Always be certain your character remains plausible.  If in your narrative, you wrench him/her into a direction incompatible with the portrait painted in the reader's mind, you will lose your audience. 

These thoughts remain foremost in my mind from the Creative Writing class I was blessed to attend a few years ago.  I am experiencing the cognitive dissonance created when this rule of thumb is flagrantly breached.  Indeed I am weary of the near constant contradictions presented in my current read.  A demon who did not kill a woman because he wished to maintain his integrity....um.. Hello? I thought it was a demon and incomparably evil.  I was not aware that they possessed anything resembling integrity.

The mighty monkey prince, Sugreeva, married to a beautiful woman and surrounded by other lovely women??  Wait a minute..I thought they were all monkeys. Are they somehow mixed up or they interchangeable or is it...? Sorry I'm confused.    

It really becomes a labor and somewhat of a dizzying prospect to be constantly shifting the schema to accomodate the random whims of the tale.  But then again..the 300 million plus gods in Hindu culture (as we learned in Asian Civilization class) would be enough to daunt even the hardiest soul. 

Background: In 2009, the author spent two months in the state of Oregon working in the hay harvest. His job consisted of driving a tractor-trailer hauling hay out of the field to vast storage sheds and stock piles.  He experienced many adventures, one of which is detailed below. 

 The Power Line Problem

            “Andrew, Do you copy?” the two-way radio crackled.  It was Michael my co-worker. 

            I grabbed the mike. “Ten-four, go ahead.”

            “When you get unloaded, go down the road to that field on the right—the one with the tight driveway.  Go to the back corner of the field, cross the ditch, and there’s another load in another field back there.”

             I digested this information with something of distaste. This obviously was going to be another one of “those” adventures.  “Te-en four I’ll be there,” I responded.

             I watched my mirror idly as David took the hay blocks off my trailers, and maneuvered them into the shed.  All too soon the last one was within the squeeze’s grasp, and I was ready for another load.  I released the parking brake, let in the clutch and guided the Peterbilt back out to the highway.  After checking for traffic, I swung onto the road, keeping a hawk eye on the mirror as the sixty-four feet of trailers swept their path into position behind me.  I was pulling a set of doubles with a forty-foot trailer towing a twenty-four foot pup trailer.  They required careful foresight in making any turns.  They held no regard for fence posts, stop signs, ditches or other objects but would crush them cheerfully if given a chance.  

             I traveled the few hundred yards to the field Michael had indicated on the radio.  Before beginning the turn into the lane, I noted the vehicle approaching from the rear.   This particular turn demanded that I position my truck as far on the left side of the road as possible so as to minimize any potential ditch surfing or destruction from the trailers.  Already I had had an unpleasant encounter with an SUV driven by a lady who had failed to notice my right turn signal activated a ridiculously long time before the actual turn expressly to insure her awareness of my intentions. Therefore I watched this vehicle carefully, and was not surprised to see it dart past me on the right as I put my truck on the left side of the road.  When the coast was entirely clear, I entered the field with the pup trailer doing only a minor dance through the ditch. Ah well. Empty was not problem.  It was when they were loaded with twenty-four tons of hay that it became something of a larger situation.

             I trundled to the corner of the field to which I had been directed, and did indeed discover a ditch that looked like it had been previously crossed at various times.  I coasted to a stop and eyed it doubtfully.  A two or three foot drop with no inclined plane of which to speak promised to snag my tractor’s fuel tanks.  I could already see myself stuck faster than a burr in a buffalo’s hide.  I was aware of the length of my Pete, having high-centered it at a previous field, and I was not anxious to repeat the situation. 

             “Michael, Do you copy?” I radioed. 

             “Uh..I don’t think I can cross this ditch where they have gone before without high-centering the truck.  It drops off too sharply.”

             I replaced the mike and turning off the truck, settled down to wait for the man with the plan.  It was rather convenient to have another head on which to push the situation. 

           After about fifteen minutes I heard the turbo whine and metallic clattering of the field squeeze as Michael drew up beside me briefly to assess the situation. 

         “I think there’s another way across down in those trees. I’ll go and have a look.”  He moved off farther down the chasm and disappeared into the foliage.  “Yeah there’s another lane down here. Come on down and you can follow me in.” 

          I re-fired my truck and did as directed.  The sun disappeared as I entered the trees and there before me lay two ruts tracking their way across the ditch after which they made a slight turn to the right.  Dense undergrowth lay on either side and the ground had an ominously spongy appearance.  “Here goes nothing,” I resigned myself and reached for the inter-axle differential lock.       

