Fractured Fairy Tales (11 page)

When her thick, dark lips open, all that sounds is a mournful wail. The sparkle of her sharp, canine teeth makes me wince with fear, and Annette shuffles back on her haunches away from me, turning her head. I try to reach for her, but I don’t know where to hold her. It would be wrong to soothe her the way one would a horse or a dog, but she has no shape that I recognise in this four-legged, arch-backed form. My hand falls away in mid-air, despair deadening every sense in my body.

“This cannot be so,” I declare, scrambling to my feet. “This is Metero’s doing, and I’ll fix it, Annette, I swear.”

The beast lumbers back across the room, hopping up onto the wide bed to curl in a ball. She is hiding her face from me again, one huge paw atop her muzzle, but I can see the wetness of tears in her fur. The weathermaster has turned her into an animal, but left her the human ability to cry about it. When I pull a blanket up over the lower part of her body, Annette retracts her paw and gives me another sad look. It hurts me to remember how beautiful her face had been that very same morning, and it stabs at my heart to know that she is still the woman I love within this hideous casing.

“I’m going back to the factory at once,” I tell her. “I’m going to find a way to reverse this.”

The maids and the cook’s assistant refuse to believe what has happened, but they take their orders from me nonetheless. After I’m certain that food and water has been provided for Annette, I leave again for the factory in the first coach I can flag down. The labourers on the bottom-most floor of the factory work around the clock in shifts to keep the sky engines firing, and I spot a door that must have been left open for ventilation. I cross the lawn, veering from the usual path that I have taken for so many months at this place, slipping into the doorway to access the worker’s floor.

Smoke, steam and the glisten of turning gears fill my senses. The strongest of the labourers turn cranks and push giant wheels in constant circles, whilst others stoke the great central fire with a never-ending stream of coal. It is hard to find someone who isn’t totally occupied by their duties, until I spot a sleeping figure by a gold and glass contraption in the corner. The lift-operator is still here, taking a break from the hand-operated pulleys and cranks.

“You, there,” I say as I reach him, prodding the man in the shoulder.

His heavy-lidded eyes flicker open, observing me with dark, dilated pupils.

“Take me to the third floor,” I demand.

He makes an indignant, scoffing sound, folding his thickset arms.

“Only Mr. Met’ro goes to’t third floor,” he counters.

I stand at my full height, looking down on him with my best sneer of derision.

“I am Mr. Metero’s temporary replacement,” I tell him. He remains unresponsive. “My name is Khazran Steed.”

At this last utterance, the labourer finally gets to his feet.

“Khazran Steed,” he mutters as he crosses to the lift controls. “Well, Sir, that’s a differ’nt matter, in’t it?”

I am pleased, at least, that he knows my name, but it does make me wonder why he’s heard of me. I step into the glass-fronted lift box, holding on to a gilded handle as the labourer gives the mechanism its first hard crank. With a shunt that sends a sick shiver up through my spine, the lift begins to ascend through the empty floors where the clerks and architects work during the day. The aubergine corridor of Metero’s private floor is bathed in shadows as the lift comes to rest beside it. I step out into the darkness, grateful that the glass ceiling ahead offers me a little light from the clouded moon outside.

The huge expanse of the roof space is eerie as the gathering dark settles in. It seems to me that this street is darker in atmosphere than all the others around it, and I wonder if Mr. Metero is able to control the moonlight as well as the clouds. My footsteps echo among the metallic hum of the dormant weather pipes, and I weave amongst them until I reach the weathermaster’s desk. He told me that emergency instructions were somewhere in the bureau. I hadn’t thought to explore them until now, but I’m hoping there’s some way to contact him within those notes.

Ripping through drawer after drawer, I don’t end my furious search until loose papers, trinkets and stationary are scattered everywhere around me in the darkness. Nowhere in the mess can I find anything marked with words like ‘protocol’ or ‘emergency’, but I scan every paper with the hope of finding a telegram address for Africa. Metero might even have arrived there already if he elected to take his airship this morning. Again, I find nothing that can help me, moving to the very last scrap of paper with fading hope fuelling every nerve. I run my eyes over its message:

Lesson the third: There is beauty in everything, if only one has vision enough to see it.

This is meant me for me, I know by Metero’s quaint phrasing and the matching, cursive script to the note Annette had been given.

“You planned this,” I whisper. “You evil rotter, you heartless cur, you—”

“That’s quite enough of that, dear boy,” a frail voice interjects.

Jumping to my feet, I search the shadows for the old man whose voice I know. A pinkish glow greets me to the left, where the outline of the floating rose comes into view. Two liver-spotted hands hold the rose’s glass dome, and Metero’s face is cast into shadow by its crimson light. His glossy eyes sparkle as his thin lips expand into a greedy smile.

