Writer's Journal (exercise): How am I ever going to get out of it?

I would — I bloody would — specify the foot had to fit the slipper, wouldn’t I? Well, she was a pretty girl in that fancy getup she wore to the ball, and my parents seemed so approving. Of course she looked rich, with that carriage and all; that helped. And I was half pissed anyway, the night being so late by the time she made her entrance, and me under pressure about having to choose.

But you know, I’m basically a simple sort of a bloke. I really rather fancied that plump little thing in yellow. Not a great beauty maybe, but she had a wicked sense of humour, a downright nasty streak really — refreshing after all those simpering little tarts. As for Glass Slipper Girl, I don’t think she could string two words together; at least she didn’t say anything to me while we were dancing, not even when I slid my hand down to her bottom just to see how she’d react. She might never have noticed, for all the response I got. Dumb, if you ask me.

So how can I get out of it, is what I want to know. Everyone thinks it’s a match made in heaven. The ceremony has been planned, etc, etc, etc. I’m supposed to send her naughty, plump sister and her other sister and their mother far away out of the kingdom for being mean to old Dummy. If you ask me, there are natural victims and she’s one.

Writer's Journal (exercise): Fairytales Retold

1

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Little red cloak and hood, face just peeping out. Good enough to eat, he thought. He pounced.

2

Once upon a time I had a wicked stepmother. She had my father bewitched; he only believed the sound of her voice, he lost all ability to pay attention to my brother and me. We told him how she was mistreating us, but he didn’t believe us, he almost didn’t hear. She put broken glass into our food and told us to eat ut all up. We threw it out when she wasn’t looking. We weren’t stupid. Her pet cat Fritz watched us throwing the food away. He was orange and bad-tempered. We thought she told him by magic, at night, when he sat on her lap and she whispered to him. We though he whispered back.

So she stopped that, but then she had her servants sneak into our room and steal our clothes. There was a big old rooster that wandered around as he pleased. We thought he must be the one getting in and taking our stuff. It was cold, and we shivered with hardly anything to put on any more.

Her gardener came in and nailed our windows open. ‘For the good fresh air,’ she said, smiling approvingly as the cold blew in.

At night we dared not look out. After that time we tried to shut the window, and looked up to see a black form flying over the roof. It looked like our stepmother’s shape. Where was she going like that? Our father must have been sound asleep. We knew she put things into his evening coffee, we’d seen her, flicking her fingers deftly over the cup before presenting it to him.  

Writer's Journal (exercise): What if the frog didn’t want the princess to kiss him?

It’s been such a disappointment! Yes, he’s a handsome fellow all right, what he’s turned into, can’t complain there. Never mind that his eyes are a bit bulging and he’s a trifle prone to warts, all in all he’s easy on the eye. And nothing wrong with his brain, nor his physical agility come to that. It’s his attitude!

‘Why did you do it to me?’ he moans in that distinctive voice of his. 'I’d really rather be a frog. I miss my nice pond, and the underside of the water lily pads. I can’t go there any more, do you realise that?’

‘But you have ME,’ I tell him, ‘And a crown on your head and everything. You live in a palace and you can eat real food.’

He just sniffs and looks longingly at a passing fly.

Perhaps it will be better when summer comes and he can go swimming in the lake. That might settle him down a bit.

‘It wasn’t the kiss itself,’ he explains to me, ‘That was nice,’ And he smooches up so I do it again and again. ’It was just the after-effects of that first one, see.’ It feels very odd to be in this body. And the way people stare at me when I crouch down and hop on all fours, as if there was something wrong with that. It’s really the most natural form of locomotion. You should try it some time.’

I can’t help sighing. You would think, with all I bestowed upon him, he’d try a little harder to be happy. Even the prospect of a child doesn’t seem to help. I have a dreadful feeling he’d prefer a handful of tadpoles to emerge from my womb!

I wish I knew the way to turn him back.