Yesterday was Flash! Friday, so here we are on... Scribe Saturday, I guess. I've come to realize that the new format -- using a novel as a prompt -- is challenging because there are so many options. Witness this week's contest.
Our novel inspiration was especially broad: Grimms’ Fairy Tales, brothers Jacob and Willhelm’s collection of German folktales. The story elements we had at our disposal:
* Conflict: open
* Character (choose at least one): specify any character(s) from Grimms’ Fairy Tales (listed here; examples Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin)
* Theme (choose one): cunning, loyalty, transformation, justice, morality
* Setting (choose one): enchanted forest, humble village, castle, isolated cottage
I immediately settled on the Cinderella story and wrote "The Dance."
A
symphony of starlight reflected from her eyes and danced across the
polished floor in perfect step with their terpsichorean splendor.
Swept up in his charms, she dared to dream that, maybe, this night
would last forever. It would, she vowed, if she could just hold onto
it.
This
is how it should be,
she thought, her eyes locked on his, her cloudless mind trying to
will into his psyche the words, Please,
let it be me.
One
smile, and all the sadistic drudgery of her "real" life
seemed as far away as the envious moon. She clung desperately with
world-weary and calloused hands to this feeling, to this belief, that
wishes could come true.
The
other ballgoers were mere shadows. She and the Prince alone occupied
this space, this moment in time. Their world extended no farther than
the bubble encompassing them and their divine choreography.
Even
when the music had died down, the serenade streaming through her
reawakened soul played on. He heard it, too. He must have.
All
breath left her as the Prince backed away to arms' length, gazed upon
her face, and uttered the prized words.
"It's
you. You are the one I've been waiting for."
She
closed her eyes as his lips drew near.
Then
the clock struck midnight.
And
the Prince turned back into a soiled, smelly mop.
And
the castle, the office she had spent the past eight hours cleaning.
And
her waiting carriage, the #47 bus heading uptown.
Her
dingy efficiency would be unchanged.
As
she trudged along the rain-dampened street toward the bus stop, she
heard the sound of glass shattering behind her.
Let
someone else clean it up. I'm too tired,
she thought.
Let's see if I can't get back into the winner's circle before I turn into a pumpkin. And as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
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