A Night to Remember: The Vampyre’s Glorious Conquest

It was a dance of sorts. Nice to meet you. You look lovely. Two steps, one step, turn. Non-smoking. Please be seated. Wine list. Two steps forward, one step back, turn. Where are you from? What do you do?

Every question was perfectly posed and every action carefully rehearsed. They followed the formula that would be taught in Blind Dates 101 if there were such a class.

“Excuse my manners, but I forgot to ask your name,” she said, looking demurely down at her hands.

“Collin,” he answered, “Collin Burns.” He didn’t look into her eyes. He was far too interested in the small gold cross dangling from a too-long chain around her neck. “And your name is…”

She patted her necklace timidly. “Sandra McReynolds.”

“Sounds Irish,” Collin observed. He took a long sip of wine, wondering vaguely how many glasses it would take to make Sandra’s nose shrink two sizes and make her chest gain three.

“Sure is,” Sandra smiled brightly.

“Catholic?”

“Mm-hmm. I go to Saint Mary’s on Third Street. Are you religious?”

“Only if Halo counts as a religion nowadays,” Collin joked.

Sandra smiled an uncomfortable smile as her dream of a big church wedding was packed away in a dusty corner of her mind. Not that he was the one or anything –their first date had barely begun- but Sandra was the kind of woman who couldn’t help but wonder.

As a matter of fact, Sandra was the kind of girl who couldn’t help but wonder about anyone who looked twice at her. She couldn’t help but wonder about the valet, the host, the man at the next table, the waiter, or even the mysterious leather-clad man at the bar. And because of her curious nature, her heart broke out in an unexpected flutter when that mysterious leather-clad man left his seat and started walking towards her.

“Sandra? Sandra, hellooo,” Collin said, a faint trace of worry sitting awkwardly on his plain features.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sandra replied quickly, nervously smoothing her hair. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you liked being a librarian.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I do, its very rewarding work,” she said, regaining her composure.

“That’s great,” Collin said, his eyes just a little bit weary, “wish I could say the same about business on Wall Street. Its quite dull and self-serving, I’m afraid.”

“Suits you well,” Sandra muttered. She couldn’t believe that Debbie would set her up with such a dud. Sandra prayed that somehow her evening could be salvaged.

“What was that?”

“Hello,” interrupted a cool voice. The leather-clad man had approached the table. Sandra slowly looked up, taking in every inch of him.

The stranger was tall, at least 6’5”. He had pale, smooth skin and shaggy golden hair. He wore a dark bandana tied around his forehead. He was gorgeous, and Sandra let out a brief sigh when she caught his eyes, which were, of course, a striking clear blue.

“Hello,” Sandra breathed, completely forgetting the man sitting across from her.

“Yeah, hi,” Collin said quickly, barely looking up from his menu, “do you need the salt or something?”

The newcomer ignored him completely and turned his attention to Sandra. He smiled wryly, holding her gaze.

“Is there a mirror in your pocket,” he started, speaking slowly, meaningfully, “because I can see myself in your pants?”

Sandra let out a huge breath. His eyes were hypnotizing.

“I’m Rex.”

“I’m Sandra.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

He took her hand, and she began to rise up out of her seat, as if she was in some kind of trance.

Collin watched the scene play out, anger rising in him, making his hands shake.

“Hey, buddy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Collin demanded. The vein on his forehead was beginning to throb, and his face turned a faint shade of pink. Who did this guy think he was?

“I’m taking this lovely woman back to my place,” Rex said casually, still staring intently into Sandra’s eyes.

Collin stood, throwing his napkin on the table with all the anger he could muster. It was almost the full moon, and he was itching for a fight. This stranger had picked the wrong guy to mess with.

“Hey,” he said, poking his much larger opponent in the chest, “I don’t think you want to mess with me.”

“Don’t I?” Rex challenged with a raised eyebrow.

That was all the provocation that Collin needed. He lunged at Rex, finally forcing him to break eye contact with Sandra, who stood silently in her stupor, not fully comprehending what was taking place.