         The truck shook violently as I eased it through the rutted track.  Tree branches bent against the side, and brambles folded before the trailers.  Then The Challenge loomed dead ahead.  A telephone pole stood directly on the left side of the lane (if it could even be called a lane).  A guy wire reached its way into my path, and I was expected to follow a left curve around the wire.  Low-hanging tree branches with the capacity to remove smokestacks from big trucks lay to the immediate right.

         I reached for the mike, “Michael, this is nuts!” I expostulated.

        “That could be one way of describing it,” he drawled in reply. 

         I kept moving around the guy wire taking as much as humanly possible on the right without driving directly into the trees.  I checked the mirror to see how the trailers were behaving.  The first trailer cleared it narrowly, but it was obvious that the pup trailer was not going to avoid it. How hard would it rub? I decided to conduct the experiment, as backing up would not gain me much of anything anyway.  The trailer moved inexorably forward, and the guy wire registered the effects remarkably.  I was alarmed to see the entire pole whipping violently to and fro. Potential explanations immediately began offering themselves for consideration should I be the driver responsible for knocking down a power pole. 

           “Hey did someone just hit the power lines?”  Kenton, another of the drivers, wanted to know. He was yet at the shed being unloaded and these particular lines ran directly past there.  “They sure are shaking.”

            The trailer moved on by and the pole steadied again, blessedly remaining upright. 

           “Yeah I nudged them a little,” I returned, masking my relief at not having to deal with a rather messy situation. 

         “Hmm it seemed like something more.”  He mused. 

          I continued following the lane until I finally located Michael waiting for me in the field with a paltry four blocks to be loaded. It was not even a full load of eight blocks.  After pulling alongside the stacks, I immediately began filling out the necessary tags to be affixed to each block.  Within minutes, Michael had the hay on my front trailer, and it was again time for me to retrace my ridiculous path. 

            “You go on out first,” Michael directed.  “That way I can shove your trailers around if I need to."

            “Ten-four.”  I exited the field and was again confronted with the now obviously bent guy wire.  The tree branches shuddered as I delved as far as possible to the left. 

            “Stop,” Michael commanded. My trailers were again threatening the power situation.  The truck lurched as I felt him thrusting the forks of the squeeze under the pup trailer and pushing it sideways. “Okay, go ahead.”  I eased forward once more.  “Stop!” came the directive again.   More lurching, then finally, “Okay.”  This time I was able to continue on my way out.

             We finished out the load in another silly, small field beside my absurd path.  After re-crossing the ditch, I at last was able to breathe freely in the welcome expanse of an open field. 

             I gratefully negotiated the drive out onto the road and back to the hay storage shed where Michael had first contacted me.

             Later in the course of the day as we continued hauling to this shed, we had to avoid the power company service trucks parked alongside the road.  Service trucks are an extremely familiar sight, and I thought nothing of it until suddenly it occurred to me-- there was no doubt a blink in the lights in the many homes surrounding this particular area as a direct result of my brush with the line. 

            It was then that the blessing of the bushes became crystal clear. 

Illustrations

                           My Peterbilt

 

 

With a Review of Prince Caspian

            Occasionally when discussing a well-loved classic with fellow literary dabblers one will hear the question, “Have you seen the movie?”  Perhaps the questioner does not intend it, but it gives opportunity for one to get the feeling that their digestion of the work is partially incomplete.  A fuller experience will certainly include “the movie.”  For myself, I am reinforced in the belief that this is an erroneous line of thought.  My experience of the book has time and time again, been spoiled upon seeing the movie. 

            As I read a favorite book, a constantly moving picture, subject to my whim and the author’s skill, is passing through my mind.  If it is engaging, I find myself standing breathlessly in the midst of the action as it swirls into another twist of the plot.  When I revisit my favorite characters as I have been doing of late, I always receive the same sensation.  I seem to be about ten feet away from the protagonist and hovering effortlessly above the ground.  Invisible and inaudible, specter like I glide after them as they live their varied lives.  I am party to all their soliloquies and internal musings.   At times I wish so badly I could step out of my powerless role and simply say hello, or perhaps give a valuable tip.  After having turned the last page and said a goodbye, a dull ache within longs for it all to be true.  Then I must turn back the clock and attempt a solace by re-reading my favorite sections.  The imagination is again given free rein to conjure the scene with perhaps a slight change in detail for added spice. 

