romantic one, in the noir-ish sense. The cold light of day, however, tended to show its flaws in distinct relief. He’d seen men like him – colleagues, even – who’d thought they knew the letter of the law better than anyone, who watched enough C.S.I. To beat the system. Attorneys. Judges. Powerful men driven to madness by their vampiric trophy wives. And where were they now? Holloway Prison, mostly. One of his mentors had gone all the way to Ashworth thanks to his second ex-wife’s torment and spending sprees. He’d beaten her to death with the ceremonial gavel given him by Her Royal Highness in the late ’70s for something or another. Tragic, truly. To end up at Ashworth…”tragic” felt too light a word.
But now? That gorgeous, lithe redheaded graduate student, quite handily minoring in ancient history of mythology or something equally useless, had proven herself to be indispensible in a most unexpected way. What started as a bi-weekly shag, with her bent over his grand desk breathlessly moaning, “Oh, yes, Your Worship, my lord, yes,” had turned into the answer to his life’s biggest problem: The heinous bitch who still called herself his Lady. Red, or his girl Friday (he couldn’t always recall her name; it wasn’t significant enough to bother), had lugged the large, musty volume to his office, had stayed long enough for a brief but satisfying go ’round, and had left bouncily only an hour ago, at his insistence – he had reading to do, after all – which doubtlessly added to the lightness of his being. A quick nip of brandy before he began the proceedings and he’d have been satiated in all ways that mattered.
“Charon,” Red had said to him one day after Tort Law had ended. He had looked up from his lectern, his eyes taking her in over the top of his spectacles, and identified her as the student who always sat in the third row, precisely in his line of sight. She had to be at least nineteen years old, thirty years his junior as it was, but she favoured the schoolgirl look: short tartan skirts that grazed impossibly ivory thighs, Mary Janes with the grown-up twist of a high heel to them, and crisp white shirts whose top three buttons had likely never been fastened. He’d had all kinds of sex with all kinds of students during his tenure at Cambridge, but he usually found them rather boring. They were there to learn from him, which meant, as a general rule, that they stood to offer him very little, inside the classroom or out. Anything they could do, he could do better, he reasoned. And lord knows the only thing he’d truly learned from any of his previous graduate students was that marrying them was an unspeakably poor idea. After marrying Lois over spring break that year, he realized he should have stuck to using them for a quick poke and nothing more.
There was something about Red, though… He couldn’t decide if it was her choice of clothing, or the worshipful way she eyed him every Thursday afternoon as he paraded in front of two hundred trust fund babies cum wannabe lawyers. Or perhaps it was the slight hint of an Irish lilt in the way she spoke that one word – he’d always had a penchant for the lowest of classes, mainly because they were so plaible when it came to satisfying his questionable sexual demands – but it didn’t matter. She’d gotten his attention that day, and had held it ever since, though not for the romanticized reasons she surely imagined.
“Sharon?” he’d asked her, assuming she was introducing herself. She’d giggled, and he immediately felt it in his hip pocket. Interesting.
She’d stepped closer, close enough for him to see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, and he mentally cleared his schedule for the rest of the afternoon.
“No, sir,” she’d responded with a smile that made her look even younger than she already did. “Charon. You were using an anology about the old tradition of putting pennies over the eyes of the dead to pay their way to the other side. You attributed it to the wrong mythology. That’s the story of Charon.”
Despite his body standing at full attention as Red spoke, he’d found himself rather irritated with her presumption that he was open to being corrected. “I see,” he replied curtly, bending to pick up his attaché case and making ready to leave the hall. “Well, I’m sure that would be a useful bit of trivia for a class that asked less of its students than mine. I suggest you keep it on file for such an occasion. Good day.” A shame, he’d thought as he turned to walk away. She would have been a fine way to spend his office hours this week.