Collin took Rex to the ground. People gasped when they began wrestling, turning over and over on the floor and bringing an innocent bystander down in the struggle.

After several confused moments of fighting for the upper hand, Collin realized he had made a calamitous mistake. Rex’s fangs nearly shone, sending flashed of light across the room when they caught the moonlight. Collin had two choices: he could either fight his best in human form –which was taking a risk to say the least- or shift, expose himself, and take the vampire down.

Of course, he could concede and retreat from the restaurant with his figurative tail between his legs, but that didn’t even register as a viable option. For one thing, the pack would never let him live it down. And for another, he had his mind set on going home with Sandra tonight. No, backing down was definitely not an option.

Empowered by a new rush of adrenaline, Collin threw the vampire off of him. He didn’t shift, but he did flash his own pointy canines.

Rex came back at him, crouched low and ready to strike. Collin knew that with the flick of his wrist, his opponent could break his neck, but the danger thrilled him.

They collided again, but this time, they stayed vertical. The other patrons and the restaurant staff stood helplessly by as they watched the men –creatures- fight, their jaws slackened.

Collin slammed his fist into Rex’s stomach. Rex doubled over for a mere second and came back with a square hit to Collin’s jaw. That would be a trip to the dentist. This was going on too long. Collin was determined to end it soon.


The crowd and the vampire watched in awe as Collin jumped up and made to plant a forceful roundhouse kick to the side of Rex's head.

But Rex was too fast for his werewolf opponent. Almost lazily, he took hold of Collin’s extended leg and held him upside down with one hand. With the other, he crushed Collin’s leg with an audible crunch.

Rex released Collin and the latter crumpled on the floor. Rex paid him no mind as he returned to Sandra. Sandra was still standing quietly; she seemed not to have taken in the occurrences around her.

“Are you ready to go, love?” Rex asked, smiling. She nodded enthusiastically. He took her hand and the couple made their way to the door, ignoring the destruction behind them. Sandra was thrilled with the unexpected turn her predictable night had taken, relieved to have been taken off the insufferable dance floor by such an enviable intruder.

“My compliments to the chef,” Rex called over his shoulder just before he passed through the door. “This is certainly a night to remember.”

He grinned almost menacingly, his fangs reflecting blinding rays of light onto the deserted street.

Joy

It is dark in here, and quiet. Too quiet. There are only the muffled whispers outside my door and the tranquil ticking of some far off clock, counting down the minutes. The minutes until morning. The minutes until I get out of here. The minutes until I die.

You think about death a lot in a place like this. But you’re not supposed to. That’s a big no-no. You either ignore it, the nagging reminder with every tick of the clock and every heartbeat that you are now one second closer to your death, or you take care of it yourself.

Tick. One more second. Tock. Another. Tick. Death. Tock. Please. Tick. No. Tock. Suffer.

You’re not supposed to think about death, even when the clock is screaming at you about it. You’re not supposed to think about dying or pills or guns or sharp objects. You’re supposed to think about rainbows. You’re supposed to think about a field with a creek and flowers and an old, sturdy oak tree. You’re not supposed to think about drowning yourself in the creek or hanging yourself from the tree. Just go to your happy place. Just let the drugs take you there. I don’t take the drugs. I don’t take the drugs and I think about dying because I’m not supposed to be here.

Here, when you’re taking your drugs and not thinking about death, you’re supposed to talk about your mother. You’re supposed to talk about where it all went wrong. The turning point. The downward spiral.

I talk about the pictures. I talk about the colors and the shapes and how I could show them if they just gave me some pencils. No pencils. No sharp objects. No. It’s always no.

I talk about how much I miss my room and my cat and my mother. My mother who brought me here to be poked and prodded and analyzed for my own good. My own good? I hate it when people say that. No one ever does anything for anyone else’s own good. But that’s what they always say.