            Having read a book and sitting down to see the movie, I involuntarily hold my previous mind picture in constant comparison.  Quite often I find my imagined scene is infinitely more agreeable than that of those writing the stilted choreograph on the screen.  When a familiar situation arises in the movie plot, I listen sharply for those words of conversation as gleaned and stored from the printed page.  It is curiously satisfying to hear them pronounced verbatim a word or two behind me as I simultaneously supply the necessary quotation or the next required action.  But they never have the same expressions or do it exactly in the same manner as they did in the mind’s eye.  Usually they are much more disagreeable or ridiculous.  I realize that it would be nearly impossible to perfectly reproduce a book in a movie’s span and it does require some adaptation.  However when a perfectly good classic is subjected to a disgusting modernization, it almost becomes a desecration. 

            A case in point.  In the second installment of the Chronicles of Narnia, Prince Caspian, C.S. Lewis portrays a good natured, golden-haired lad,  (I am not exactly sure about the golden hair but I always pictured him so.)  who remains sturdy in the face of frightening meetings with the Old Narnians and the subsequent overwhelming odds against the Telmarine army.  He is also in awe of the four kings and queens of old who are called into Narnia by Queen Susan’s horn.

             Not so in the film.  He is rather shown as a brooding snarling sort of personage who immediately conflicts with the High King Peter over leading the army.  When Peter plans and executes a disastrous assault against Miraz’s castle (a fictitious incident), a disgusted Caspian berates him.  Peter sneers that it was he (Caspian) who blew the horn for help because he couldn’t do it on his own.  Caspian retorts through narrowed eyes and a hard face, “My first mistake!”     

            Aaaaaargh!

Trumpkin, that jolly Red Dwarf, constantly ejaculating, "Beards and Bedsteads!" and the like, and always ready with cheerful cynicism and pishing of Aslan tales but a twinkle in the eye for their Majesties, is transformed into a sullen glowering embittered Son of Earth who stares insolently at their Majesties and offers biting sarcasm at intervals.  

            The visual narrative is also completely overloaded with incidences of the hackneyed “movie stare” of two or more individuals as they slowly move away from each other etc.   Get over it! When does people ever gaze so protractedly at one another while a furious battle rages all around them? Or at any other time? 

            And to top it off completely, Queen Susan falls in love with Prince Caspian! How absolutely and utterly revolting! Why did some brilliant screen writer feel the need to have Queen Susan throw her arms around Caspian’s neck and draw his head down to hers just before returning to our world? And, once more, gaze long and lovingly into his eyes?  Give me a break!  This is most the adolescent rendition of the Chronicles of Narnia I have ever been ashamed to admit I witnessed!   Please excuse me while I go have another good long scream!  An exciting new twist? Absolute rubbish! The most unmitigated poppycock! 

            There are points where the book situation is reproduced almost exactly, and they speak the verbatim lines of text. But it seems a ludicrous mockery in the face of the grotesque wrenching of C. S. Lewis’s original plot. 

  Oh the movie Prince Caspian may be called a wonderful action packed thriller, but its makers have tried so strenuously, they have only succeeded in causing any common sensed viewer to pronounce it ridiculous.  I think I must straightway reread a copy of Prince Caspian in order to cleanse my experience of that fantastically absurd romance and the devastating character assassinations.  If this is modern interpretation, God help us all. 

I suppose it is entirely my own fault.  The remedy for irreconcilable differences between the imagination and the movie would be to either to watch the movie before reading the book or skip it entirely.  Personally I am inclining toward the latter action. 

Today I turn in a completed essay for English Composition I class.   The last step of the writing process mandates, "Share Your Results."    Therefore I am taking it to heart. 

It is a slightly altered version of the original Cinderella story.

I am open to any critical review. 

Cinderella Revised

Once upon a time, near the capital of a large kingdom, there lived a rich lady with two daughters.  They had almost all the ingredients for successfully ascending the social ladder.  The lady’s husband had died, leaving her with a considerable fortune and fond hopes of marrying her daughters to handsome well-bred gentlemen.  However despite her comfortable means, the lady became lonely for a companion.  She wanted one with whom she could discuss the futures of her daughters.  At times she felt that although her imagination could paint portraits of the most delightful taste, a second brush might well produce the ultimate masterpiece toward which they could strive together.  Also she reasoned, a father figure would do well to increase her daughters’ chances for romance, as most gentlemen took families into careful consideration when they undertook to bestow their favor. 

