Introduction of sorts:
It always surprises me when a classic fairy tale is remade--each time there are claims of it being something new but each time I am disappointed as it follows the same script: damsel in distress is saved by a handsome man. These cliche stories have been stripped of their darkness and what we now watch as the animated classics pale in comparison to the brutal reality of the originals.
So, in a fashion true to myself, I chose my favorites to rewrite, taking the key factor and turning it on its head--instead of a helpless dame, it is a man and instead of a handsome Prince it is a savvy and cunning woman who rescues him. I had a lot of fun writing these, taking some of the darker bits from the originals and pieces of the retold tales to add to my own quilt work. Some might include sexual encounters, some might hint at it. I feel that these tales progressed too quickly to add my preferred in depth character development, but as each one was meant to be a 'short' story you will get to read it in its entirety under each title. Hope you enjoy.
AD
*****
CINDERFELLA
The wind softly whips through the tall, browning grass, making its way from the forest up and over the hill and to the distant wheat fields beyond. At the very top of the hill remain several ancient oak trees, towering over the land, branches reluctantly releasing their brown leaves into the wind. Lying next to them are the remains of their fallen comrades, knocked over from the brutal storm weeks previous. A young man stands with his eyes closed, cooling his half naked body in the breeze. His thick, curly, shoulder length brown hair is matted with sweat and sawdust. As he raises his arms above his head, stretching his stiff shoulders while griping his ax, his sun stained skin glistens in the early morning light.
Simon wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, though it doesn't do much good because his whole body is slick with effort. He cleans the blade of his ax off onto his pants before he buckles the worn leather cover over it. Loading the last few pieces of freshly chopped wood into the cart, he whistles for his horse. The old swaybacked nag—Lady—lifts her head, ears perking up towards her master. Slowly she plods over to him, knowing that it is time to go home.
"Come on, Timber," Simon yells out, looking over to the shade of the nearest oak tree for his one friend. As he straps the cart back onto the horse, he sees the shaggy, grey wolf rise up out of the grass, stretching with a large yawn.
Together the three of them retrace their steps through the small meadow to the bumpy dirt road on the outskirts of the woods nearby. Though fall threatens the onset of winter, the trees in the woods stubbornly cling to their leaves as if they decided as a group to make a stand. Within the dark dampness of the forest, a low fog settles on the ground as it does most mornings, disappearing as soon as the warmth of the sun forces it to recede.
Simon drapes his old muslin shirt over the saddle below him, lying back against the horse's rump so that the cool breeze can flow over his bare, defined chest. With his palms beneath his head he closes his eyes, cherishing the small amount of serenity he is allowed each day.
Just as he teeters on the edge of falling asleep, he hears the worn cobblestones below the horse's hooves. Simon sits up and pulls his shirt over his head, smiling at the wolf that trots next to him, "Better go on then, you don't want to get shot at."
As if he knows exactly what Simon is saying, Timber lets out a little whine before he leaps up and over the short stone fence that surrounds the driveway, disappearing into the woods that encase the old home.
The nag needs no direction, as she has done the chores with Simon since he was old enough to do them himself. Slowly she follows the narrow path that leads to the back of the house where the stable is. Simon sits up straight, stretching as he watches his house slowly pass him by. It is respectfully massive—the beautifully crafted stone walls adorned with seemingly dozens of windows, had once shone bright in the morning sun, but now they seem dull and almost foreboding, having been overrun by vines. The large cobblestone driveway circles a now decrepit fountain; the years of weeds and neglect that have sprouted up between the stones have almost covered them entirely.
Since the passing of his father, the house was on a steady decline. He tried as best as he could but he was only eight then and didn't know much about the world let alone about how to be the master of a household. His beloved mother remarried only a year after his father's death. She was afraid of what would happen to them, what would happen to Simon. Though he could never love anyone as much as he loved his father, he felt some relief when his new stepfather, Baron Benedict Augustine, and his two sons from a previous marriage, Martin and Garrett, arrived at their new home. They were new in town, having come from some distant place that the Baron claimed to have left because it bore too many fond and painful memories of his previous wife. The three looked the part of wealth and good breeding; Benedict, though several years older than Simon's mother, was trim and fit for his age, pale skin having never seen a day of physical work in his life. Martin, though he appeared plump and happy, actually had a cruel streak which he taught to his younger, more well rounded brother. But all in all, Benedict seemed to be a fair man and Simon greatly enjoyed having company close to his own age, even if they were a little snotty.
Things seemed to be going well until within a month of their arrival his mother fell ill. A week later, she died. Then, just as suddenly as he came into Simon's life, Benedict's personality changed. The firm but kind stepfather that Simon was growing to love morphed into a cruel and wicked man. Almost everything of value that belonged to Simon, his mother or his father was sold in town and replaced with things that belonged to Benedict. Simon's room became the Augustine boys' play room and he was sent to live in the drafty, dusty attic. All of the servants were fired, save the old deaf cook and Simon, who was no longer treated like a member of the family but was required to pick up the slack. He had become an outsider in his own home, a burden with no prospects to his name.
Simon breathes deeply, trying not to let the anger get the best of him. Calmly, methodically, he stacks the newly chopped wood onto the pile, losing himself in his work. After he gets it unloaded and the horse into the pasture, he draws a bucket of water from the well. Simon takes care to lean over so that his shirt does not get wet; he dumps the frigid liquid over his head, instantly cooling his nerves. Sweat and dirt stream down his face stinging his one good eye, the right one. He rubs it tenderly. Years ago, when a sickness crossed the country, he lost his left one before he was old enough to know the difference. Simon was one of the lucky few to retain one good eye and one of an even smaller group whose parents could afford to get him a life like replacement, glass one. He always thought that Benedict would have sold that too, had Simon had a normal eye color like brown, or blue. But, like his father, he was blessed with a beautiful, golden green hue that entranced many.
Simon shakes off his hair before walking through the back door that leads into the kitchen. His soft footsteps carry him over to the stove, where he gently lays a hand on Myrtle's back.
"Good morning," he says softly once she turns around.
The old woman smiles gently, before replying, "You smell like a wet dog, boy."