I am not in here for my own good. I am in here because I scare people. People are always scared of what they don’t understand. They don’t understand me because I’m not like them. I don’t wear pink and listen to popular music. I don’t swoon over jocks and movie stars. I don’t stick my finger down my throat to fit into size zero jeans and I’ve never gotten on my knees for a necklace or an A. And they’re the normal ones.

The clock is deafening now. Tick tock. Impending doom. Tick tock. Never again. Tick – The heartbeat rhythm is disrupted by the sound of soft white tennis shoes coming to a halt outside my door. I stare at the ceiling. I don’t want to talk now. The nurse flips on the light. I count the ceiling tiles. I don’t want to talk now.

“Joy, we can’t have you sitting here in the dark. Get up. Dr. Willis wants to see you.”

I turn to face the wall.

“I want to call my mother.”

“Talk to the doctor about it,” she says coldly. “Are you going to come or do I need to call someone?”

Someone was a big, burly orderly and a syringe containing a near-overdose of some sedative or another. I stuff my feet into the flimsy slippers next to the unforgiving metal-framed bed. My hand brushes the restraints hanging from the side of the bed. An involuntary shudder makes my shoulders shake as I remember my first hours here.

She didn’t tell me where we were going or what was happening. She brought me straight from school. They were waiting when we pulled up. She didn’t even come inside with me or say goodbye.

“It’s for your own good, Joy. You’ll see,” she said. Dr. Willis with his white coat and over-groomed moustache opened the door and took my hand, gently pulling me out of car with his cold, firm grip.

“Mom, please,” I begged, my eyes wide and filled with terrified, hopeless tears. She didn’t meet my gaze, but rather stared at her own hands. Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, but she did not cry. She shook her head over and over while the doctor took me away, but she didn’t cry, even when I called out to her.

“Stop, please, don’t!” I cried. “Mom, please. Mommy! I’m not crazy. Don’t do this to me! I’m not crazy!”

They needed the restraints because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t banish image of my mother, shaking her head and ignoring my cries for help, from my head. I think I cried more than I ever have in my life that afternoon. They put the restraints on because in that cold, dull room, knees drawn to my chest and eyes painfully red and swollen, I started clawing at my legs, leaving long, angry marks where my nails scraped the flesh. I don’t remember very much after that.

“I’m not crazy,” I insist for the hundredth time. In the calm stillness of Dr. Willis’ office, I trace the pattern on the sofa with a shaking finger.

“No, you’re not,” the doctor replies thoughtfully. He draws himself up in his important leather chair and rests his elbows on the dark maple desk. He picks up a familiar purple notebook.

Geometry is my least favorite class. Time moves painfully slow while I’m in there, and the inane chatter of my most hated peers makes me want to scream. The teacher doesn’t care if we pass or fail. I don’t take notes. I draw.

“What’s that?” Holly Creswell sneered, jabbing her pencil at my notebook. I looked down. A pair of watering charcoal eyes stared up at me.

“It’s just a picture,” I muttered, hastily closing the notebook. Holly flipped her long blonde hair over her shoulder and rolled her eyes.

“Looks pretty emo to me,” she observed, disapproval and venom dripping from her tongue. I wonder how she’s look with that long hair forming a noose around her alabaster neck. “What are you, like, suicidal or something?”

"Hardly," I snapped. "Not like you'd give a damn if I was."

Holly's crystal blue eyes suddenly grew very wide. She looked almost childlike. Almost innocent. Almost.

"You're not seriously thinking about killing yourself," Holly hissed, "are you? That would be so lame."

I shrugged.

"I hear they give you a full page in the yearbook. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal."

My attempt at humor fell flat and Holly's eyes grew wider still.

"You shouldn't talk about that," she scolded. "Someone might think you're serious or something."

"You aren't crazy, Joy," Dr. Willis says slowly, but these things you've drawn, these things you've written, they concern me."

They concern me. They concern him like they concerned Holly Creswell and the school counselor. They concern him because they indicate that I am not the normal, happy, brainless teenager he wants me to be. They concern him because now I'm his mess to clean up, and if I off myself, he could be in for a nasty lawsuit.

