Witches, Princesses, and Women at Arms

by Sacchi Green

  Irista hissed like a giant snake and urged the beast toward me. That seemed to shake Eliann loose from whatever trance held her. “No! Let her go, Irista. I’ll go with you if you let her go!” A white and luminous pearl dropped from her open mouth, and fell to the greensward at her feet.

  We all stared at it, with the exception of Irista’s beast, which took the opportunity to try and eat me. I slashed it across the snout and danced backward toward the trees. Had Eliann just offered to sacrifice herself for me? Or was it just an excuse to do what she wanted to do anyway? And was this really the best time to worry about that?

  The creature slashed out with one great claw, slicing open my leg as I cut into its scales. We both screamed and Eliann screamed with us a breath later when she saw the blood on my leg. Then she was between me and the creature, armed with nothing more than her bare hands. I tried to shove her aside as it lunged, and the giant fangs stopped just short of her head.

  I wish that it had been fear of me that stopped its charge but in fact, his mistress’s voice filled the clearing with a mighty “Cease!” Irista stalked over to Eliann and I stepped in front of her with my blade up. I stopped it a hairsbreadth shy of her heart and let my face convey my intentions.

  She glared down at me, her wings unfurled and her face going dark with rage. I could feel Eliann tremble behind me but instead of trembling myself, I filled with a rage of my own and struck out with my sword. Irista jumped back and held up one glowing hand. Her smile took on an edge that cut through my fury and I braced myself for whatever she was going to do next.

  “Irista, no.” Eliann’s voice was soft, but commanding. I risked a glance over my shoulder and noticed that the ground around her was remarkably toad-free. It was also free of damp flowers and jewels. Her face had a calmness to it that was surprising, given the circumstances. “No,” she said again, reaching up first to touch her mouth, then to pull me back to her side. Then she threw her arms wide in a gesture that took in the ground at her feet. “Don’t you understand? It was Shalene, Shalene who I really loved all along. Your curse is broken, Irista.”

  I gaped at her and from the edge of my eye, saw Irista do the same. Eliann looked from the irate fairy to me, then back again. “I’m speaking and there are no toads or jewels or anything else coming out of my mouth. Nothing but words, lovely words!” She started laughing and danced in a little circle. At that moment, Eliann was the most beautiful creature that I’d ever seen and I found myself grinning like a jester.

  Irista turned on me with a hissed, “You!” I vowed silently that I would fight her to the death, probably mine, for Eliann’s freedom. I prepared to charge.

  There followed a loud noise, like a siege engine hitting a wall, and Irista turned a startling shade of green. A shining white object landed at her feet, sending up a pale mist that encircled both her and her mount. Her mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear anything she said. This was a welcome relief, given her expression.

  After a long moment, she and her creature faded from view, her mouth still open and hands frozen in arcane gestures. I looked at Eliann. “How…how did you know that the pearl would banish her?”

  “I didn’t. It was just the closest thing I could find to throw to distract her from you. And I thought that since it didn’t look like anything that had come out of my mouth before, it might be connected to the curse.” Eliann’s fingers were gentle on my forgotten wound. “Would you like some company on this quest of yours?” She helped me to sit and placed some wet leaves on my leg. “The one where you win all the valor and the hand of a princess?”

  “I think I’ve found my princess. So perhaps my quest is to discover how to love her and make her happy.” I didn’t know where the words came from, but I knew they were the right ones. Eliann held me close and we kissed once more, her mouth sweet as dew on mine.

  SWF SEEKS FGM

  Allison Wonderland

  Single Wicked Female Seeks Fairy Godmother for shoe-shopping companion and sappily-ever-after. Must be able to work family-unfriendly magic with wand.

  Checks have mates. Glass slippers have mates. Even that repulsively scintillating stepdaughter of mine has a mate. Me, I’ve got bupkis.

  As you know, I’m a widow. No, not a black widow—magenta is my color, I’ll thank you to remember.

  At heart, I’m a simple, vitriolic vixen in search of an animated sorceress who has the power to make my dreams come shrew. That is to say, true.

  I believe what we have here, my dear, is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once upon a way to pass the time, I married Cinderella’s father. We were not even on a first-name basis. I called him My Little Meal Ticket and he called me The Wicked Stepmother, the definite article of which I most definitely found flattering.

  In spite of my bad reputation, I made him think my moniker was a misnomer. Damn, I’m good. So when he proposed marriage, I accepted. After all, if I put my mind to it, I could chateau the line.

  Everything was copacetic, until my husband croaked like the Frog Prince of a man that he was. Gone were the days of living it up. On the upside, I could once again live up to my nickname.

  And did I ever. I looked at that looker Cinderella and thought: I’ll terminate her, too. Oh, please don’t misunderstand me—although my real name is Lady Ptomaine and yes, I did graduate from a Poison Ivy League institution with the highest dishonors, I am by no means a murderess. A villainess, sure, but I can assure you that every one of my husbands departed on good terms.

  When Cinderella left—this palace, not this earth—we also parted amicably. I had been so uncouth to the youth, to understate the obvious, yet on her way out of her misery, she opted to hug me instead of slug me. If kindness could kill… Let’s just perish the thought, shall we? With all the sincerity I could summon, I wished Cinderella a fond farewell, all the while hoping she would not fare well at all.

  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 over the fair to middling sex—ladies and gentlemen, respectively—but in this kingdom, we are expected to exhibit a proclivity to heteronormativity.

  The subject of Sapphic subjects rarely comes up. When it does, when there’s any indication, however slight or right, of lady-liking, it’s swept under the Magic Carpet, headed off faster than the Queen of Hearts can beseech a beheading.

  Remember when Snow White and Princess Aurora, our sleeper hits, hit it off and were caught copulating instead of hibernating?

  Or when Ariel, our mouthy mermaid, was discovered muffdiving in Princess Tiana’s Black Sea?

  Of course you don’t. If our underground out newspaper hadn’t transcribed these transgressions, I wouldn’t either. I recall every word of these human interest stories, which were much more interesting than straight news about Misses becoming Mrs.

  Follow-up articles revealed that these princesses were, inevitably, scared straight. It’s a small-minded world, after all. I saw that there were 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 pu
t 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.

  And I just might, mightn’t I?

  As Fairy Godmothers are inclined to advise, impossible things are happening every gay.

  Which brings us to the personal ad I placed in the above-mentioned underground paper. Where I come from, Fairy Godmothers are legendary, lauded for their optimism and altruism and affection for 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 gush with pride, “which is why I am in desperate need of a guardian angel.”

  At this, Godmother scoffs, a response that seems quite out of character for such a winsome woman.

  “Why don’t you come over here and sit a spell?” I suggest, gesturing to the sumptuous settee that is, at present, bare of bottoms.

  Godmother’s laugh is polite and a mite patronizing, and her eyes roll over me like the wheels of a horse-drawn carriage. “I see you put the class in classified,” she murmurs, settling onto the settee.

  A wicked cool heat flickers in my knickers. “It wasn’t that kind of ad.”

  Godmother pouts. “I thought that compliment would work to my advantage,” she says, and smiles a bashful smile, a dwarf of a thing that makes me…happy?

  Is this an emotion I’m even capable of experiencing?

  Hmm.

  Happiness.

  Hmph.

  Happiness.

  A necessary evil, I suppose. It’s a good thing I have someone to help me cope.

  Although if I continue to sit here in offensive pensive silence, I’ll be on my own. “May I offer you a beverage?”

  “No, thank you. I have only a thirst for knowledge.” So saying, Godmother 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 my baby,” 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!” she cries at this sudden absence of innocence.

  I feel my ire fire like a flare gun. “How else should I react when you’re making insults?”

  Godmother is still in the grasp of a gasp. Her expression reminds me of an open casket. Under normal circumstances, that would be a welcome image indeed. However, in spite of my spate of anger, I’d much rather have her in my bed than that in my head.

  “I was not making insults,” Godmother insists, continuing to shudder in shock. “I was making introductions. Bea isn’t a verb. It’s a noun. A proper noun, to be precise. My parents named me after the beauteous Bea Arthur. You should be ashamed of yourself, for goodness’s sake.”

  In response, I hang my head, the way I’ve seen my inferiors do when I confront or affront them. As my collar chafes my chin, I sense the corners of my mouth turning up instead of down. There’s something disturbingly delightful about being disciplined, I discover. As for my venial sin, “God’ll get me for that, won’t He?”

  Bea chuckles. “He’ll send you straight to Shady Pines, you shady lady, you.” So saying, she reclines against the sofa, properly propping her feet up on the coffee table. Her footwear is fancy: ruby-colored peep-toe shoes that ooze sophistication.

  “They’re from the Friends of Dorothy Zbornak line,” she shares. “Glass slippers really aren’t my style. Besides, I could never fill Cinderella’s shoes.”

  Oh, dear. Is she… Could Bea be… “You’re that Fairy Godmother?” I ask, wringing my hands and sputtering like a lawn sprinkler. Such ignominy. Those of ill repute should never feel ill at ease.

  Godmother gives me an all-knowing look. “The one and lonely,” she replies.

  I should, of course, take my lumps, but I’m afraid I’m a rather amateur apologist. Perhaps I could take them the way I take my coffee: darkly and starkly. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?

  “I would like to…express…remorse for behaving like a heel toward Cinderella. It was nothing personal. She and I just got off on the wrong foot, that’s all. She really was a shoe-in for the throne. Meanwhile, my girls couldn’t even get the shoe on, which should come as no surprise to me because—”

  “Listen, lady, 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.

  “You’re my type and my stereotype,” Bea informs me, 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 still an unfamiliar though not entirely irksome emotion. “She’s having a baby?”

  “No, a ball. 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. Ursula 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 a feline’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 you haven’t lost your touch of evil. I like a dame who’s bad news,” Bea confesses, and pats my leg just below the thigh. “The Bea’s knees,” she teases, and squeezes.

  So that’s what a good feeling feels like. It’s not so bad. But I am. Bea said so herself. “You think I’m bad news?” I giggle, the sound more clangorous than languorous, running rings around my daughters’ princess phone, although that’s not hard, considering it hardly rings.

  “Are you quite through?” Godmother inquires, arms tucked under her tits in a way that both complements her pout and demonstrates her clout. “If you’re finished, then we can get started.”