“My employees are very important to me, Khazran,” he explains, “as is the very ethos of my beloved factory.”

I watch his skeletal face as he approaches.

“You should be in Africa,” I say weakly.

The old man chuckles. “There was no appointment in Africa,” he chides. “Don’t you see yet, Khazran? It’s a test. Do you honestly think I’d leave the most destructive technology in the nation in the hands of the likes of
you
?”

The last word expounds from his tongue as though it is laced with poison.

“A test,” I repeat, my brow furrowed. “A test of what, may I ask?”

“Perspective,” the old man replies. “You find thunder and rain to be hideous things. You wished the sight of a dying bloom to be removed from your vision.”

I look down at the note in my hands again.
There is beauty in everything.

“So you altered Annette,” I conclude. “You have made her ugly so that I might learn that beauty isn’t everything.”

I walk to meet his stride, looking down at the glowing rose between us. A smile of sheer relief crosses my face as I watch the bright flower hovering there.

“So what happens now?” I ask, pointing to the flower. “When I learn to appreciate the thunder, the beasts and the ugly things of life, you’ll release her beauty again from this jar?”

Mr. Metero passes me by, setting the rose down on his desk. He settles into his chair, removing his top hat as he reclines to observe me. Not even a hint of a smile passes over his lips.

“No,” he says plainly.

Something heavy forms in the pit of my stomach.

“What do you mean?” I plead.

“Lesson the fourth,” the old man begins. “A deal once brokered, cannot be undealt.”

I take his meaning, but I cannot accept it. The vision of Annette’s hazel eyes, surrounded by dark fur, sends a retching shudder through my bones. The old man raises his palms, his withered shoulders rising in a shrug.

“This isn’t some fairy-tale, dear boy,” Metero whispers. “I need all my employees to appreciate the darkness and obscurity of this world as much as the pleasantries and the light. Annette will remain as she is for the rest of
your
natural life.”

“My life?” I ask.

The old man nods. “I suggest you learn to love her all over again,” he says, “because if you turn on her now, she might just end you in order to reclaim that which you bartered away. She knows all about the terms of what you did; I visited her shortly after the transaction took place. The fact that she hasn’t killed you already suggests that she loves you very much, Khazran. It is my hope that her devotion is not deeply misplaced in you.”

I walk home in the semi-darkness with the odd feeling that the moon is lighting my way, but I try to ignore the prospect of the absolute control that the weathermaster now has over my life. My life with the beast. Annette is condemned to her fur-and-claw prison for as long as she loves me, and I am challenged with the prospect of loving her back. For my life, my job and my own sanity, I can do nothing now but try and live by the lessons which Metero has set me.

When I return to my top-floor bedroom, my wife lies sleeping in a heap, beneath the blankets where I left her. Her arched back heaves with every breath, fur sliding against the sheets to make a peculiar scratching sound. Someone has opened the bedroom window, and a trail-shaped clearing in the broken glass leads towards the empty frame of my prized mirror. I stand before its lack of reflection, glad that I cannot partake of the vanity which has made me a victim in Metero’s game. A final letter is secured to the gilded top-edge of the ruined mirror, and I pull it down and unfold it with a snap. Annette gives a sleepy yowl behind me as I read the curling writing by the light of the moon.

Lesson the fifth: he conquers, who conquers himself.

Goldie

By Samantha Ketteman

As I sat in the cold and bare iron cage, on the paper thin excuse for a mattress, I thought back about how I had met George and his brothers. It had been a chance encounter over a year before, but I had known it was love at first sight. I had always had a predisposition for the bad boys.

It was late October, and the wind was brutal. Walking towards my favorite store, I stood outside of Bling, the jewelry store that I dreamed of, but could never afford. Hat pulled over my ears, I barely heard the voice that spoke as the man sidled up to stand beside me.

“A pretty necklace for a beautiful lady.” He smiled, and two dimples stood out on either cheek.

I was immediately smitten, and couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. “I could never afford that,” I sadly admitted.

We talked in front of the window, the light reflecting on his face from the sun hitting all of the precious stones on display. The world seemed to fade away, and as the chill in the air began to set into my bones, I bid him farewell, but not before exchanging numbers.

My alarm went off the next morning at eight o’clock sharp, reminding me that it was time to get ready for my daily grind. My job paid minimum wage and my home was in the seediest neighborhood, but at least I could afford a roof over my head, if barely. As I stood and stretched, my doorbell rang.

Who the hell is here this early? Where’s my gun?
I frantically looked for my gun, afraid of what awaited me on the other side of the door. Anything was possible in my neighborhood.

