Once Upon A Dystopia: An Anthology of Twisted Fairy Tales and Fractured Folklore

by Heather Carson

  “Number?” a woman says at the front door of the massive brick mansion.

  “Twenty- two,” I reply, the number given to me on my selection paperwork because no one seems to care about my name.

  Checking the tablet in her hands, she nods to a guard just inside the main doors that stand open to the elaborate foyer. “Follow him.”

  Apprehension swells inside me. I take a final look behind me at the street and for a fleeting moment I consider running away, hiding in the city, or maybe farther, getting as far away from the Offering as I can get.

  But it’s too late for that. I have nowhere to go. No money. No job. Not even a passport or identification to leave Delmar. At least not legally. The only family I have left needs me to be here, to be chosen by someone tonight if they are to have any hopes of a better life. If I can hope for a better life too. Out there in the world, there is nothing else for me. Drugs, murderers, rapists, and psychopaths; people don’t survive on the streets here for long. Every day the news reports another body found, dumped in the river or buried in a shallow grave in a park. As far as anyone cares, the dead were nobodies so therefore, nothing is done to stop it. I am not special enough to think I can manage any better.

  So I follow the guard into the building and through a maze of hallways boasting lush carpet, polished wood doors, bronze light fixtures and blue damask wallpaper. Arched lead-paned windows overlook the gardens surrounding the home. Beyond, the grey, towering buildings of the city loom over it all, the sunset behind them painting a brilliant backdrop of mauve and cerulean as the sky transforms into twilight.

  I’m led into a small room towards the back of the home, lavish in its décor of paneled walls, a coffered ceiling and a sparkling crystal chandelier, but little furniture other than a sofa, two chairs and a round coffee table. Artwork hangs on the walls and just one could probably pay our rent for a year.

  A grey-haired woman sits perched in one of the chairs, standing when I enter, her eyes finding mine behind both our masks. She looks me over from head to toe, as if analyzing whether I truly belong here.

  “Twenty-two?” she asks, her voice cool and indifferent as she smooths the folds of her conservative dark suit.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She dismisses the guard, who shuts the door behind him leaving me alone with the woman. She holds forward a tablet of her own. “Your thumbprint please, to confirm you’ve arrived.”

  I place my thumb on the pad and the screen flips to an image of my resume.

  Name: Ciella Tremaine

  Age: Seventeen

  IQ: 132

  Personality Type: INFJ

  Blood Type: O+

  Hereditary markers: Safe

  Overall Health: 9

  Parents: Deceased

  The woman flicks off the screen before I have a chance to read the rest, but I already know what it says. It’s the reason I’m here. I’ve been deemed “enough.” Healthy enough, smart enough, skilled enough for men to potentially want me as their wife; hopefully willing to bid high enough that my stepmother won’t have to work three jobs anymore just to make ends meet and make sure my sisters don’t slowly starve. Perhaps even enough that they can go to school like I was able to before my father died and I dropped out to work for the dry cleaners down the street.

  “There’s a dress and shoes on that chair there for you to change into,” the woman says, pointing to a blue dress draped over one of the armchairs. “A guard will be stationed in the hall if you need to use a restroom. The Offering will begin in an hour, but seeing as you’re twenty- two, you’ll be towards the end. If we make it that far.”

  Her final words aren’t lost on me as she leaves the room. There’s a chance I won’t even stand on the platform to be bid upon. If only twenty guests show up to make bids, and twenty of the girls before me are chosen, I’ll be sent home with nothing. Worse than nothing. Those selected for the Offering but not chosen as a wife are mocked and outcaste. Too “good” for the normal world, not “good enough” for the wealthy who dictate our entire lives and put on this whole charade each year to give some sort of ridiculous idea of hope to the hundreds of girls in the province believing they are “enough” to be chosen and climb their family out of poverty.

