Poor Cinderella had always wanted to go to the ball. To be loved, admired, adored like her predecessors. Not laboring under the insurmountable, changing-by-the-moment chores of her stepmother. Not listening to the complaints and jeers of her stepsisters. Not spurned, underfoot, her ashen face forgotten.
Enter the fairy godmother on a west wind. Who dresses her up, teaches her tricks, takes her to the ball, gives her a shot with the prince.
Jubiltation! She dances, twirls, spot on. Tastes every bit of her fantasy come true.
The clock strikes midnight. No magic left. Her beautiful clothes melt, her arms bare in the wind, her footwork no longer fancy. The glitter descends on someone else, she is alone scraping used confetti off the turf.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment