Myth and Magic

by Radclyffe

  But she did, because of course she would. She’s the underdog, the heroine. You’ve all been manipulated into adoring her and abhorring me. It’s the age-old tale of good versus evil. When that revoltingly talented songbird brain opens her mouth, it’s good verses for her and the evil eye for me.

  Why am I so evil? Being mean is a picnic, a cakewalk, as easy as pumpkin pie. When you see, go evil: narrow your eyes like a feline. Mine offers an excellent example. When you hear, go evil: eavesdrop on the conversations of those who are similarly sinister. When you talk, speak pro evil. Use four-letter words such as “hate” and “hurt” and adopt a curt tone when executing commands. You see how straightforward that is?

  Speaking of which…going forward, I am no longer straight. Herein lies the reason for my lies, my manipulations, my machinations. I took to playing cat and mouse with people’s feelings as a means of subjugating my own.

  I suspect I’ve always preferred the fair sex to the fair and middling sex—ladies and gentlemen, respectively—but in this kingdom, subjects are expected to exhibit a proclivity for heteronormativity.

  Those who do not find themselves attracted to the opposite sex find themselves trapped in the tragic kingdom, scorned and mourned by young and old alike. It’s a small-minded world, after all.

  There are two ways of looking at this. I could, as one song advises, blame it on the reign. Or I could take the advice of a more refreshing refrain and believe that gray skies are gonna queer up.

  I’ve put on plenty of things in my day: airs, the blame on others, myself on a pedestal. But a happy face? I wasn’t sure that visage was even viable.

  Still, I decided to fold up the social ladder and give it a whirl. And do you know what? I triumphed over adversity. Now all I’ve got to do is triumph over what some might call perversity.

  Which brings us to the ad I placed in the personals column of our kingdom’s underground newspaper. Where I come from, Fairy Godmothers are legendary, lauded for their altruism and affection and tenderness toward others. A Fairy Godmother, I reasoned, could give me a complete makeover. Internally, of course. Externally, I’m quite fetching, yes? She’s mysterious, I’m imperious. She’s everything nice, I’m everything vice. We’d make a consummate couple.

  That being said, we can’t consummate our coupledom until we become a couple. Thus far, I’ve received a single response to my ad. She telephoned last week, and at first I cringed at the sound of her voice, its treacle tone headache music to my ears. Nevertheless, I provided my address and we agreed to meet today at—

  Oh! Queer she is now!

  I hustle my bustle to the door and issue greetings and salivations.

  That is to say, salutations.

  I believe what we have here, my dear, is love at first sight. It is necessary that I describe this magical creature standing before me: in lieu of that joke of a cloak that constitutes the Fairy Godmother uniform, she is outfitted in a black gown that showcases her pleasantly plentiful proportions. Her hair, habitually hidden, is not only visible but luminous and voluminous. I put on a sappy face and glue my gaze to the blue hue of hers.

  “You must be Wicked,” she says.

  “Is that an order,” I reply, “or an observation?”

  She shakes her head. The expression on her face can only be described as a cross between empathy and enmity.

  I offer my arm. She takes it, her grip predictably delicate.

  “So you’re the devil woman,” she remarks, as we embark on our short journey to the sitting room.

  “Yes,” I swoon, “which is why I am in desperate need of a guardian angel.”

  Godmother rolls her eyes, a response that seems quite out of character for such a winsome woman.

  “Why don’t you come over here and sit a spell?”

  Her laugh is polite and probably patronizing, but she accepts the invitation, taking a seat on the sofa.

  “May I offer you a beverage?”

  “No, thank you. I have only a thirst for knowledge.” So saying, she leans forward, inspecting the selection of hag rags spread out on the coffee table. She skips over SinStyle and Women’s Stealth and picks up the latest issue of Good Mousekeeping.

  “That’s Lucifer,” I gush, pointing to the handsome, hissy-faced feline on the cover. “He was voted Pussy of the Year by his peers.”

  “I’d love to meet him,” she says, but I can tell she would sooner meet her Maker.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let him out of the bag. But you know what they say: when the cat’s away…” It is then that I notice the magic wand tucked between her breasts. “I envy your bosom friend.”