The jolt of electricity that had coursed through him when he felt her soft hand against his shoulder blade, however, had stopped him in his tracks. Her voice was plaintive, childlike, when she spoke again. “I’m sorry, sir… No offense was meant. I just thought you must have an interest in ancient mythology to bring that up in a lesson, that’s all. Please…”
He’d turned to look at her once more, enticed back into the web by her general request for permission of whatever sort. He’d put her in her place, and she’d obviously liked being put there; she’d have let him walk out otherwise. That always got his blood pumping a bit harder.
“Please what?” he’d countered, setting his case down on the table next to his lectern, a derisive smile in his eyes that hadn’t quite made it to his lips just yet. She’d looked a bit lost for a moment, but he grudgingly admitted to himself later that her quick recovery was impressive. Her cherry lips parted as though she’d been about to speak, then bought herself some time by licking them nervously, which had certainly helped her case – whatever it was – as far as he was concerned.
At last she’d said, “Please…let me buy you a cup of tea as a peace offering.” Her smile had disarmed him completely. “I would love to hear more about the Crown v. Stanton case, and I promise I won’t interrupt with any more…trivia.”
He’d sighed, feigning reluctance, when inside he was rather pleased at having roped in yet another ripe little tart. Off he’d gone with her, stopping by the faculty lounge to pick up two cups of tea as a prop before leading her back to his office. Fortunately for him, he’d allowed her to overtake the conversation once or twice – not his custom by a long shot – for it was through her slips of “trivia” that he’d learned more about this mythical Charon character, and how some cultures still believed there were ways to invoke him in order to assure the safe passage of a loved one from the living world to death. For the first time in his life, he’d found himself interested in an underling’s thoughts and knowledge, and he didn’t have to fake it in order to seal the deal and have her out of her knickers by sundown. In fact, she was still imparting fascinating tidbits about mysterious deaths and disappearances linked to Charon when he’d finally lured her onto his lap in his 17th century chair, listening to how her minor in whatever it was she’d been studying had led her to a long-forgotten section of the university library even as he slipped a hand into the welcoming space left by her undone buttons. And when he bent her over the desk for the first time, he wasn’t even annoyed by the way she knocked over his teacup, leaving a beige smear across his day planner; he was too busy thinking about how wonderful it would be if a Charon sort were to appear in his wife’s dressing room and save him a great deal of trouble. Red’s cries of what he could only assume was extraordinary pleasure went virtually unheard by him that first time as he fantasized about a world without Lois.
It had taken several weeks of regular tea-drinking and increasingly athletic sexual exploits upon his blotter – not a hardship for him, he had to admit – but he had finally managed to persuade Red to bring him her favourite reference book, one that presumably had detailed instructions as to how one could invoke Charon and pay him (it?) off as a means of getting rid of a living soul somewhat ahead of schedule. Everything Red had told him in their early conversations had led him to believe that this creature could be bribed quite nicely, but only if he was able to see the ancient book himself would he know for certain if she was correct. She’d proven to be slightly more intelligent than most of his students and previous peccadilloes, but there was no substitute for firsthand knowledge; he hadn’t gotten this far in his career and reputation without realizing that much. And by now Red was smitten enough that risking suspension by smuggling a restricted book out of a reference-only ward of the library seemed inconsequential to her. He wondered if she’d paid any mind to the fact that he spent more time looking at a musty old text than at her lily white arse this afternoon. If she had, she hadn’t let on, and he didn’t particularly care now that he had what he really wanted.
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[to be continued…]
“Clockwork And Rust”
October 3, 2009 at 11:36 pm (short stories, works in progress, writing) (fiction, prompts, short stories, works in progress, written works)
October 3rd, 2009 – As requested, my friend Carla supplied me with another pre-NaNoWriMo prompt: “clockwork” and “rust.” How could I possibly use two unrelated words as the backbone for a short story or a drabble? Well…here’s what I’ve got so far! Thank you, Carla. xoxo
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Once upon a time, in a land not as far away as you might imagine, there lived a happy, bustling group of villagers. The hills and valleys surrounding them were a lush green that no painter would ever be able to replicate, and the way the sunlight danced on the nearby lake’s surface was breathtaking to behold. Their houses were modest but oh, so pretty, and the look of each building, be it a shop or a library, was timeless. It was clear that the villagers were very content in their closed-off little section of the world; neighbours greeted one another by name, and a smile was a far more frequent sight than a frown. Upon first glance, they might not look different to you than any other townsfolk – perhaps more content, yes, but just like us, they went to work each day, played with their children upon returning home in the afternoons, went shopping, had tea with friends – yet there was more to this particular lot than met the eye.
