Cinderella Soup

Cinderella Soup by Babe King

Freya’s Bower.com ©2006 Culver City, CA

Cinderella Soup Copyright © 2007 by Babe King. All rights reserved. Cover illustration © 2007 Freya’s Bower. All rights reserved. Editor: Marci Baun

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Cinderella Soup My shoulders slumped, and I sighed as tiredness and disappointment swept over me like a wave. I had my jean-clad butt squished to the old brick garden wall of our family home. My black Doc Martens scuffed the edge of the herb garden that my stepmother made on her last fly-in visit. Literally, fly in. The woman’s a witch with a capital B. With one finger, I trailed broken hearts in the dirt. If my sister made me clean one more cupboard or polish one more piece of silver or visit one more baby warehouse, I’d scream. The nesting urges of pregnant women should be classified as a public health risk. Who cared if she’d found her Prince Charming and now planned to live happily ever after? With a screaming baby? Yeah, lots of luck with that. I dropped my head back to stare at the inky, cloudless sky above. Faded stars twinkled like costume jewellery in the radiated light pollution from the city, bringing out my whimsical side. “Star light, star bright First star I see tonight, If my big sister gets her way My pruney fingers will wear away I wish I may, I wish I might Have the wish I wish tonight To the Halloween’s Ballroom I would go So grant my wish and make it so.” I waited, holding my breath. A satellite shot across the sky in a poor imitation of a shooting star. Nothing else happened. Hah! Typical. A cricket chirped, and I frowned. What was there to be chirpy about? In the distance, the rumble of Manhattan traffic murmured, but there was no flash of light, no puff of smoke, no magical appearance of fairy folk in silver spandex. I dropped my gaze to the dusty stones and shook my head, annoyed with my disappointment. “Damn it, girl. How old are you?” I chided myself. “Old enough to meet the Pumpkin King, and young enough to catch his eye.” Huh? I sprang to my feet and whipped my head side to side like a hunting owl. “Who…who said that?” I squeaked, pressing my spine back against the bricks. I was giving myself the creeps. Cobwebs caught my hair. I swiped them away. Shadows cloaked the empty garden. Only the flickering light from the carved face of a jack-o-lantern amplified the soft glow of a gibbous moon. The whittled pumpkin mouth smiled. “You?” I asked, my eyeballs bulged. I was either dreaming or I’d been pushed over the edge by that last round of bootie shopping. “Well, of course me. Who else is here?” the pumpkin asked. I blinked several times, but the smiling head still looked at me. “What?” the pumpkin grumbled. “No exclamations? No, oh my gourd! Truly d’vine. I’m the cream of the crop, you know. Well, okay, I was quite seedy earlier on, but I’ve had a clean out, which is more than I can say for most of the people around here. Now it’s time to let my light shine.”

Cinderella Soup Yep. I’d gone mad. Maybe I’d accidentally swallowed some of the goldentopped mushrooms that grew near the wall. My mouth gaped open and remained hanging. Talk about a product of environment. I’d heard of talking to yourself, but now the produce was talking to me, and it had a really lame sense of humour. “Hey, Cindy. Shut your mouth. You’ll catch mosquitoes. The name’s Jack. Like my teeth? I’ve just had them done.” “You talk?” I rasped. “So do you.” “Uh… But you’re a pumpkin.” “Well, thank you very much. Don’t you know it’s rude to call someone a vegetable? Lucky I’ve got a thick skin.” I rubbed my eyes. The jack-o-lantern laughed. I crept closer. The pumpkin’s eyebrows rose. “See anything you like?” “In a soup, maybe.” “That’s me. Soup-er man, a well-seasoned lover but regularly a-salt-ed. I can handle myself okay, but arrogant cooks get me cut. I mean, look at you. You should have run a minesweeper through the minestrone you made last night.” Hey, I knew I couldn’t cook. It was a sore point. “You’ve got a smart mouth,” I said, frowning. “Thank you. It came with the wit. They’re a matched set. So you want to go to the ball, huh. Got a dress? Good genes may make you beautiful, but denim jeans aren’t gonna get you through the door. Dress codes, you know, hence, you need a dress.” I glanced wistfully at the sky. Star wishes were for kids and Winnie-thePooh. No, I didn’t have a dress to wear after five. Years of age, that is. “I hope you’re not waiting for a fairy god-mother to come and grant your wishes. That guy is such a drag. Seriously. He went to help Sleeping Beauty. Poof- pink. Poof- blue. Poof- pink. One too many poofs if you ask me. Now the magic council has him serving drinks down at the gay bar on Fifth. No job security in wish fulfilment, I tell ya.” I brushed off the seat of my jeans, too glum for words. The Ballroom was the trendiest nightclub in the city, and everything I owned would look downmarket on a scarecrow. “Okay, I can see by your long face you need more than a little help,” he said. I looked at Jack, hope rising. “You’ll help me?” “Yeah, yeah. Don’t go getting mushy on me. My insides are already mash. Stand back and turn around. Let me get a good look at you.” I did as he suggested, feeling a total idiot for parading in front of foodstuffs. What next? A refrigerator fashion show of ski gear? He gave a low whistle, and I poked out my tongue. “Nice buns,” he murmured. “Yeah, they go well with soup.” “That could be arranged.” His mouth twisted lasciviously at the corners. “Cut the comments, chowder man, or I’ll snuff you out.” A puff of smoke rose from the ground, making me cough. It smelled like something burning on the stove. I glanced down to see a wide skirted silver ball gown, complete with embroidered roses on a separate flounce that cinched around my waist. Kicking one foot from under the voluminous skirts,