"Why?" I demand yet again. That seems to be a question that no one around here likes to answer. "I get good grades, I have friends. I don't cut myself or cry for no reason. These drawings, these poems, they just come out of nowhere!"

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, waiting for this old anger to subside. I'm never good enough as I am; people are always trying to change me.

I glance at a stone bust of someone important. I imagine it on the floor, in a million sharp, jagged pieces.

Dr. Willis eyes the figure, and then me.
"Are we going to have a problem?" He asks, eyebrow raised and finger poised on the security button under the desk.

"No," I say, suddenly very calm, "no problem."

"You're clearly very angry, Joy," he observes, leaning tensely back in his chair. I am rigid on the sofa, staring at my hands.

"Why do you think that is?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"I believe that you were wronged," he says. He's being vague. He wants me to fill in the blanks.

"Wronged how?"

"I don't know, Joy. But I think that, whatever happened, you never confronted your feelings about it. And because of that, they are resurfacing in your imagination as these drawings and poems."

I could see it through Dr. Willis' eyes. I am four years old. I'm at the park. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is bright blue and cloudless. There are wildflowers growing in colorful bunches near the woods. My mother, busy scolding my brother for bullying me, doesn't notice when I fall behind to make myself a bouquet.

No one sees me disappear into the trees. No one notices I’m missing until I emerge, tears streaming down my face, the cause of my anguish escaping in the other direction with a baseball cap low over his eyes and my innocence on his rough, cruel hands.

If only.

"I was six," I start, my voice shaking as I begin to remember everything.

The late afternoon sun was turning the horizon a dark, passionate pink. I gazed out the window, wishing I had something better to do.

Mom and Dad were too busy to play with me, and Jackie had better things to do. She was sixteen, after all. What sixteen year old wants to spend their time entertaining their kid sister?

The sky was blood red when I heard the music. It wasn’t loud, but it was repetitive. I listened to the song three times before going upstairs to investigate.

The music was coming from Jackie’s room. I banged on the door with my tiny fists. I knew she would be mad at me, but I was bored and growing irritable. I just wanted to stop hearing that song.

With a long creak, the door came open. My hands flew to my mouth when I beheld the sight within.

There was my sister, auburn hair a mess around her shoulders and body limp and cold, dead, hanging by a coarse rope in her closet.

Eyes wide, I took in the sight of her. Her green eyes, once vibrant, were dim, her eyelids half closed. In her hand she clutched our grandmother’s rosary, her pale white skin an incredible contrast to the dark metal and red glass beads.

Without a breath or sound, I turned on my heel and closed the door behind me. I padded down the hall to my own bedroom and hid beneath the covers, forbidding my tears to fall.

I pretended not to hear my mother’s tortured scream when she sound Jackie’s body, or the wail of the sirens coming down the street. And when my father found me, feigning sleep beneath my sheets, he muttered his bittersweet relief.

“Heaven help me,” he sighed deeply, “my beautiful, peaceful Joy. At least you didn’t see.”

“I’m not crazy,” I whisper for the last time.

“No, Joy,” Dr. Willis replies, “you certainly are not.”

It is quiet now. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the ticking of an impatient clock, counting down the seconds. The seconds until nightfall. The seconds until my release. The seconds until my recovery. The seconds until it all comes falling down. The seconds until I die.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Bliss.

Danielle: Part Two

The night of the ball was a dizzying flurry of activity and colors, people shouting and scurrying about, all without a second of peace. Gretchen had made an unfortunate choice with a spray on tan, and I was left to my own devices in dressing myself while my mother spent all of her energy trying to make Gretchen look less like a pumpkin. I would have gone mad if Cindy hadn’t graciously lent a helping hand.

After Cindy had helped me into my sleek pink ball gown, I turned to her with an ancient question on my lips.

“Cindy,” I asked quietly, “why do you put up with Gretchen and Mother and all of the crap they make you do? Why don’t you just tell Brian or run away? You can’t possibly be happy.”