You see, these villagers had kept an amazing secret for hundreds of years. So off the beaten path were they, it wasn’t difficult to keep said secret from getting past the tall trees that stood as sentries around their property, protecting them from the outside world. The leaves stretched even higher above the place they shielded, for the trees sat atop the hills that formed something of a circle around the village; the canopies gave shade, and made the townsfolk feel that much more snug and cozy. It had been so long since an outsider had come across their little slice of utopia that none of the residents could even remember having a visitor. While that suited most of the population just fine, there was always a vague sense of longing, as though deep down they wished they could show off the world they had built around themselves. To be sure, the townsfolk had much of which to be proud: Their homestead was utterly charming – some would say flawless – from the towering clock that marked the town square to the coziest cottages that housed each happy family. Their children were exceptionally beautiful, and carried within them a wisdom that would surprise anyone who came across them; their adult population managed to remain fresh-faced and free of any wrinkles (well, unless you count the characteristic smile lines so many of their faces featured – but what was there not to smile about?); the elderly were never cranky or worried about what lay ahead for them, and were just as integral part of making the village what it was as anyone else, regardless of age.
It was therein, however, that their secret had lain for so long.
To say that the townspeople had maintained a close hold on what set them apart from any other village in any other part of the world for hundreds of years, one would assume that this meant the secret went back many, many generations. And that is where you would be wrong in thinking these folks were anything at all like the rest of us.
Nobody knows for sure – and likely never will, now, but that is a part of this tale that must wait – how their circumstances came to be…but whatever the explanation, the secret of this village will forever remain a mysterious piece of folklore. For here is the surprising difference between us and them: The residents of this village had, some centuries ago, stopped abiding by the laws of time. It would seem that, one day, Father Time simply forgot about this small community, and from thence forward, none of the people who lived within that circle of trees got one minute older. They froze as they were; the children remained such, and the elderly never had to concern themselves with what ailments age might bring to them. Age, in essence, became irrelevant. And time, aside from marking the day to day schedule the townsfolk kept, was meaningless. A sunrise no longer meant that they were one day older; it was simply appreciated for its beauty. A dark, starry sky was not the harbinger of a night that would lead to a new dawn and mark another step closer to death; the stars, and the moon, and the black velvet backdrop to both, were looked upon with awe, not dread. It may have been as far back as a millennium ago that death had become an abstract to them. And that is the secret that was so closely guarded for so long by this village. Why it needed to be kept quiet was never fully understood; some feared that letting the outside world know that they had found the key to eternal life would result in being overrun by thousand – millions, even – who were desperate for immortality. Others, unsure of just why they had been granted this extraordinary gift, were afraid that sharing it with outsiders would render the gift null and void somehow, as though they had unwittingly signed a contract granting them a life to last forever but with the stipulation that it never be questioned, or spoken of, or handed over to anyone aside from those fortunate villagers themselves. And then, too, there were some – the older residents in particular (though “older” was no longer a necessary term; “wiser” may have been more appropriate) – who were simply content to guard their fortune jealously. If the powers that be had seen fit to bestow this great and wonderful gift to them, and to them alone, why on earth would the townsfolk presume to visit such knowledge to those who had not been Chosen?