  She smirks. “I believe the tail end of that expression is ‘the mice will play.’”

  For the first time in my life, I hear no evil, only good. “Will they?”

  She shrugs. “Will they? Won’t they? All perfectly preposterous inquiries that mandate either/or.”

  “In that case,” I snicker, and hope she won’t bicker, “are you a man or a mouse?”

  “Neither/nor,” she answers in all seriousness. “Lady Ptomaine, Bea Strait.”

  I feel my blood run colder. Is she going to cast aspersions on my perversions? Take that magic wand and poke my eyes out for making eyes at her? “Listen here, you little Fairy Godmotherfu—”

  “Don’t curse in my presence!” Godmother gasps, her mouth agape like a mask of tragedy.

  I rush to my defense. “How else should I react when you’re making insults?”

  “I was making introductions,” she clarifies, still shuddering in shock. “Bea isn’t a verb. It’s a noun. A proper noun, to be precise. My parents named me after the beauteous Bea Arthur.”

  “Oh,” I whimper. There’s something disturbingly delightful about being disciplined. “God’ll get me for that, won’t He?”

  Bea chuckles. “He’ll send you straight to Shady Pines, you shady Lady, you.”

  I blush. Being red feels a lot better than seeing red.

  Bea reclines against the sofa, properly propping her feet up on the coffee table. I gasp, my mouth agape like the ruby-colored peep-toe shoes Bea wears.

  “They’re from the Friends of Dorothy Zbornak line,” she shares.

  “Speaking of which, I would like to apologize for the way I treated a certain friend of yours. It was nothing personal. Cinderella and I, we just got off on the wrong foot, that’s all. She really was a shoo-in for the throne. Meanwhile, my girls couldn’t even get the shoe on, which should come as no surprise to me because—”

  “Put a sock in it, would you? I liked you better when you were unapologetically unapologetic.”

  Words fail me. I don’t know whether to have a good feeling about this or a bad feeling, although truth be told, I wouldn’t know a good feeling if it…I don’t know, felt me up.

  “Am I your type or your stereotype?” Bea asks, surmising my surprise. “If you were expecting me to be the guardian angel to your devil woman, I’m afraid your great expectations are going to grate on my nerves. Oh, that reminds me: Cinderella is expecting.”

  I blink, experiencing a hint of happy-for-her. It’s a foreign though not altogether unpleasant emotion. “A baby?”

  “No, the unexpected. Yes, a baby. I’m going to be the baby’s godmother—lowercase for the time being, in case somebody else wants the job. I can’t hog all the humans, you know. Oh, that reminds me—I just love the power of suggestion—before you and I get involved in…an involvement, I’ve been hearing rumors that you’re dating Beauty and the Beast.”

  “I can explain.”

  “And you will.”

  I could get used to this, this business of taking orders. As it turns out, it’s quite a turn-on. What’s more, it’s compatible with my motto: It’s better to receive than to give. “Well, you see—”

  “Mother!”

  “What?” we respond in unison, then chuckle in tandem.

  “I have company,” I call, in the mother of all motherly tones. “Can it wait?”


  “I suppose,” one of the girls grumbles. They aren’t twins, my daughters, but their unfortunate features render them difficult to look at and, therefore, almost impossible to distinguish. Regardless, I hope they’ll accept the Sapphic side of me. They had no choice but to accept the bad side of me, so if need be, I’ll simply make the choice for them this time, too.

  Right now, however, I am choosing to focus all my attention on the very good company sitting beside me. “This rumor, it’s unsubstantiated. That Sea Witch started it after I spurned her advances. What could I do? We weren’t right for each other. Besides, with as many arms as she’s got, she’d never be satisfied with just one octopussy in her garden.”

  Bea’s lips curl like Lucifer’s tail. “So you believe in monogamy?”

  “Of course. I may be immoral, but by no means am I amoral.”

  “Well, it’s good to know that you’re still evil. I’ve got a thing for bad girls,” Bea confesses, and pats my leg just below the thigh. “The Bea’s knees,” she teases, and squeezes.