Cindy took a long pause before answering. She drew a breath and looked at me with an expression of resigned sadness.

“My father loves you and Gretchen and Cecelia very much,” she started slowly, “but I am all he has left to remember my mother by. She was the love of his life, you know,” she added with a hint of pride in her voice. I nodded.

“If I were to leave, or to tell him how Cecelia treats me, it would break his heart. I don’t want to disappoint him like that.”

I nodded slowly, suddenly very aware of how similar my step-sister and I were. We were both desperate not to disappoint the ones we loved, even if it meant sacrificing our own happiness. We were living for other people and denying ourselves the right to be happy, and in that one moment of perfect clarity, wrapped in pink silk and seeing my dull future play out in my head, I realized that was no way to live.

“I think I understand,” I said to Cindy, sitting down on my bed to put on my shoes, “but I don’t think I agree. You spend all of your time being miserable so your father can be blissfully ignorant. It’s a noble gesture, but where does it leave you?”

“I- I don’t know,” Cindy replied quietly. She stared at the floor for a long moment, deep in thought.

“You need to do something for yourself,” I said, “we both do.”

We were quiet then, both of us lost in our thoughts. We were on the verge of having one of those meaningful bonding moments that they always show in movies and fairy tales when the Witch burst into the room, a mess of red fabric and sequins, and raging mad.

“Cindy! Where did you put my pearls? I can’t find them anywhere!” she screamed. “You can’t expect me to meet the prince without my pearls! Find them for me!”

Cindy left the room without a word and my mother turned to me.

“Stand up,” she ordered. I obeyed and she surveyed my appearance. “Well,” she said when she had inspected me thoroughly, “at least I have one daughter I can count on. Don’t disappoint me, Danielle.”

“Of course not, Mother,” I replied, though I was afraid that disappointing her was exactly what I was going to have to do.

******************************************

That night, as we made our way to the car, I had my purse clutched in one hand, and a small square of stationary in the other. When Connor took my hand to help me into the car, I pressed the note into his palm.

"After the ball," the note read in my messy scrawl. "I'm finished with ball gowns and princes and this fake life I'm living. Let's go."

******************************************

The ball was dull, to say the least. It was a dog show, a long line of hopeful, naïve girls in pretty dresses prancing around for the bored prince. My mother fretted over Gretchen and me endlessly, reminding us over and over to curtsy and bat our eyelashes when presented to His Highness. I was relieved when my turn was over and I was left to sit alone, looking ladylike and demure, counting down the minutes until the end of the ball, until I was back in Connor’s arms, until my life truly began.

I didn’t know what was happening at first. There was a collective gasp from the congregation on the dance floor, and everything seemed to slow down. As she descended the grand marble staircase, the prince dropped the hand of the maiden he was being introduced to and moved towards her without seeming to think. He bowed to her in a way only a prince could, and promptly swept her off her feet. I practically heard my mother’s jaw hit the floor and the disappointed sigh of a hundred hopeful bachelorettes resigning themselves to the lives as spouses of congressmen and merchants.

There was no doubt in my mind –or anyone else’s- that she was the one. He didn’t take his eyes off of her, and for that I was glad. I didn’t stand a chance, and it would seem that the road was clear for me to run away with Connor. I really felt like things were finally going my way, and nothing was going to ruin it.

******************************************

It was one o’clock before the ball ended, and at two thirty, I was sitting in the kitchen with my bag packed and my hair tied back in a loose ponytail, trying to work up the nerve to walk out of the house for good. I was pacing in my mind, trying to keep my breathing under control and my nerves calm. It was three steps to the door, but it might as well have been a thousand miles.
The door opened with a soft moan, threatening to disturb the peace of the house. It was dark, and I heard the quiet shuffling of someone removing their shoes and shrugging out of their coat. But the sounds were all wrong, too dainty and light, it definitely wasn’t Connor.

I almost panicked. Who could be sneaking into the house at this time of night? I looked around for something to protect myself with, and came up with a rolling pin. I was just raising it over my head when the intruder made herself visible.