You may well imagine, then, that the day someone might accidentally stumble upon the flawless little village loomed large in the minds of the more fiercely protective citizens. Despite their extraordinary luck, those who remembered a time before everything stood still knew that such priceless anonymity surely could not hold out forever. While it was true that none of the residents could claim to recall a visitor in their history, there was always a feeling that at least a few of the eldest villagers were keeping secrets of their own, and that perhaps their reticence to allow the outside world in stemmed from experience, rather than blind fear. Even so, they had gotten away with living in peace, harmony and timelessness for such a gloriously long stretch; it made no sense to fret about what might happen in the future. The future, truly, was nearly as irrelevant to the townspeople as the past or the present. What did it matter? they reasoned. They had all of eternity to set things right if anything were to go wrong.
But life finds a way to ensure that nothing stays the same forever.
It was a spring day much like any other – children, wizened beyond their years, still able to indulge in raucous play in the parks (why grow up if there is no need? you might hear their parents say from time to time), adults contentedly wandering the familiar shops for the millionth time, and their elders sitting in rocking chairs on their pretty porches as they watched their idyllic town enjoying the weather – when things did, indeed, change.
It took a moment before anyone noticed the interlopers, a group of several regal-looking men on horseback who had done what few, if any, had ever done before: They had crossed the barrier provided by the trees, and were gazing down from their spot on the hill upon what, quite correctly, looked to be a land frozen in time.
The village was somehow precisely as one might expect any village to appear, and yet not. The men on horseback studied the landscape before them with bemusement. The clock tower reached high into the cloudless sky, looking like something one might see in a centuries-old culture-rich city. In contrast, the small shops along what appeared to be the main street were quaint and colourful, each sporting a different coloured awning as though they were distinguishing themselves from one another. Off the most prominent stretch of road the men could see houses, small but each surrounded by a great expanse of lawn, and like the shops they featured a veritable rainbow of coloured rooftops.
Before the men could so much as gather their thoughts, a young boy playing by a picturesque fountain not far away became the first to notice that he and his brethren were not alone. His eyes widened in surprise; he had never seen anyone who was not a fellow villager, and because of the conflicted undertones ever present among the townsfolk about how visitors might be received, the boy was unsure whether to be alarmed or excited. He had heard his father, a man who acted as something of a mayor to their village, speak of how wonderful it might be if they were able to show off their living space, and the boy shared that enthusiasm. While it was true that the boy was, in fact, several hundred years old, the village’s complete lack of connection with the outside world had allowed him to retain a childlike naivete. It was that innocence which prompted the boy not to cry out and alert the others, but to instead abandon his games by the fountain and make his way up the hill toward the men on horseback. They were fascinating to him; their style of dress, and the opulence of the horses’ saddles and sashes, reminded him of pictures he had seen in history books.
“Hello, sirs,” the boy said, addressing the strangers as politely as he did each man he saw on the village streets every day. “Have you come to visit? Would you like to come and see our town?” The idea of being the one who brought brand new people into their fold was almost too much for the boy to bear. He desperately wanted them to accept his invitation, and gave no thought whatsoever to the possibility that the other residents would not be so quick to open the proverbial doors to intruders.
The men exchanged puzzled looks, still appearing to be baffled by their discovery. They had ridden through these woods countless times; how had they never known such a place existed just beyond a simple treeline?
“Young man,” one of the men – presumably the leader, thought the boy, since his vest seemed to be decorated with more ornate medallions than the others – finally managed to say, “how long have you lived here?”
The boy thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. It was an age-appropriate thing to do, in the eyes of the strangers, and yet there was something about the child that didn’t seem quite normal. His eyes belied a wisdom that was impossible for a boy who looked to be no more than seven years old…
“You don’t know?” the leader of the horsemen asked, a bit more forcefully. “Well, do your parents live here? Your grandparents?”
“Yes, sir, and I can take you to meet them right away, sir!” the boy replied with a smile.
Silence fell over the men for a long moment, broken only by the gentle whinny of one of the horses. The leader looked to each of his compatriots before speaking again. “We are from the King’s Court,” he announced in a voice that clearly indicated he’d identified them this way many times before. “I expect His Royal Highness will be quite eager to see your town with his own eyes.” The horseman did not add that the King would surely be puzzled by the fact that, on their many fox hunts and royal processionals, none of them had ever ventured the short distance further that would have afforded them a view of this village long before now. In fact, if he was not mistaken, this land – and every person living off it – was the King’s property. The horseman was careful not to smirk as he envisioned the reception he would get from His Majesty upon announcing that there was more land, not to mention built-in minions, ready for the King’s inspection at a moment’s notice.