  For the first time in my life, I have a good feeling, and it feels so good. “What do you say we make like our clothes and take off?”

  “Cool your jets, Lady,” Bea advises, but her tone sounds enchantingly enticing.

  “You mean we have to keep things G-rated?” I pout, hot under the lavender collar of my dress. “That G—isn’t it short for G-spot?”

  “Not…officially,” Bea murmurs, coming closer.

  “Just think,” I reply, when she’s close enough to feel my wicked cool heat, “if and when we do…that, you too will be known as an evildoer. But in a good way.”

  J. Leigh Bailey (jleighbailey.net) is an office drone by day and the author of young adult LGBTQ romance by night. A book-a-day reading habit sometimes gets in the way of…well, everything…but some habits aren’t worth breaking. She writes about boys traversing the crazy world of love, relationships, and acceptance.

  This story is based on Alice in Wonderland.

  A Hero in Hot Pink Boots

  J. Leigh Bailey

  My brother always says my stubbornness will get me into trouble one day. Turns out today’s the day. Or night, rather.

  To be honest, though, stubbornness didn’t cause my current predicament. Nope. My first foray into the lives of the popular people isn’t turning out at all like I imagined it. The momentary pleasure of being invited and the knee-jerk acceptance of an invitation I had no business accepting might end up costing more than I can afford.

  Not that I can afford much of anything. I have a whopping fourteen dollars to my name, all singles, all folded up in the mostly empty wallet in the pocket of my nicest jeans.

  I glare at Paul, and when he smirks, I look at Todd. They both look fantastic, of course, the height of modern high school fashion, wearing the trendiest, fanciest clothes money can buy.

  My nicest jeans and coolest T-shirt don’t compare. Not by far.

  A warehouse looms behind them, heavy bass pounding and neon lights flashing. A muscled mass of human stands by the door, beefy arms crossed over a beefier chest.

  “Twenty bucks?” I cringe. “I didn’t know I’d need that much.” My shoulders droop.

  Paul looks at me like I said something particularly pathetic. “This is the party this weekend. It’s an underground rave, special invite only.”

  “We thought you could use the experience,” Todd adds. “It’s like our good deed for the year. Broadening the horizons of the less fortunate.”

  My face burns. In shame. In humiliation. But mostly in anger. Less fortunate? “I don’t have twenty dollars.” I barely get the words out through my clenched teeth. I would give just about anything—including the fourteen singles in my wallet—to not have had to say that. Besides, didn’t raves go out of style with the Spice Girls?

  Paul and Todd share a look that squicks my stomach. A silent conversation passes between them and my blood chills by the second. This won’t be good. Todd licks his lips and nods. They turn back to me. “I can pay your way,” Paul says with a reptilian smile. “But you don’t get something for nothing these days, right?”

  “Right.” Todd nods.

  “I’ll pay for you, but you’ll have to do something for me.” His hand trails down his bony chest and I know exactly where it’s going to stop. I stare, really hoping I’m wrong. But I’m not. He cups his junk and tilts his pelvis suggestively.

  Oh. My. God. Gross. Bile creeps up my throat. I throw up a staying hand. “You know what? No. Just…no.” I back away, and after a dozen steps, I whirl around and keep walking. Todd’s and Paul’s cold laughter trails behind me.

  Ten minutes later and I’m completely lost. I squint at the nearest street sign. Somehow I’ve ended up in a mostly deserted part of Chicago. Alone. At night. Not the Magnificent Mile, either. Grit and grime edge the streets and I’m about as far from the Gold Coast as I can get without stumbling into the ghetto.

  I should have stayed. How bad could a party like that be? Sure, drugs and alcohol aren’t really my thing, but I could cope for one night, right? Better that than be accosted by some homicidal maniac while wandering the city in the middle of the night. I blame it on high school.

  High school is okay. Being poor at a high school in a wealthy suburb is less okay. Every day I’m surrounded by people who think nothing of shelling out hundreds of dollars for a pair of shoes and who drive BMWs or Mercedes. Then there’s me. Stuck with public transportation or the “generosity” of my big brother.