            Sadly, many men considered it ill advised to marry a widow.  The rich lady had all but given up hope, when one day she met a grieving widower.  She was drawn to his noble melancholy countenance.  He appeared to be a man of exceptional imagination with a capacity for infinite tenderness.  His stray tears sparked an answering impulse in the rich lady’s bosom.  She had also known many aching nights of loneliness as she lay awake in her large cold four-poster after her daughters had gone to bed.  All her motherly instincts welled to the surface in a rush of longing to comfort him, and thereby also fulfilling her own desperate need for a hand to hold in the imaginative journey. 

            The widower and the rich lady began discussing their personal methods for coping with loss.  At the end of the conversation, he kissed her hand gratefully, asking if they might not meet again, sometime in the future.  They could update each other on the success of the techniques exchanged.  The rich lady modestly inclined her head and acknowledged her pleasure at the thought.   The widower bid her farewell and continued on his way with his gloom noticeably lifted.  When the rich lady went to her home that evening, she still felt those masculine lips’ gentle brush on the back of her hand.  Her heart sang in the knowledge that in a few days she would again see those rugged features behind which beat a loving heart.

            The next meeting took place as promised and many more after that.  In time the widower asked the rich lady to marry him.  Her heart was so overwhelmed with the resolution of her one of deep-seated longings that she only nodded dumbly in response.  They were married in sumptuous style as befitting the rich lady’s rank.

            The widower had a daughter who was the same age as his new bride’s daughters.  She had been the only child of his late wife, and together they had not withheld anything from her.  Her main method of soothing her father toward her desires was a gentle loving disposition, serving to cloak a fierce protection of her territory.   Using this guise, she succeeded in swaying her father to her every whim. To the newly wedded rich lady’s dismay, her dreams of sharing confidential times and visions for her daughters were cruelly dashed to the ground.    Her husband made no secret of the fact that he considered his daughter the most beautiful maiden in the land, and the two sisters in comparison, among the most dowdy in character and appearance.

            The rich lady noted her new stepdaughter’s attractive face and thought of the monopolizing nature lurking within.  She realized that her ambitions would suffer a crushing defeat if she permitted this conniver to work her wiles on potential suitors for her own daughters’ hands.  Shuddering at the thought of the unfortunate young man who should find himself honeyed into granting her stepdaughter’s every wish, the rich lady decided that she would undertake teaching the young girl the basics of discipline.  Over her husband’s strenuous objections, she assigned her stepdaughter to the extremely unaccustomed task of kitchen duty.  The husband withdrew further and even began hinting he had made a mistake in re-marrying.  

After performing her duties in a very amateur manner, the stepdaughter, with no regard for cleanliness, would sit among the ashes of the fireplace and brood about the change in her circumstances.   Her clothes wore out rapidly as a result, and she soon came to resemble a street beggar.  The rich lady’s daughters were saddened and disgusted by their new sister’s stubbornness.   They observed her dirty habit and christened her Cinderella in hopes that eventually the moniker’s shame would help her to realize the futility of such willful maintenance of pride.  Cinderella, however, cornered her father every evening and poured out her woes in a wildly successful bid for sympathy.  Together they lamented the death of her mother causing an increasing bitterness toward their new family.      

            One day there was a proclamation made throughout the land that the king’s son, the noble prince, would be holding a two-day ball for all the first citizens of the kingdom.  This caused great excitement among the gentlemen and women, for the prince was unmarried.  It was widely thought that this would perhaps be the occasion where the prince chose the one who pleased him most.  Girls and women fluttered around to procure the most charming dresses and styles available for the ball.  All the young girls experienced a quickening heartbeat whenever they thought, “Maybe it will be me!”

            In Cinderella’s house, her stepmother heard the news with an excitement borne of the long years of waiting for just such an opportunity for her daughters’ debut.  Her dreams, it seemed, stood an excellent chance of being fulfilled.  She even allowed herself the luxury of thinking perhaps…perhaps one of her daughters might become queen!   The stepmother thought of sharing this delightful proposition with her husband, however, she reflected that it would do no good as they had almost ceased speaking to each other.  He would only deride her anyway in his blind admiration for his own Cinderella she decided.  Ah Cinderella.  What was to be done with her?  Should she be allowed to attend the ball with her stepsisters?  She had so far shown no inclination to stop her stubbornly willful silence toward her stepmother, choosing instead to avoid her whenever possible.  Probably even now Cinderella was scheming to humiliate her new family at the ball with embellished tales of the steps they were taking to help overcome her headstrong tendencies.  Maybe forbidding her attendance would be the final action needed to show her the futility of resisting authority.  Yes, the stepmother decided.  It would be a sharp lesson to be sure, however, it would do much good in the long run. 