The boy’s smile widened. “A King? Really? A King would want to see where we live? Oh, I think that would be wonderful!” He simply could not wait to tell his father the news, and to see the pride in his eyes as he thanked his son for extending such an invitation.
“So be it,” the horseman replied. “I suggest you advise the other villagers to ensure that everything in your town is in perfect condition for the King’s arrival. You may expect to welcome His Royal Highness tomorrow, before sundown.” And without further ado, the men dug their heels into the flanks of their horses, and back into the forest they went.
It was the sound of hoofbeats that alerted several other villagers to the unusual goings-on. Many who had been lounging on benches or walking from one shop to the next simply froze, all eyes fixed in the direction of the sound that was, by now, quite foreign to their ears.
As the boy made his way back down the hill to spread the news, he was met by one of the town’s elders. The boy had never seen anything but serenity and calm on this man’s face, but there was nary a trace of either as strong, bony hands gripped the boy’s forearms and shook him.
“What was that noise?” the elder demanded. His voice was tinged with panic, an emotion the boy could not place. “I thought I heard something beyond the trees! Tell me what it was!”
The boy was confused by the strong reaction to the strange but seemingly non-threatening visitors. “There were some men on horses who came to the top of the hill…”
More of the villagers were gathering around now, many of their faces showing expressions the boy had never seen. Still, something primal was telling him that there was fear rippling through the crowd. He was certain that, once he had explained the situation, everyone would be happy again, and a great deal of sweeping and tidying would begin in preparation for the King’s visit. Confidently, then, the boy related his exchange with the visitors to the ever-growing throng of people surrounding him; by the time he had gotten to the part where the men had requested that the town be readied for a royal visit, the crowd around him consisted of every single resident of the village.
Upon finishing his tale, the boy waited, a smile still on his face, to soak up the praise that was surely coming to him. What he heard instead was a cacophony of human voices, some excitedly saying they should get to work to prepare for the most unexpected and wonderful thing that had ever happened to their town, and others yelling about interlopers and the likelihood that this visit would destroy their way of life forever. In the melee, the boy found himself unable to move, as the arguing crowd closed in on him. This was unlike anything he could have expected, and was certainly nothing he had ever seen in all of his years.
Mercifully, a hand reached through the tangle of bodies and pulled the boy out to safety. “Well, goodness me,” the boy’s father said with a smile, giving his son a hug. “You’ve stumbled into quite the hornet’s nest here, haven’t you?”
The boy asked his father to take him home, but before the pair left the progressively more agitated crowd behind on the hillside, the father raised his voice and spoke as loudly as he was able.
“All right, everyone!” he called out, and surprisingly, the throng fell hushed and turned toward what they had come to recognize as the voice of reason. “Calling a town meeting will serve no purpose, since it is quite clear that we are to expect a visit from this King tomorrow, no matter what.” A few angry voices broke the quiet again, but the boy’s father managed to speak over them. “I think it has finally come time to show off our village, and the many beautiful things we have here. It would be best if everyone pitched in to make our home as close to perfect as it can possibly be! Now stop with your disagreements and start getting ready. We can show our royal guest just how hospitable we are able to be, and we will surely please him. Just imagine what sorts of favour or riches he might bestow upon us if we do the best job we can!”
Once more, a few voices hollered out their concerns.
“We do not need any more than we already have!” one elderly woman cried from the back of the crowd. “It would be simply greedy to expect anything more than what has been given to us!”
“Letting strangers in will surely end our way of life!” the woman’s husband agreed.
“What if we curse ourselves by explaining our gifts?” yet another older fellow called from deep within the distressed mob. “What if we were never meant to tell anyone?”