  No lights glow up ahead or to my left, so I turn right. There are lights, but no other signs of life. To make matters worse—not that they need it—I don’t even have my phone to call my brother for the ride. Because, like an idiot, I’d been so jazzed about the invite, I’d forgotten it on my dresser where I’d left it to charge. I need to find someone—preferably someone not homicidal—with a phone so I can make the call. So not looking forward to that. My brother will hold the favor and the inevitable I-told-you-so over my head for years to come.

  What possessed me to agree to go to that party? It’s not like Todd and Paul are friends. We’re barely on a first-name basis.

  Okay, I know why I agreed, but it’s humiliating. I was so flattered to be asked that I said yes without thinking it through. That’ll teach me.

  So here I am, lost. In a sketchy part of Chicago at nearly midnight. Yep, worse and worse.

  My foot catches on an uneven break in the pavement and I sprawl forward. Concrete scrapes against my palms and I barely miss hitting my chin. “Damn it, Kevin.” Yes, indeed. Worse and worse. I push myself up, wincing at the sharp ache in my knee.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” a melodic voice purrs.

  I turn to face the speaker, crouching defensively.

  One glance and alarm turns to awe.

  A guy—maybe a year or two older than me—stands on the top of the stairs to a brick town house. He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen—tall with long arms and legs, and a loose-jointed stance that reminds me of a cat. His dark skin shimmers in the orange glow of the front light. His full lips are slicked up with some kind of lip gloss and his eyes are lined and dusted with gold eye shadow, making them look positively huge. A skintight black shirt that might be made of spandex clings to his narrow shoulders and chest. His pants—apparently made of the same stretchy material—sport gold and black tiger stripes on a white background. Somehow the stripes at his hips point straight to his crotch. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, but my gaze doesn’t linger there. No, I am completely caught up in the guy’s boots.

  Hot pink, patent leather, knee-high boots stacked on four-inch sparkling gold platforms.

  He really should look ridiculous, but I’m not amused. I’m awestruck. He is…magnificent.

  He poses at the top of the steps, one hand on his hip, body tilted to show it off to the best advantage in the dim light.

  “Uh, hi,” I croak out, my aching knee forgotten.

  As if
that’s his cue, the other guy comes down the steps. No, he doesn’t come down the steps. He sashays down with all the swagger and swaying hips of a contestant on America’s Next Top Model. In those boots he towers over me by several inches.

  “Aren’t you adorable?” he drawls.

  I try to clear away the obstruction in my throat. It’s not as easy as it should be. “Uh, thanks?”

  “What’s your name, sweetheart? I’m Cedric.” He holds out a long, slim hand and I take it without thinking. The skin is soft and the contact sends tingling sparks through my veins. I try not to react—really, I do—but when Cedric glides his thumb down the back of hand, my toes curl. Seriously, like some teeny-bopper-chick-flick heroine being swept up by local heartthrob. Ridiculous.

  “Kevin,” I say in a rush of breath, remembering his question at the last second. There is something very wrong with this picture. I look up and down the street. I don’t know if I’m searching for an escape route or a camera crew. Surely Cedric can’t be for real.

  “I hate it when the sidewalk jumps up to trip me like that.” After one last, lingering caress of thumb, Cedric releases my hand. I make a fist, trying to hold on to the sensation, and realize the scraped palms no longer burn. Lust as an anesthetic?

  Heart stuttering in my chest, I gaze into Cedric’s beautiful face. The cocoa-colored skin looks so soft… I bite my tongue, hoping the sharp pain will be enough to clear my head. It is, but not by much. I’ve lost my mind, that’s all there is to it. I shouldn’t stand here like an idiot, gawking at some exotic guy, a stranger in more ways than one, in the middle of a dark street in an unfamiliar part of the city.

  “I’ve got to go,” I manage to say around a tongue that doesn’t quite seem to work right. Not because of the bite, but because Cedric is just that awe-inspiring. “But it was nice meeting you.” I keep staring, willing my feet to move. One step is all it will take, I know it. Just one step.