R. L. Stedman

Writer

Upon a Time

Why my Favourite Fairytale Is Better Without the Prince

By

My Favourite Fairytale is Cinderella — But I’m Not So Sure About the Prince.

5 Books I Fell in Love With

Although I’m partial to Ali-Baba, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, my favourite fairy tale is Cinderella.

The themes of Cinderella appeal: the envy of the stepsister’s, Cinderella’s desire for love and security. The events of the story are relatable: the resourcefulness of the fairy godmother (a pumpkin, into a coach! that woman, took recycling to a whole new level), the importance of footwear and the drudgery of housework. Any story that realises that housework is deeply boring has to be a winner.

One thing, however, always bothered me about the Cinderella story. That is the prince. Unfortunately, he’s not much of a hero.

This is not entirely his fault — I mean, “Charming”, what sort of a name is that? But when we reach the end of the story, and he starts trotting about with a shoe? That’s just weird. It’s also stupid. Why would anyone try and match a shoe with a foot to find the perfect mate?

Which brings me to the point of this post: my first ever fairytale retelling was a reworking of the Cinderella story, but sans prince. Although I kept the shoes. I have a thing about amazing footwear.

The story is called Ten Minutes to Go, and is the first of the fairytales in my FREE collection, Welcome to Faery. I’m updating this free collection next month with a new story, which is why I’ve been blogging so hard about fairy tales; they’re on my mind, you see.

 

Anyway, to give you a taster of this collection I’ve popped Ten Minutes to Go into this post. I hope you enjoy!

 

Ten Minutes to Go.

His breath stinks. I can’t wait to get out of here.

The unyielding shoes pinch my feet, and – ouch! – again, he stands on my toes. Despite their fragile appearance, the shoes are highly engineered and fortunately, they can handle the weight of his fat feet. The music stops. Thank God. How can one dance to the plucking of strings and the scraping of cat gut? I prefer something with a beat.

“Just one more waltz,” he pleads, wiping his face with his kerchief. I glance at the clock. Just ten minutes to go.

“I’m very thirsty, sir,” I say, fanning my face, curving my arm around its strong struts, so the dimples on my elbows show.

“My lady,” he says, “I will provide.” He bows, one arm crossed over his chest. I suspect he’s trying to hide his stomach, but he’s not successful. How could you hide something so large?

“How dare you?” A hiss from behind. It’s Seraphina, my so-called sister.

“You little slut!” Madelina, the other ‘sister’.

I smile and unfurl my fan. “My dear sisters. How lovely to see you. And are you enjoying this glorious evening?” I peer behind them. “And your partners? Are they absent, perchance? Or has,” and I close my fan with a snap, “no-one asked you to dance?”

They step towards me, nails outstretched. As if on cue, my partner returns and my sisters are suddenly all false smiles.

“Oh thank you, your Majesty,” I say, as he hands me a glass of champagne. He glances at my sisters, blinking at the glare from their jewel-encrusted bodices. They are far richer than I, but have no taste; like magpies, they value things only for their shine. Life can be unfair; my father left them all his fortune. How can you contest a will when you have no funds to do so?

“Allow me to introduce my sisters. This is Seraphina.” She drops a curtsey.   The girl is always untidy; this evening she has strawberry seeds caught in her bucked teeth, giving her a most unfortunate appearance.   “And Madelina.”

The warts on Madelina’s drink-reddened nose are highlighted by the candle glare. She spreads her skirts, essays a curtsey but her balance is worsened by wine and she stumbles. Reaching for support, she pulls on the King’s arm.

“Madam!” Horrified, he steps back. His glass goes flying, spraying champagne over me.

“My Lady Ella,” he appears distraught, and waves for a lackey. “Shall I show these creatures out?”

My sisters gasp and for a wonderful few seconds I savour their humiliation. But business is business, after all, and the interruption is very convenient, so I smile up at him most sweetly. “My Liege, I am sure it was an accident. If you could show me where I can freshen up?” I glance at the clock. Three minutes. I need to get out of here.