That statement caused an even greater number of voices to pipe up with similar sentiments, full of worry and fear. The boy’s father employed his position as unofficial mayor once more.
“We have never had any outsiders visit us,” he stated, putting his hands out in a manner meant to reassure and calm the mob. “We have no reason whatsoever to think that this will do us any harm! Perhaps it is another gift for which we should be thankful! Now, everyone head back to your homes or your shops and make sure everything is gleaming in time for our guests!”
[ …to be continued… Feedback for what’s posted thus far is welcome! ]
“One Hour”
September 6, 2009 at 11:25 pm (short stories, writing) (fiction, prompts, short stories, written works)
UPDATE – January 14th, 2010 – This is a candidate (in my mind) for submission to the Toronto Star short story contest (I want the money, damnit! School and Scotlaaaaaand!)… so if you happen to have any criticism, advice (even if it’s along the lines of, “Oh, Ehch, you can do better than THIS; write something else!”), thoughts, encouragement, or anything of the sort before I submit it on Monday, PLEASE feel free (or obligated, if you’re among my regular readers/editors/”FANS” – you know who you are) to comment below, where I’ll get your feedback straight to my inbox! THANK YOU. ~H~ xo
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September 5th, 2009 – Written in response to a prompt by my darling Polly, as a warm-up to NaNoWriMo 2009. As yet unedited and in total first-draft form, but 1 out of 1 mothers has given it a thumbs up! ~H~
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She wouldn’t be able to hear the chime as the clock struck eleven – there was, after all, no clock in her room – but she could hear it in her head. It helped that her mother had come by earlier, on this, the most important of days, to lend her the pretty wristwatch that had been in their family for generations. It sat facing her as she brushed her hair, and her eyes moved down to its delicate face as the minute hand reached its zenith.
One hour to go. She still had so much to do to get ready. Change her clothes, rouge her cheeks, and keep brushing her hair until it shone. Just the way her mother had always taught her to do. It wouldn’t be right to look anything less than perfect when her escort arrived at her door. This was the night of all nights, and she was so excited. The belle of the ball, for the first time in her life.
As she set about the room, trying different postures in the mirror over her desk, practicing her smile for the procession, fretting that she hadn’t asked her mother to bring by some fancier shoes – she so adored the ones with the strap across the ankle, and she’d never had a pair; why hadn’t she asked for one tonight? – she would steal an occasional glance at the watch. Amazing how quickly the time flew by when there were so many details to get right. And if she paused, and listened closely enough, at a time of night when most people were readying for bed instead of primping and preening, she imagined she could hear the faintest of ticking. It made her smile.
Not long to go, she thought, tugging her thoughts back to the here and now. Not a minute to waste. Her evening outfit was laid upon her bed, not a crease to be seen, brightly coloured and festive. She felt the slightest blush touch her face when she looked at the panties that had been set aside for the occasion; truly, no detail had been overlooked. A glance over her shoulder at the mirror told her that yes, her hair was gleaming, and the pink in her cheeks – from humility rather than cosmetics now – flattered her complexion. She humbly covered herself, even though she was alone, as she stepped out of her unremarkable everyday clothes and began her transformation from duckling to swan. For once, nobody would steal the spotlight from her. Not this time. Not tonight. This was her Cinderella moment.
Fully dressed, she allowed herself to spin around, arms out, indulging the little princess she suspected was inside every woman, no matter how old, or what her life had been like. A giggle escaped her. Oh, how glorious it would be when all eyes would be on her, and the lights would dim, and she would be the one everyone had come to see…
A sudden noise startled her, and she turned toward the door. Before she could even hear the voice of her escort greeting her, she glanced once more at the watch on her desk. It was 11:58. Oh, goodness. Right on time!
The door now open, she placed her hand in the one that had been extended to her, and she felt a flush of excitement rising to her face again. “Do I look all right?” she asked coyly, her eyes lowered, and a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Yes. You look very nice. Come along now. We can’t be late.”