  Nerves flip and flutter in my stomach as I change into the pale blue dress with long puffed sleeves and a high-buttoned neckline. Its hemline reaches past my knees and swirls around my legs when I turn. The fabric feels soft and silky against my skin, possibly one of the nicer dresses I’ve had the opportunity to wear.

  I look to the windows in the hopes of seeing my reflection, but they are tinted just enough that I’m nothing but a formless blur in the glass. A blur and a number are all I have become in this world.

  Under the chair I find a pair of shoes, heavy and sparkling in the overhead light. I clink them together and realize they are made of glass.

  Most girls are glad to be here, all things considered. The see it as an escape. But I am reminded of a young girl several years ago, her name and story displayed on the TV for weeks. Much like me, she wanted nothing to do with the Offering but was forced into it by her father in the hopes she would be chosen and the money would help take care of her six younger siblings. But she wasn’t chosen. She wasn’t even in the building long enough for the Offering to start before she ran away and disappeared into the city. I guess she felt the streets were better than whatever future awaited her here. Whatever happened to her, I guess I’ll never know. She’s probably dead and sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t just be easier than all of this.

  But because of her, now all of the girls in the Offering must wear glass shoes because they don’t know which of us might also try to run. It’s impossible to run fast or far with glass on your feet. I slide them on, cringing at how they pinch and squish my toes and wondering how I’m supposed to even walk in them. Forget running anywhere.

  ***

  Well over two hours pass before anyone comes for me. My stomach growls because I haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s now past dinner. The grey-haired woman doesn’t even offer a courtesy knock before flinging open the door of the room, startling me to my feet.

  “Come with me, it’s your turn.”

  My hands tremble as I run them along the side of the dress in an attempt to quell my nerves. My feet ache in the horrible shoes, but I notch my chin higher and ignore the pain as I follow the woman back into the maze of hallways.

  She guides me out a side door and along a narrow walkway lined with hedges that veer around the back of the mansion. The heels of our shoes click on the flagstone path.

  The soft murmur of voices reaches my ears and as we round the corner of the home, I find myself in the back courtyard. At least twenty people still mill about, mostly middle-aged men and older but a few women appear too, their faces covered by their own masks as they cling to their husband’s sides. Those will be the parents here to bid for their sons. A part of me hopes I’ll be chosen by one of them. At least there’s a chance the son will be closer to my age rather than old enough to be my father.

  Tables display an array of foods; desserts, sliced meats, fresh shrimp and hot buttered rolls. My mouth waters at the sight, more food than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life. Servers wander through the crowd, gathering dirty plates or offering refills of wine and champagne. The Offering, the ceremony that will change the entire course of my life, is nothing but an extravagant party for them. A social function to show off their wealth. A hint of anger burns through me and for once, I am glad I wear a mask to cover the scowl on my face.

  The grey-haired woman escorts me to a round platform at the front of the space. I step onto it as she garners the crowd’s attention and suddenly every eye is on me as the guests fall silent. I can feel their probing stares, looking over my body, judging my height and weight and anything else they can see that isn’t covered by the modest dress or the featureless mask.

  My breath comes quicker as my heart pounds wildly. Nause
a rises in my stomach and I swallow against it, willing my anxiety to calm and my hands to stop quivering. I can’t appear frightened or nervous or no one will bid on me.

  “Auction number Twenty- Two,” the woman calls, her finger flicking over her tablet as she brings up my resume and calls out the information on my health and intelligence. “Skills; cooking rank 7, cleaning rank 9, sewing rank 10; that’s impressive, we don’t normally see such a skilled seamstress. Foreign languages; French and German.”

  She rattles off the rest of the details as the guests continue to ogle me. One wanders behind me and touches my hair in its low bun, his fingers trailing the back of my neck and I resist the urge to shiver in disgust.

  “A natural blond?” someone calls from the back.

  “Yes. And blue eyes if you’re too far away to tell.”

  “She’s pure?” a man to my right asks and my face immediately flushes with the inappropriate intimacy of his question.

