CINDERELLA

EDIT 11-6-08: I noticed that I had a few mistakes in some of the sections... darn that letter 'e'!


Why? Because I am masochistic, and this was fun... and it ate my brain until I finished it.

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Beautiful Outlaw: excluding x and z.
~*~


Pretty girl, very small and sharp, quietly kneeling, joints bent, with nimble fingers that through the ashes dart.

Face soft, dream loyal and just youth, dream of great Balls, all the Vogue now, where dancers turn gracefully, clothed as though peacocks before the queen.

Dream, queer little girl, of a fairy godmother, voluptuous, proud, bold; who with quick vows of joyful delight sets you free. Go, girl! Go to your ball!

Beautiful girl, whose ashes blacken your hair to a raven’s shine? Your mother's perhaps? Your Ebony-ash fingers reach for your Prince, resting softly, quavering on his royal arm; a jewel of the night sent to weaken the sun’s rays.

Spin and twirl, joy in your quick bouncing walk, longing in your floating grasp. Aiming for a crown; a small child grasping voraciously at that which is past what your tiny digits can normally touch.

Quiet! Listen! The clock chimes, awakening you with a jolt. Midnight is calling. Flee, little child; do not let the men catch you; jump back violently and dance away into the night. Get away now, do not let them stop you. Home is calling; time to heed it's summons.

Quick, now, run past guards nodding at posts, dart down stairs slick, across yards soft, your hard gait jolting on spongy turf. Fast as a bird racing though the sky, fly away from your boy-King, do not allow any pursuit to catch up to you.

Home now, quiet as a mouse. Scurry away from your stepmother. Hide from your sister’s angry, bitter stares. Keep away; don’t grant their vicious jests power over your tender spirit. Don’t cry young one, it's okay.

See? There in your pocket? Freedom in the form of a transparent shoe. Ghost it on over you white foot, just so, being very cautious with your quaking hands and hammering heart. See now? The dream continues.

“Ding dong!” The prince is come, looking for his bride. Run to him now, little girl, little queen. Show him your ghostly shoe on its tiny foot. Ignore your stepmother 'n stepsisters, crying in their hovel. Remember, they’re just silly women. You’re the queen now; you possess the Prince.

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So, what does everyone think?

Also, does anyone else think that submitting our stories for grade, and then getting feed-back through the workshops is rather silly? Might it not work better the other way around?

Just a thought.