Grabbing my robe, I padded to the entryway and looked through the peephole. A delivery man stood on the other side, a package in his hand. After greeting the man and signing the proffered sheet, I took the package and sat at my sorry excuse for a kitchen table.

There was a small card attached.

For the beautiful lady, coffee at The Buzz tomorrow, ten o’clock?

I smiled, imagining the man I had met the day previous, before reality began to place doubts in my daydream.
That isn’t for you. The delivery man made a mistake. Don’t open it. The owner will be pissed.

Throwing caution to the wind, I gently peeled the tape away from one end of the box and carefully unfolded the paper. Inside, a small nondescript box beckoned to be opened. My hand covered my mouth in awe; the dainty necklace from the window lay inside the velvet lined box. The amethyst twinkled in the light filtering through my blinds, casting colorful rainbows through my kitchen. With shaking fingers, I reached out and touched the precious gem and caressed the thin silver chain.

That was the beginning of my relationship and the end of all I had ever known.





The man gave me a necklace worth thousands. What can coffee hurt?

I met the stranger for coffee the next morning at the local coffee shop—against my better judgment. I spotted his green eyes across the room and walked straight to his table. To my dismay, we weren’t alone.

“I’m George,” he introduced himself to me for the first time. “This is my younger brother Gregory, and my older brother Bryan.” He motioned to each as he introduced them, and while Gregory looked friendly, if a bit young, Bryan looked intimidating. His tall frame barely fit at the small table, and his hands held the coffee mug as if it were a small girl’s tea set.

“Um, hi,” I mumbled. “I’m Goldie.”

George pulled out my chair and winked, immediately relaxing me. There was something special about the twinkle in his eye and the deep dimples in his cheeks that made me immediately trust him.

“Thank you for the beautiful gift,” I gazed into his eyes, lost in their dark and light swirls. I was so lost that I missed the disapproving look that Bryan shot his way.

“What did I tell you?” Bryan growled.

“You’re cool, aren’t you Goldie?” Gregory finally spoke in a soft voice.

Having no idea what he meant, I answered and hoped that Bryan would stop staring at me like he wanted to eat me. “Of course I am.”
Oh, what have I gotten myself into this time?

The conversation ceased while I played in the sugar that had spilled on the table. The brothers seemed to be having a silent, private conversation through glares and grunts.

Looking down, I realized I had drawn a picture of a heart, felt a blush creep up my neck before wiping the drawing away and looking up at George. He smiled and winked, and I felt someone touch my foot under the table.





Things progressed quickly, my connection to the gorgeous man growing with each encounter. Even his brothers, Bryan in particular, weren’t enough of a deterrent for my heart. Days turned into weeks, and after a month of meeting for lunches with his brothers, George finally called to invite me to dinner alone.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, judging every angle, and finally decided on the fifth dress I had tried on.
This is so stupid. This isn’t the first time you’ve met, dummy.
I blew out a nervous breath, ran my fingers through my hair, and had a moment of panic as the doorbell rang. Though I had seen him a number of times already, we had never been alone. I had never felt the intimacy or pressure of an actual date, until I opened the door to find him standing on my stoop with a single calla lily.

“You look ravishing.” He smiled and lifted my hand to his generous lips.

“As do you, I mean, you look handsome,” I stammered, wanting to smack myself.

He walked me to his car and opened the door like a gentleman. Without consciously thinking about what I was doing, I glanced in the backseat expecting to find Gregory and Bryan. George slid fluidly into the leather seat next to me, his cologne tantalizing my senses and reminding me of a rainy day in the forest.

“Where are we heading?” He had kept our location a secret from me, and I was curious as to our destination. I secretly hoped the night would be filled with something more original than dinner and a movie.

George laughed as if he had heard my thoughts. “Do you like art?”

I had never entertained an opinion either way, so I told him as much. “I’m always up for something new, though,” I laughed.

I watched the city lights blur as we sped down the highway in his sports car, the world ours for the taking. Twenty minutes and a great conversation later, we arrived at a swanky new art show, complete with a valet and red carpet.

“Is this for someone famous?” I felt a bit out of place, with all of the glitz surrounding me, but tried to maintain my composure.

George just laced his fingers through mine and led me inside. I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped my lips as I took in the beauty of the room. Colors, bright and vibrant, stood out among the crisp white canvases, while modern art pieces served as centerpieces in the large space.

“This is beautiful,” I spoke aloud as my eyes darted from canvas to canvas, seemingly unable to decide where they wanted to focus.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, and as I glanced at him, I realized he was looking only at me, ignoring the scene before us.

I felt the blush coloring my face as I smiled nervously. “Do you know the artist?” I fidgeted, uncomfortable having his attention only on me.