As the rest room door closes, I heave a sigh of relief. Two minutes. I struggle out of the lace confection of a dress and throw the uncomfortable glass slippers in the trash. Flinging open the window, I inhale the cool night air with pleasure. These balls are so stuffy; mannered and poorly ventilated, full of high-class idiots speaking in drawling accents. Really, they won’t be missed at all. Unravelling the rope that’s been tucked between my shoulder blades, I throw the weighted end out towards the castle ramparts. I’d practised this so often, and like a dream, it catches first time.

Inserting the groove of my carbon fibre fan onto the rope, I climb onto the window sill. Don’t look down Ella. I fling myself out the window, holding tight to the struts of the fan. The night breeze blows my hair into my eyes as I skim across the courtyard. My skin is dark and clad as I am in black leather undergarments, it would be hard to spot me against the night. I clamber over the ramparts unremarked.

At the other side of the wall, the coach is waiting. “Good timing,” says a cracked voice. “Drive on, Jerry.” The whip cracks and we lumber away.

“The slippers?”

“I left them in the trash can, like you said.”

“Good. Your sisters are there? And the King?”

I nod, then because it’s too dark to see, add “Yes. All three.”

“Excellent,” she says cheerfully and brings her wand down with a thwack! Stars leap from its tip, out into the night, reaching over the ramparts and into the castle, earthing in the special glass of the slippers, that promptly

Explode.

As I say, these are very well-designed shoes. Not comfortable, but oh, so beautifully engineered.

Behind us, the chateau is enveloped in flame.

We drive off into the night.

“The Prince will be pleased that tonight went well,” says my godmother. “And no doubt your father’s lawyers. They always felt his will was unfair.” She leans back against the cushions. “I think I’ll settle down.” She pushes back her hood and I can see her smile in the reflected light of the fire. “Grow pumpkins or something.”

PS. Just after writing this, I found an awesome Disney wikipage about Prince Charming (that’s where the image above is from, too). Do check it out. I think I may have been a little harsh about the guy. Perhaps I should write another story, and this time have him as the hero…

Fairytales are Fun: Cinderella and A Tremendous Fart

By

Fairytales are Fun

I love fairytales. Based on folk legends, they’re retellings of the oldest stories in the world.

5 Books I Fell in Love With

Paulo Coelho says there are only three stories: love between two people, love between three people and a struggle for power. Fairy tales contain all three.

My favourite tale is Cinderella. Why? Because she rescues herself. She’s told she’s ugly and she’s not to go to the ball – but she goes anyway. And she puts on the slipper and wins the Prince.

There are different versions of Cinderella. In some, the stepsisters cut off their own toes, so as to fit the shoe. In another, a tree provides her ball dress. (Yep. That’s fairy tales for you.) In a Native American version the stepsisters burn her face. You can read these stories on-line here.

In Welcome to Faery, I’ve written three versions of the Cinderella story: Cinderella as assassin, working to a tight deadline. Cynders as (male) chimney sweep. But my favourite is the Charming Brands story, where Ash is an assistant in a shoe store.

 

That’s the great thing about fairy stories, you can take one part of the fable and change it up, but provided you stick to the core truth of the tale it still has meaning and readers can still relate.

Fairy stories are often funny; they’re over-the-top and rarely believable. I mean, pumpkins turning into coaches? Please. But that doesn’t matter. We don’t need to believe a tale is true to enjoy it.

Fairytales can contain themes that aren’t popular today. A prince has more rights than a commoner; men have more status than women. Fairy tales are frequently sexist – think of One Thousand and One Nights, where Scheherazade has to keep retelling stories to avoid beheading.

That’s something we often forget: fairytales have sex and blood and vengeance. Which brings me to the purpose of this blog post. Fairytales are often bawdy.

Set out below is my retelling of a story from One Thousand and One Nights.

(I’ve quite freely copied this story from A Continued Sense of Wonder night at the Dunedin Library (more about that programme here). Since the retelling was copied it from a much older work, I’ve taken the liberty of  adding a few small embellishments.

Warning! Don’t read on if you don’t like reading about farts.