“Cindy?” I asked, astonished. I lowered the rolling pin and looked at her. Her hair was a mess and her simple black skirt torn in a few places. She was flushed and out of breath, as if she had been running. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied, eying my luggage, “going somewhere?”

“Connor and I are leaving,” I said simply. She raised an eyebrow at the name, but didn’t ask any questions. “Your turn.”

“I was doing something for myself,” she answered, offering no explanation.

“And that includes a magical midnight run in the woods?” I asked.

She shook her head and smiled at me almost sadly, sighing. “There is no magic, Dani,” she said quietly, brushing my hair back from my face in a very sisterly sort of way.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. She had always seemed so hopeful and optimistic; this quiet, submissive way of speaking wasn’t anything like her.

“Just trust me, Dani,” she said, “nothing is for good. It can all just disappear.”

“I don’t think I understand,” I said cautiously, not sure where she was going with this.

She shook her head, trying to grab hold of another way to convey her message.

“Do you love Connor?”

“Yes,” I breathed, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, with all my heart.”

“Then just go,” she said, “get out of here now, before the magic fades. Go before you change your mind or lose your nerve or let life interfere. Just go.”

I nodded again, unable to find words. Had I been able to, they would have come out shaky and jumbled, rushing to escape my lips. I stood slowly, my legs feeling extremely weak, my knees knocking together, and managed a weak smile in Cindy’s direction. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and looked back at her one last time.

“Go,” she mouthed, encouraging me. I pulled her into a tight embrace and whispered in her ear.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” I said, “I hope you get your fairy tale.”

“You too,” she replied, pulling away.

I wasn’t sure, but the way the moonlight shone through the open window and struck her face just so, I almost thought I could see tears shining in her eyes.
We would both get our fairy tales, I was sure of it. My Prince Charming was waiting for me out in the garage in his beat up old Mustang, and hers was inevitably on his way. How could he not be with the way he had looked at her that night? We were both going to get our happily ever afters. I could just feel it.

The End

Danielle: Part One

This is the first, unedited part of the reworked version of Cinderella I'm writing for Creative Writing. I desperately need someone to review it for me. I'll love you forever and probably bake you cookies if you do. Please?

xo
Helen

**********

“Cindy!” my mother screeched, “Cindy! Get in here!”

“I can get it, Mom,” I said, stooping down to pick up the pieces of broken glass. I was clumsy like that, always breaking things. “It’s my mess, anyways.”

Just then, my step sister appeared in the doorway.

“What do you need, Cecelia?” she asked my mother in a bored tone.

“Clean this up,” my mother responded, as if she should have just known. Cindy sighed and kneeled to pick up the shards of broken glass. I always felt guilty for letting my mother make her clean up after us, but there was nothing I could do.

When my mother and Cindy’s mother were teenagers, they entered the Miss Ever After pageant. When Cindy’s mother –Jacqueline- won the title and the crown, my step-father instantly asked for her hand in marriage. My mother came in third and wasn’t invited to the wedding. And now, after Jacqueline had passed on and her widower had married my mother, she was still playing out her rivalry, taking out years and years of pent up anger on Jacqueline’s poor daughter. My step father, Brian, was too busy golfing and writing his screenplays to notice, though. And my mother always praised Cindy when he was around. It’s a miracle he couldn’t see through her fake smiles. I suppose when you work with celebrities, you stop noticing all the fakery.

Cindy took it with grace, though. She never complained or questioned, just went about whatever useless chores my mother presented her with and moved on. With her cool demeanor and peculiar charm, she could have been the perfect, prince-pleasing daughter that my mother wanted, had she not fallen victim to petty revenge and jealousy. Cindy was the spitting image of her mother, who had been named the fairest of them all at that pageant. She only grew lovelier with age, and my mother’s looks were slowly fading with time.

“Thanks,” I whispered to Cindy with a sheepish grin. She only shrugged.

When Cindy had gone, my mother continued the conversation we had been having before I had broken the glass.