  “Of course,” replies the woman as if it’s a perfectly normal question to ask. “All of our girls have been checked.”

  Yes, we have been. If I could erase that experience from my memory, I would do so in a heartbeat.

  “If there’s no further questions, I’ll start the bidding at $250,000,” the grey-haired woman calls and I stiffen. It’s a low number. There must not be many guests who haven’t already claimed other girls. It needs to at least triple if there’s any hope of Lorette being able to pay off our debts and still have enough left over to invest and live off of.

  The man in the back indicates he’ll pay the starting price of a quarter million and the bidding goes from there.

  “$300,000 from Mr. Satyr. Do I have three-fifty? Three-fifty, yes, Mr. Zabbet, thank you.”

  The number increases, the grey-haired woman confirming each bid and occasionally reminding everyone of my excellent health record and low risk of hereditary diseases that could be passed on to children, both of which are highly desirable traits in the Offering and probably why I’m even here in the first place.

  As the bidding passes $500,000 and then $600,000 and eventually $700,000, I feel some of my tension ease. It’s enough that Lorette and my stepsisters will be set. Whatever happens from here, at least they will survive and the girls won’t ever have to consider entering an Offering themselves. I can make this sacrifice for them.

  “$925,000 is the current bid. Anyone for nine-fifty? Once? Twice? Sold for $925,000 to Mr. Tulerno. Thank you, sir.”

  Almost a million dollars. That is the value I have been given by these people. That is what I am worth.

  My eyes scan the guests hoping to pick out the man who has just purchased me. The one I will be marrying before the end of the week. A lump of fear rises in my throat because this is it. I’ll go home with a stranger tonight, likely someone forty years older than me. I can only hope he is kind. I’ve heard so many horror stories. I don’t care if he’s hideous or old or even dumb, but I just have to pray he treats me well enough.

  Moments later I’m whisked away, limping in the painful shoes and looking forward to the chance to change back into my normal clothes. But I’m not returned to the small room I sat in before my auction. Instead, I’m led to a larger space no doubt used as a parlor for receiving guests. It’s bedecked in burgundy and gold and dark, heavy furniture.

  As I’m guided into the room, I see a man standing at the far end, his back to me as he looks out the windows into the darkness beyond. He’s tall and thin, his navy-blue suit well-tailored to accommodate long arms and legs. In one hand he holds a wooden cane tipped in silver, though he does not lean on it for support. Still, I have to wonder what is wrong with him if he is here to bid on a wife because he can’t find one on his own. Wouldn’t something have to be wrong with any of the men buying us tonight? Why else would they be here?

  “Mr. Tulerno,” the grey-haired woman says, “I’d like to present Ciella Tremaine, your purchase for this evening.”

  The man says nothing, flicking a hand over his shoulder to indicate the woman is free to go. Without a single glance my direction, she shuts the door behind herself, leaving me alone with the man. Fear and anxiety swell inside me as the realization of what I’ve committed to crashes upon me. Dizziness sets in and I wish I could sit down so I don’t collapse.

  This man, this stranger will become my husband, I will need to rely on him for anything I need to survive from here forward. I take a deep breath and step farther into the room on wobbly, unsteady legs.

  “Mr. Tulerno,” I say, my voice a squeak as my throat clenches. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Kyle,” he says, his voice deep. “Mr. Tulerno is my father. He’s the one who bid on you for me. You may call me Kyle. If we are to be married, the formalities seem silly. You may take off your mask.”

  The request causes me to freeze and my eyes dart about the room expecting hidden cameras or to see the police watching from a secret space. “Sir?”

  “Kyle. And your mask. You may remove it.”

  “But, sir… Kyle… it’s illegal…” I stammer, torn between obliging the demands of someone who has the power to make the rest of my life miserable and risking the wrath of the government’s punishment should this be some sort of test for him to see how loyal I am. I don’t know him. I can’t trust him. What if he or his father oversee the punishments here? I have no idea who they are.