The story of Abu-Hassan and the Tremendous Fart.

fairytale book
Image source

Once upon a time in a great city lived a young man named Abu-Hassan. Though of humble origins, Abu-Hassan was a godly man. Now it came to pass that the King of the land took a new wife. This Queen was more beautiful than the moon and sun and greatly loved, for she was truly kind and gentle.

The King and his new wife began a journey throughout their kingdom, and they came to the city of Abu-Hassan.

Now everyone in the city wanted to see this new queen, but it was feared that the throng of people would be too much for the royal couple. The mayor decreed that they would cast lots for the privilege of attending the Royal reception, and that every right-thinking citizen might cast in their lot.

And thus it came to pass that Abu-Hassan was invited to a banquet at the mayoral palace to be held in the honour of the King and Queen.

Abu-Hassan felt very nervous, for he was a humble man and uncertain of how to act in the presence of Royalty. But his mother told him to be mindful of his duty to God and his host. He should partake of his food without complaint and offer sincere dutiful obescience to the King.

Abu-Hassan followed this wise counsel and the evening passed uneventfully. Despite his nerves, he ate heartily for the meal was rich and flavoursome.

After the meal came lengthy, florid speeches as each official tried to outdo his peers in eloquence. But finally the speeches came to an end. A slave banged a gong for silence.
‘The Royal Audience will begin!’ announced the mayor.

With a flurry of anticipation, the citizens filed through to the Audience Chamber, where the King and his new, beautiful Queen were waiting to receive the guests.

The room was magnificent! Candlelight gleamed on gold walls, lapis lazuli and precious stones glistened. Musicians played; jugglers threw flaming torches; contortionists formed strange shapes. There was a long wait until the presentations began, but Abu-Hassan was not at all bored. The Queen was even more beautiful than the tales; it was a pleasure to stand in one corner and watch her.

Then, finally, came the great moment.

‘Abu-Hassan!’ boomed the vizier.

Abu-Hassan came forward, made obeisance to the throne. The King appeared almost unaware of his presence, and barely glanced his way. Abu-Hassan felt concerned; perhaps he had offended his monarch. So, when bowing to the Queen, he dropped onto one knee, and made the deepest obeisance he could manage.

Unfortunately, in so doing, he had forgotten about his elaborate meal.

And as he bent forward, he let out the most tremendous, enormous fart!

The silk canopy above the throne shook. Candles blew out.

All conversation stopped. A juggler dropped his torch and a tambourine player dropped his instrument. It fell, crashing to the floor.

The King looked first annoyed, then surprised. And the beautiful Queen, who Abu-Hassan had longed to meet? She began laughing. Quietly at first, and then louder and louder, until nearly doubled up with mirth.

After a surprised pause, the entire throne room began laughing.

And Abu-Hassan, overcome with embarrassment, backed from of the room. The laughter continued, as the rumours of the tremendous fart spread. Waves of hilarity followed as he ran from the palace.

News of the fart circulated quickly. Beggars in the gutter laughed; merchants in the marketplace could hardly contain their glee. The guards on the walls laughed so hard they nearly fell.
Abu-Hassan left the city.

***

He came at last to a far town. He worked hard, and said little about where he had come from, and why he had left. He grew older, and was respected in business. He married, had three children. He told no one about his tremendous fart.

Time passed. Abu-Hassan grew old and longed to look once more on the city of his ancestors. He said farewell to his children and grandchildren and took ship to his homeland.

Drawing near to his old home, he said to himself, “I will wander about the outskirts and listen to what people are saying. Perhaps they will not remember me, or why I left.”

And as he entered the city he heard a young man asking: “Mother, when were you born?”

“My son,” said his mother, “I know exactly when I was born. It was on the eighteenth of March; the very night of Abu-Hassan’s tremendous fart.”

When Abu-Hassan heard these words than he rose up from the bench. “My fart has become a date!”

And he realised that such a fart will be always be remembered from now until eternity.

Abu-Hassan returned no more to the city of his birth. Instead he returned to his children and his grandchildren, and remained in self-imposed exile until he died.

May God’s mercy be upon him.