“As I was saying,” she said, lighting a cigarette and putting it into a long, old fashioned cigarette holder. She fancied herself an Audrey Hepburn look alike when she did this, but in all reality, she looked ridiculous. I had to close my eyes to keep from rolling them. “There will be a ball at the palace this Saturday night. You and Gretchen will attend, and by the end of the night, one of you will be in line to be queen.”

“Really, Mother,” I said, trying to hide the horror in my voice. I didn’t want to be queen any more than my mother wanted to be known for her inner beauty. I wanted to travel, I wanted to learn as much as I could about everything, I wanted to do something truly important. I could never be anything if I was resigned to a life of orchestrating tea parties and state dinners. “That’s quite ambitious, but its not as if the prince is destine to choose one of us. There are plenty of lovely girls in the kingdom.”

“Danielle,” she scolded, “what have I been telling you since the day you were born?”

“That my ears are too large for my head and my hair is a punishment from God?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well if you would just try to flatten it…” she started, and then changed the subject. “No. That the prince would be lucky to have you, and if you play your cards right, this kingdom could be yours.”

“Or Gretchen’s,” I added. My older sister had been convinced by our mother’s assurance that she would one day be queen, and she behaved as though her marriage to the prince was just a formality she would have to endure. She conducted herself with such an air of arrogance and superiority that one would believe that she had been born noble.

"Well, yes, I suppose," my mother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She then leaned close to me and whispered, "But it is no secret that your sister lacks the features of a suitable bride."

That much was true. Gretchen had long, blond, straight hair, an average figure and average features in general. She looked exactly like nearly every other maiden in the kingdom, and no one could imagine the prince choosing to be with someone as average as her. She was generically attractive, but she was no more unique than a shiny penny. Fascinating, sure, but in the long run, not very impressive.

Gretchen would be best off marrying a merchant or a congressman like all of the others like her.

On the other hand, I was exactly what my mother and the kingdom wanted for the prince. I was blessed with wavy jet black hair and striking green eyes. I was tall with long, slender limbs, which was an attractive when I wasn't knocking things over or tripping over my own feet. And despite my too-large ears, my mother and her peers considered me a front runner in the unspoken competition for Prince Jonathan's affections.

“But what if I don’t want to be queen?” I wondered aloud. My mother laughed. The high pitched squeal probably could have been heard around the kingdom, and I could have sworn I saw the chandelier shake.

“Danielle, you’ve always been a funny one, but you mustn’t speak like that. People might get the wrong idea.”

“Yes,” I mumbled sarcastically, “and what a shame that would be.”

Just then, my sister stumbled into the room, her arms laden with shopping bags and her face partially obscured by a pair of oversized sunglasses.

“Hello, Mother,” she said, “Danielle. What’s up?”

“I was just telling your little sister about the ball,” my mother gushed. Gretchen’s face lit up.

“Oh!” she gasped. She dropped her bags and began rummaging through them. “I got my dress!” she stuck her hand into a large, pink shopping bag and produced a mess of a dress. It was acid green with black lace trim. I had to stifle a laugh. My mother’s lips were pressed into a thin, tense line.

“I’m going to go,” I whispered. My mother didn’t notice, she was too busy trying to find a gentle way to tell Gretchen that her taste was deplorable.

I slipped out the side door and into the garage. When I got there, I was surprised and slightly disappointed to find that I was alone.

The garage was larger than most. Brian was a writer first and foremost, but his second passion was antique and luxury cars. There were at least twelve in this garage and even more in various storage facilities.

I moved to the far corner and delicately removed the heavy cream colored cover from my favorite car. It was an exquisite Ferrari Enzo, cherry red with a black leather interior. I ran my hand over the polished hood and signed. I loved this car. I dreamed of driving off into the sunset in this car, the perfect ending to my own personal fairy tale. Of course, it would never work out this way. For one thing, this was Cindy’s car (even though my mother never allowed her to drive it) and for another, I didn’t have a prince charming. Or at least, not the kind of prince charming that my mother planned on.