Cinderella Soup I caught the glitter of glass on my feet. Jack was a jerk. If I turned up at the Ballroom like this, I’d be laughed out of town. I glared at him. He smiled back innocently. “No need to thank me.” He chuckled. I wanted to stamp my foot, but I was afraid of glass cuts. “Hey, pumpkin brains, are you in the wrong century? You’re new at this, right?” “You don’t like it?” He sounded hurt. “Look. I need something twenty-first century. Something more sensual. Something that will grab the Pumpkin King’s eye.” Jack winked and gave a cheeky grin. “Got it.” Another puff of purple smoke choked me. It smelled like stale fish. I wrinkled my nose and felt a cold draft on my panties. Giving a shriek, I grabbed at the hem of the skin-tight red scrap of sequins that barely clung to the top curve of my generous backside. Crikey, I’d look like two boiled eggs in red egg cups. When I tugged down my skirt, one boob bounced free of it’s low V and hung exposed in the night air. My nipple nubbed. Yikes! I flapped a hand to my chest protectively. “Change me back. Now!” I demanded. “I said grab the Pumpkin King’s eye, not knock it out! I want to be sensual, not a two bit hooker.” I tried to stretch the glittering Barbie-sized gown, but there was just too much of me and too little of it. “For goodness sake, Jack, I need a lower hem.” “A hem?” he asked. “A-hem.” Another voice cleared his throat, low and butch. Still bent in an attempt to cover myself, I spun to face a tall, good looking man behind me. He had a head full of blond curls and eyes so blue that aquamarines paled in comparison. My exposed nipple slipped through the crack in my fingers and hardened again with the cold. One of his golden eyebrows rose. “Nice,” he said, dragging eyes from my pink bits to my face. “I see Jack’s been up to his old tricks.” “Hey, I was just doing what she said. I’ll have a Medori on the rocks.” Jack plastered a wide nervous smile on his face. “Do you two mind?” I squealed. My huff of indignant air was just enough to strain the thin fabric of my bodice. Next thing, we all went quiet as the rip echoed through the garden, unnaturally loud. Another puff of smoke swirled saving me from getting abreasted… er, arrested for indecent exposure. This time it smelled like cinnamon cookies and exotic spice. Strains of the Village People filled the air. When the smoke cleared, I wore a very chic, hip-hugging little black dress with matching strappy stilettos that made my legs look like they went on forever. Jack let out a whistle of appreciation. “Wow.” I ran my hands over the fabric. The dress fit in all the right places and felt like a soft, warm rabbit. “Thanks.” I caught the guy’s glance of appreciation. My cheeks heated. “Now, transport,” he said. He turned and glared at Jack. The candlelight flickered, and the pumpkin’s mouth turned down. “Wait,” Jack cried. “I can explain. I—“ A flash like shooting fireworks zapped across the garden and swirled around the pumpkin, cutting off his words. It spun him in a giddy circle and carried him on a magic cloud to the driveway. With a puff of smoke, Jack

Cinderella Soup disappeared. In front of me gleamed a bright orange Porsche. The blond guy handed me the keys. “Just be home by three o’clock,” he warned as I climbed into the leather seat and started to push little buttons on the dash. “Three?” I asked, “Whatever happened to midnight?” He closed the door. “Hey, this is the twenty-first century. Now hurry. The Pumpkin King awaits. Just be a good girl and remember to eat all your vegetables.”