“I don’t, but I am a fan.” He led me by each of the canvases, all equally beautiful and captivating in their own way. We continued the evening talking about the different works of art, sipping the complimentary champagne, and laughing with each other.

As the host announced the closing of the gallery, George turned to me. “Which is your favorite?”

I took a moment, looking around one last time, though I already knew my answer. “That one.” I pointed to the piece of the woman sitting on a rock in the middle of the forest with her back to the artist, a lone flower growing under her outstretched hand. It moved me with its simplicity and beauty.

“Good choice.” He smiled, placing his hand on my lower back, as he ushered me outside and back to the vehicle. The drive home was filled with conversation about the gala, but my stomach was secretly turning, wondering if he would kiss me goodnight.

As we walked to the door, I felt my hand tick, fingers jerking uncontrollably, as if they had a mind of their own and wanted to grasp his hair and pull his lips to mine. We stood together, and he finally leaned down to embrace and kiss me as I had never been kissed before. I had kissed many men, but this was
just right
, and I melted in his embrace.

Too soon, the moment ended, we bid each other goodnight, and I fumbled with my keys trying to unlock my front door. Once inside, I collapsed against the closed door and sat on the floor, still light-headed from the spine-tingling moment.





I awakened the next morning, a smile on my face as I stretched and blinked from the sun’s rays caressing me with the dawn’s light. As I plodded to the bathroom, I giggled, remembering the night’s events.
God but the man can kiss.

I was drinking my morning java when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, I found a large package waiting on my stoop, wrapped in plain brown paper with no card. I brought it back into the living room, where the morning news was blaring about the latest crime that had been committed.

I gasped as I ripped the paper away and found myself staring at the picture from the art gallery, the exact one that I had expressed interest in when George had asked my favorite. Without conscious effort, my ears perked up and caught the tail end of the newscast.

The news team was standing in front of the art gallery where we had been, interviewing a witness who had witnessed three men running from the building under the cover of darkness. The alarm had awakened him from his sleep, and he had managed to see the three strangers running down the alley next to the gallery. The reporter went on to describe the perpetrators’ height and weight, but I was no longer listening; the picture taunted me, the man of my dreams haunting my memory.

After hiding the stolen painting behind my sofa, I picked up the phone and dialed. I had to speak with him, had to have an explanation. I wanted him to tell me I was wrong, that there was a reasonable explanation. After four rings, I gave up and ended the call. Pacing, phone in hand, I came to the decision to wait until I spoke to George before calling the police.

Minutes later, my doorbell rang again, and my adrenaline coursed through my veins as paranoia rampaged my nerves. I placed my shaking hand on the doorknob; sure the police were standing on my stoop, ready to search my home. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and sighed with relief and confusion. George stood with his brothers behind him, and cleared his throat as he waited for me to acknowledge his presence.





“Just sit down and let me explain,” George pleaded, sitting on the ottoman in front of my chair.

I was breathing loudly, my nerves shot and feelings all over the spectrum. I couldn’t imagine the man in front of me being the same gentleman from the night before. My brain couldn’t make sense of my feelings.

“I told you she wasn’t cool,” Bryan grumbled from his spot in the corner, where he leaned against the wall staring at his fingernails before biting and spitting the nail on the carpet.

“Just give her time, bro,” Gregory argued, smiling cautiously as he gazed at me with hope in his eyes.

I took a calming breath, looked into George’s eyes, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Explain, then.”

George blew out a relieved breath and began. “My brothers and I were orphaned long ago. Bryan took care of me and Gregory in the family cabin. Money was scarce, so we learned how to support ourselves through less traditional means. We were too young to work.” His eyes begged for my understanding.

“So, what, you steal for a living?” I couldn’t believe that I was actually feeling bad for the men in front of me, as my eyes wandered, landing on each of the three men. If I looked closely, I could see a memory of the lost boys in each of them.

“Yes, but only from those that can afford it. We steal only what we need, but I admit, I slipped last night. I wanted to give you your heart’s desire, and I made a rash decision. Gregory and Bryan showed up at the last minute and helped me bail before I got caught.” George sat back, done telling his story, as short as it was, and waited for my response.

I didn’t know what to say.
Sure, I am involved with a family of criminals, and even now, his eyes are making me want to take him in the next room. Lovely.
“I understand why you did it, but must you continue?”

“Yes, miss high-and-mighty, we must continue. It
is
our livelihood, and we are damn good at it,” Gregory spit venomously. His hatred of me was apparent.

“Why do you hate me so much? What have I done to you?” I couldn’t think of anything I had done that would warrant his malicious attitude.

“You are making George do foolish things, even if you ain’t doing it on purpose, and
that
pisses me off. We don’t know how serious you are about him, or us, and it’s dangerous!”