            Meanwhile the two daughters themselves were in a delirium of excitement about the ball.  Their mother had to lovingly caution them many times to curb the rowdy impulses leading to excessive chatter and boisterous laughter in discussing the upcoming event.  It would not do to seem of the hoyden type, as many men in the kingdom, particularly among the nobility, were known to admire tastefully discreet behavior in women. 

Cinderella was enlisted to help the daughters fix their hair and clothes in preparation for the ball.  This she did in her customary silence, only answering once rather sarcastically to her stepsisters’ questions. 

            “Cinderella,” they asked, “Wouldn’t you like to go to the ball?”

            “Ah, you are only mocking me because you know I will never be allowed to go to the ball.”  She answered. 

            “But Cinderella, look at your clothes and habits,” they pointed out.  “Do you think those attending the ball would gladly receive you in that condition?  It is well that you stay home to reflect.”    To this she made no answer retreating into mute melancholy.

            When it came time to be off, the daughters and their mother climbed into the carriage and rode to the palace.  Cinderella was nowhere to be found.  Doubtless she was somewhere in a sulk reasoned the stepmother.   She settled herself more comfortably among the cushions and looked forward to an evening of enjoyment.  

            The ball was a dazzling display of richly dressed men and beautiful women.  The prince showed himself a most gracious host, dancing with each of the maidens in turn.  This made it difficult to detect any favoritism.  Thus the flames of jealousy were kept to equally low levels.   The rich stepmother sighed with pleasure as she watched her daughters doing an excellent job of heeding her counsel to rein in their exuberance.  And it seemed to her that the prince was turning a kindly eye toward the younger of the two.  This was okay for she had noticed the Lord High Chamberlin dancing with the eldest.  Things were coming along grandly. 

            Suddenly, half way through the evening, there was a stir near the entrance.  All eyes turned toward the commotion to behold a magnificently dressed lady being ushered into the center of the room by a constantly bowing Lord High Chamberlin.  Conversation abruptly died, the prince himself standing as though thunderstruck.  Although it seemed to last an eternity, it was but for a moment, and as the prince recovered himself and strode to claim her hand, a subdued buzz of admiration broke out among the men.  The ladies eyed her with some asperity for the prince danced as if in a trance.  Gone was the impartiality so adroitly expressed earlier. 

            Many a young lady’s hopes lay in a shambles, and the rich stepmother felt as though the sun had disappeared in a cold drizzle.  Why, she wondered, did these foreign princesses see the need to attend galas outside their own kingdoms? Didn’t they have plenty to keep them busy within their own realms? No they were not satisfied their own field, but must come lay claim to the prospects of others.  It was a long evening. 

            Strangely, when the clock’s hands neared twelve, the foreign princess (for all had determined that to be her status) excused herself from the dancing, and resisting the prince’s pressing for her to remain, made her exit.  After she had gone, the prince became listless and wandered around the room, showing no desire to continue dancing.  

            On the way home in the wee hours, the mother attempted to comfort her daughters who were on the verge of sobs about the evening’s ruination for the female population.  She was hard pressed to offer consolation in the face of her own disappointment. 

“Why mother?” they kept asking, “Why do men fall so hard for the prettiest face?”

“I don’t know, daughters,” she mused. “It does look as if the foreign intruder has stolen the prince’s heart, however, this is only one evening and perhaps she will not return.  She left as though she had urgent business.”

Deriving a degree of comfort from the thought, they made ready for the second evening of the ball.  When they arrived the next night, their hopes tumbled when the foreign princess not only again made her splashy entrance, but also was dressed more magnificently than before, the chandeliers causing a dazzling sparkle in the daintiest pair of glass slippers ever seen in the kingdom.  The prince monopolized her the entire evening, indeed behaving as if the room was entirely empty save those two.  The foreign princess herself seemed less reserved than the evening before and was clearly having a most enjoyable time.   A deep and settled gloom caused the other ladies in attendance to be mostly silent except for the occasional remarks in undertones expressing a grudging admiration for the princess’s elegance. 

The clock was just beginning to strike midnight when everyone was startled by the princess’s reaction.  Starting violently, she wrenched herself free from the prince’s grasp and without stopping for explanation, fled from the ballroom.  The bewildered prince hesitated at first, and then dashed after her.  Furious conversation broke out immediately.  What dire circumstances could have caused such an uncivil display? 

The prince returned shortly in a pensive manner, tenderly placing something into his pocket as he passed through the doorway.  As before, for the remainder of the night he was useless as a host.  