Excerpt from The Marian Kind by Babe King A Freya’s Bower Short Story

The Marian Kind “Do you want to break up?” I peeled sweat-slicked thighs from the vinyl seat of Rob’s lovingly pimped Ford pickup and wriggled the rolled wedge of linen shorts out of my butt crack. Fear buzzed over my skin, and my stomach lining camouflaged itself as Swiss cheese while I waited for his answer. A sensuous rumble came from his throat, more like a bedroom noise than an argument. Was that a yes or a no? He stopped for a red light and swung his what-madeyou-think-that look my way—kind of disgusted and surprised all in one. Okay, maybe I was nutso risking our good thing by pushing to know if a better thing was just around the corner. But as the daughter of a funeral director I have a peculiar set of insecurities. I mean, funerals are hardly the talk for parties, right? They don’t call social pariahs dead boring for nothing. Maybe Rob had fantasies about dating someone who didn’t paint dead people’s faces for a living. Thick, stubby eyelashes blinked at me before Rob turned his attention back to the road. I licked a flavor-burst of strawberry gloss off my bottom lip. Any woman would want him. He is easily the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—a rich collection of knotted-muscle browns, like trays of buns in a baker’s oven. Chocolate-drenched eyes, caramel hair sprinkled with cinnamon highlights, honey-kissed skin, and a mouth with all the quirk and appeal of marzipan figs. Maybe I should have said he’s a smorgasbord of brown because he’s definitely edible. “Do you?” I pushed. I wanted to scream out of my wound-down window into the cloying blanket of Florida’s orange and salt-drenched air, “Just say no!” Instead, he patted my thigh with one broad-palmed hand that felt vaguely condescending in a hot and tingly way. “Babe. I love you,” he gently scolded. He snatched his hand away to switch lanes, cutting off an orange minivan that blasted us with its tinny horn. Nice evasion of the question. Gack! I didn’t want to be needy, but Rob has been my boyfriend for five years and my heartthrob for a lot longer. Any other guy would have slipped a diamond on my left hand by now, but we’re still stuck at the prep school stage of dating, only with canoodling privileges. It makes me antsy, which could be why I’d dropped that ultimatum this morning when he tried to welch out of our date. Plus there’s the other woman, bane of my life, Jennifer Perrin—the curvy blonde who scattered when I caught her whispering in Rob’s ear last Christmas. A girl who lives right next door to him, sunbathes in her backyard wearing a skimpy string bikini, and is reputed to be the kindest chick in our neighborhood. Yeah, right! Well, I’m not kind at all, not when it comes to sneaky secrets and sharing the man I adore. “So what was this something that came up this morning?” I asked, trying to chew the tremble out of my bottom lip. Guilt flickered in the depths of his eyes and rats gnawed bigger holes in my Swiss cheese stomach. He hissed air through his teeth in what sounded like a cross between a whistle and a steam engine stopping. “Rob, you’re freaking me out.” “Making women nervous is a perk of being male,” he grumbled. And no one could deny Rob was all male. Damn. I yanked at the hem of my Barbie-pink tee and twisted the soft fabric into a knot. My throat dried up like Death Valley, and I reached for the gym bag he kept on the floor of the pickup. Rob always carries water. You never know when a drive-by bench pressing will leave you thirsty. 1

The Marian Kind I unzipped the tote and dipped in my hand. Something squishy wrapped around my fingers. I screeched and flicked the undulating gooey thing across the car. It barely missed Rob’s nose, then splatted on the driver’s side windshield where it stuck and quivered. Rob swore and swerved several times before he got the car back under control. He said something about poop and fans that didn’t sound promising. I screeched again as the alien gloop slid across the glass to hang in front of me. I narrowed my eyes and focused on the little bag of silicon. My stand-on-chair-and-screech impulse gave way to fingernail-gouging rage.

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If you enjoyed this short story, you may also wish to read: All About Brenda by M.E. Ellis Bellissima by Lili B. Adams Charade by by M.E. Ellis Confessions of a Serial Bitch: Hadley by Kimberly Holt-Whitlock Love Notes by Damien Roth Marian Kind by Babe King One Wild Weekend by T. Sue VerSteeg The Perfect Man by Sarah Dobbs She’s Got Legs by Amanda Brice Stripped by Rhonda Stapleton Summer Fling by Karen Erickson A Taste of Italy by Lucie Simone Toil and Trouble by Aurelia Abbott And come chat with Freya’s Bower authors at: FB Author Circle: http://fbauthorcircle.blogspot.com/ FB Author Chat Yahoo group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freyasbower_authorchat/ Or join our newsletter: FB Newsletter: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freyasbower_newsletter/ Or stay up to date with what is happening at FB: WCP/FB News Blog: http://wcpfbnews.blogspot.com/