  Then the man turns and I realize he’s not much older than me, his dark hair swept back from his thin face. It’s his eyes though, that cause me to gasp and now I know why his father was bidding on a bride for him. Now I know what is “wrong.”

  “As you can see,” he says, gesturing one hand to his glassy and unfocused gaze, “I am blind. It seems ridiculous for you to wear a mask when I can’t see your face at all anyway. If we are alone together, you may be free of that one confinement. Sadly, it is the best I can offer.”

  Raised and living in Baltimore, Kathryn Jacques, a graduate of Towson University, is a former classical and contemporary dancer and TV/ Film actress. She starred in the 2016 horror feature Soul Fray, which premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, and she can also been seen on the ID Discovery Network, Veep and House of Cards.

  After retiring from performing and film work, she returned to her childhood love of writing. She is the author of the The Gamble series, a Young Adult dystopian trilogy which was featured in Girls’ Life Magazine and voted Dystopian Ink’s December 2020 Book of the Month. She also works with a literary agent in London and plans to publish more young adult dystopian and fantasy works soon.

  https://kathrynjacquesbaltimore.wordpress.com/

  Big Bad Wolfe and the Three Little P.I.G.G.s

  By Jared K Chapman

  Four years ago, thousands of alien soldiers armed with advanced technology, far beyond anything we could ever imagine, obliterated the human race in an instant. Well, almost.

  A radio beacon called out from the depths of the Brookhaven Institute underground research facility, where hundreds of scientists, engineers, and private soldiers survived the surface attacks. Anyone with an old radio receiver found the beacon calling on every channel. I had one of those old Sony Walkman cassette players. My dad gave it to me as a joke Christmas gift when I was thirteen. In the card, he wrote, “You kids with your easy access to music have no idea what it was like to have your favorite song eaten up by one of these damned things. Merry Christmas, Bee Bee.”

  I wish he were here now. No one I know survived the attacks. I don't even know how I lived through it ... or understand why. Why did I survive and they didn't? There were so many people out there far more important than me. So many people who could be doing something right now to stop the monsters above. I'm just a twenty-four-year-old former bartender who got lucky because I was hiking a secluded mountain trail, thinking about life and pondering what I should do and where I should go next.

  The damn universe answered it for me.

  Here in the underground, the scientists and engineers
are working on alien tech gathered by the soldiers in above-ground raids. They're all trying to figure out how the stuff works and if we can use it to fight back. Our weapons and tech have pretty much had no effect. And still, no one has any idea how the aliens got here. Or if they even are aliens. I've never seen one, but I've seen their tech and it's out of this world. I've seen sleek silver bubbles that blast violet laser beams and ships glimmering in the sky like they're covered in diamonds. At least, I think they're ships. That's why I call the aliens Lucies.

  Lucy in the skyyyyy with diamonds.

  Funny thing, I've got three cassettes that survived with me, and that song is on one of them. The other two are Everclear's Sparkle & Fade and Depeche Mode's Violator. This has been my soundtrack for the last four years.

  We can live beside the ocean, leave the fire behind, swim out past the breakers, watch the world die.

  All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.

  Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

  Yeah. These last four years have been a real tough go, let me tell you. I've made mostly casual acquaintances with the other survivors … and one special friend. He was a soldier. He went up and didn't come back. I haven't made that mistake again.

  Feelings are hard, especially knowing that they can gut you at any moment. I had already mourned my family. My parents. My brother and sister. Everyone. My dog, Rowdy. My cat, Mr. Mercedes. He was actually Philomena first, but then we discovered he was a boy cat and a freaking psychopath, so we changed his name. All my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents. All my friends were gone—wiped out in one fell swoop of a laser light show from above.

  Every day more and more soldiers don't come back, so the scientists and engineers have been recruiting from the survivors. I don't have anyone, so I volunteered. I'm still waiting for my first assignment, but if the leadership frantically running around yelling at one another like those stock traders on Wall Street used to is any indication, then my time may be coming soon.