The next day Cinderella’s stepmother observed that she appeared particularly buoyant.  It was evident that prohibiting her from attending the ball had had none of the desired effect.   A new tilt to the chin and a straightening of the carriage spoke of some secret triumph.  The stepmother contemplated a reprimand, but felt too shattered over the events of the ball to follow through. 

Then a strange report reached the household.  Heralds had been sent forth from the royal castle proclaiming a most rigorous search for the fled foreign princess of the ball.  The prince was anxious to find her, sealing his smitten status.  Inquiries made among the palace servants as to seeing a fleeing princess on the night of the ball had yielded nothing.  Most said they had only seen a ragged beggar girl who certainly did not fit the description of a foreign princess.  The only clue left to the prince was one of the exquisite glass slippers that had been left in its owner’s haste.  It was this item that the prince had been seen placing in his pocket on his return to the ballroom.  Therefore the prince was sending a trusted messenger throughout the kingdom with orders to allow all the girls a chance to try on the slipper.  The one whom the shoe fit would become the prince’s bride, as it would identify the sensation of the ball. 

“Mother! Mother!” exclaimed the stepmother’s daughters. “Hope is not dead, surely it will not be difficult to fit a slipper.” 

“It is true there may be the possibility of a reversal,” conceded their mother.  “However, we must not allow ourselves to become overly excited.” 

Together they eagerly awaited the messenger’s arrival.  At long last he knocked at their door.  So far, although hundreds of girls had attempted to put their foot in the slipper, no one had been successful, prompting some to suspect it as being magical.  It was a sense of foreboding that caused the rich stepmother’s caution in regards to her daughter’s enthusiasm. 

The daughters both tried mightily to don the slipper, however, it refused to accommodate them.  Their eyes filled with tears as they admitted defeat, for it was the final blow to some of their most cherished dreams.  The rich stepmother’s heart ached for them.  She knew precisely what they were feeling as she had passed that way also.  Through their clouded vision they noticed Cinderella standing in the doorway observing them. 

“Cinderella…” began the stepmother.  She wasn’t allowed to finish. 

“May I try on the slipper?” Cinderella requested the messenger. 

“Cinderella, you weren’t even at the ball!” exclaimed her sisters.  “We mustn’t take up this gentlemen’s valuable time.  There are many others who are waiting on him.” 

“All girls are required to have a chance,” said the messenger.  

With a gleam in her eye, Cinderella took the slipper and thrust her foot into it.  It glided on as though sculpted there.  Her family stood in shocked silence.  Glancing sideways at them, Cinderella reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the other glass slipper and put it on.  The messenger was gazing open-mouthed.   Even as she did so, with a rush of wind and a thunderclap, a shimmering personage resembling a woman appeared.  Waving her wand in an arc, the apparition touched Cinderella’s clothes, and immediately she was transformed into the splendor now recognizable as the foreign princess.

Laughing lightly, Cinderella introduced the woman as her fairy godmother, and explained how she had come a few days before to give her (Cinderella) a magical opportunity to attend the ball.  “I was sitting in the kitchen, crying.”  Here Cinderella looked straight at her stepmother.  “When my godmother appeared and instructed me to fetch a pumpkin, lizards, rats, and mice which she changed into a coach, footmen, a coachmen, and horses.  She then gave me my clothes as you see now, and told me to go enjoy myself.  But she added a warning that I was to stay no longer than midnight for at that hour, everything would change back to its original state, and I would again be a poor ragged girl.  That is why I left before twelve-o-clock and was nearly caught on the second evening. So you see,” she concluded, “I really did get to go after all.”

“So it really wasn’t meddling kingdoms, but only a meddling godmother,” reflected her stepmother.  “I suppose this means you will become queen.” 

“That is right,” asserted the messenger.  “Your Majesty” he bowed to Cinderella.  “Please allow me to escort you to the castle.” 

Cinderella followed him to the doorway with her family staring after her.  Turning to them just before exiting, she grinned. “You may come visit me whenever you wish. Perhaps I may even be able to put a bug in an ear or two about you.” And she was gone.           

     A laugh sounded from across the room, and Cinderella’s father strode into view from where he had been listening unnoticed.  “Well wife, what have I been telling you?”   

            After the briefest and coldest of glances, his wife swept from the room.  Cinderella’s stepsisters eventually married noblemen of the court who found them especially attractive as relatives of the new queen, but her mother never got over her husband’s betrayal and spent the rest of her life in a convent.