She began to explain that being late for the biggest night of her life was the last thing she would want to do, but just as they were about to walk out the door, she paused and gave her mother’s watch a last look. “Oh,” she said, biting her lip. “I shouldn’t leave without that.”
“No, it’s all right. We know what time it is.” The voice was gentle, and it soothed her. Yes. Of course they knew. And on an evening like this, what did time matter, really?
“Well, it didn’t really go with this outfit, anyway,” she said with a soft laugh. “We don’t have to tell my mother that I didn’t wear it after all.”
She looped her arm through the much stronger one at her side, and let the door close behind them. She felt so free. So pretty. And so ready for any and everything that would come her way.
Their leisurely walk along the flagstones was filled with chatter, talking about everything from the weather to the latest trends in music. It was so nice to have an ear, one dedicated all to her, and to have someone so lovely talking to her in return, as though she was the most important person on earth. Tonight, she supposed, she was.
Eventually they reached their destination, and she gratefully grasped at her escort’s arm as they ascended the stone steps leading to an ornate door. She paused for a moment, and felt eyes on her as they hesitated at the entrance to the night’s events. “I just…” She faltered, smiled shyly, and then tried again. “I feel like this is my Cinderella moment. I don’t want it to go by too quickly.”
A chuckle in response, though no hint of derision in it. “Well, I’m sorry to say there aren’t any glass slippers waiting for you.”
“Oh, I know that,” she replied with a giggle. “I just loved the way everyone stared when Cinderella came into that ballroom, and she was the most beautiful thing they ever saw, and tonight’s my night.”
“That it is.” And with that, the fancy wooden door creaked open, and in true princess form, she was allowed to step over the threshold first.
The lights were so very bright compared to what her eyes had gotten used to; she could only sense the other guests’ presence at first, rather than being able to see them, but she knew she had drawn their focus. The conversation that had been happening between various groups in every corner before she’d walked into the large, high-ceilinged room all but fell silent now. Every pair of eyes was on her, just as she’d imagined, and it was glorious.
“So this is what it feels like,” she whispered to herself.
A male voice from off to one side spoke up. “What’s she mumblin’ about?”
“She says tonight’s her night to be Cinderella,” her escort responded.
A chuckle rippled through the room, and for a moment her smile faltered. She had expected oohs and ahhs, not laughter. She glanced down at her clothes, wondering if perhaps she hadn’t done as much as she could have to make herself the belle, but the bright lights overhead made it difficult for her to see even that much. Blinking back tears, born of confusion and the strain of acclimating after her long walk in the dark, she was about to ask what everyone thought was so funny. Her words, however, were cut off as she felt each of her arms grasped hard enough to hurt.
“Wait!” she cried in protest. “Can’t…can’t someone dim the lights…?”
The chuckling turned to outright laughter, and that male voice said, “Oh, these lights’ll dim, all right! Just for you, little lady!”
“Let’s go,” she heard one man say, no trace of amusement in his tone.
“We’re behind schedule as it is,” the man on her other arm complained. Together they pulled her backwards, until she was forced into a sitting position. Her eyes swimming with tears, she could only feel the chair in which she sat; it was large and grand, with a step upon which she could rest her feet. Certainly one befitting the princess she’d wanted to be…but the hostility in the room was unexpected.
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice breaking. Her vision cleared only enough to make out a large clock on the wall, its black hands in stark contrast to its white face. 12:02 a.m.
The man to her left knelt down, and for a moment she felt relief – he seemed to be adding the final piece of the princess puzzle as he removed her shoe, and she felt a strap being buckled at her ankle, just like the beautiful high heels she had wanted so much on this night. But her heart quickly sank when she felt straps being pulled painfully tight over her ams and legs, and her shiny, beautiful hair was covered by something even she could no longer hope was a tiara.
The gruffest of the two men stood and put his mouth close to her ear.
“Didn’t anyone tell you, sweetheart? Cinderella’s story doesn’t start at midnight. That’s when it ends.”
September 5th, 2009, HVS
Heather V. Swanson 