Suddenly, a large, muscular arm reached out and wrapped itself around my waist. I gasped, but relaxed instantly when I felt Connor’s soft lips brush against my hair.

“You’re too jumpy,” he teased, “I think the Witch is putting something in your tea.” I smiled at his taunting nickname for my mother.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I scolded, turning around and looking into his light hazel eyes. “Stranger danger!” I laughed, “I need an adult!”

“I’ll save you,” he said. He stared at me and it was hard not to get lost in his eyes. I wanted to get lost with him, as crazy as that sounds.

About six months ago, Connor was hired by Brian to fine tune and watch over his precious cars. He’d worked for us for approximately two months before I realized I was madly in love with him, and now we both lived for moments like these. In my fairy tale fantasy, he was the prince charming sitting in the passenger seat while we drove off into the sunset.

“Can you save me from the Witch and her insistence that I marry the prince?” I asked.

“I think His Highness and I are going to have to have a chat if he thinks he’s going to be marrying you,” Connor replied.

I didn’t reply. I let my mind wander to a place beyond balls and gowns and princes, to where it was only me and Connor and the car, and maybe a beach and a dog. It was nice to dream like that, but it was all in vain. I could never escape the gowns and the balls and the princes without disappointing my mother, and no matter how wicked she was, I wasn’t sure that I was capable of betraying all of her hopes and dreams for me, even if it was at the cost of my own happiness.

“Are you thinking about running away again?” Connor asked me in a gentle, but desperate voice.

I sighed. “I just can’t,” I said softly, “I’m not ready to let them all down yet.”

He nodded, and I pretended not to notice the way his face fell ever so slightly. “Whenever you’re ready,” he agreed, “we’ll get out of here and you’ll never have to wear one of those stupid ball gowns or pretend to swoon over a prince ever again.”

“I like the way that sounds,” I replied, resting my head on his chest, taking in the steady rhythm of his heart, holding my breath in a vain attempt to make the moment last.

Indiana Jones and the Epic Movie-Going Experience of Logan, Helen, and Rhiannon

Final draft of my personal narrative for Creative Writing. Based on fact, but the cutesy lines are 169% fiction. For a more accurate account of that night, go here:

http://thecoolestnerdyouknow.blogspot.com/2008/05/what-about-now.html

-Helen

Indiana Jones and the Epic Movie-Going Experience of Logan, Helen, and Rhiannon

"Oh I get by with a little help from my friends,
I get high with a little help from my friends,
Oh I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends...."

-The Beatles, “With A Little Help From My Friends”

Costumes dawned and faces made up, two girls exited a vehicle in front of a simple brick home on a peaceful street. They bid their goodbyes to the driver – they wouldn’t be back until the early morning.

“We look ridiculous,” said Rhiannon, a tall blonde made taller by a pair of inappropriately high heels. She wore high waist skirt and loose curls for the occasion.

“We look amazing,” replied her friend, a smaller brunette girl in a short black skirt. Her unruly wavy locks were blown straight and she had something written in blue eyeliner on her eyelids.

Though it was early summer, the night was cold. They hurried up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. They were greeted by a gangly blonde boy in a leather jacket and a hat too mature for his boyish features, though it was more than appropriate for the occasion.

“Good evening, Dr. Jones,” said the brunette, a sarcastic and enthusiastic girl named Helen.

“Hello, ladies,” he replied, opening the door wider. “Er, what are you?”

The girls rolled their eyes and stepped inside. “I’m the psycho Nazi chick from the third movie,” said Rhiannon, “and she’s the student with a crush on Indy and ‘love you’ written on her eyelids.”

“Oh-kay…,” the boy replied. “That’s….Creative?”

“Shush, Logan,” Helen responded. “There are like no good costumes for girls in these movies. She got the only good one.” She jerked her thumb in Rhiannon’s direction.

They made their way past the entry way and the front steps, heading for the computer room.

“What time is it?” Rhiannon wondered aloud.

“Almost nine,” Helen replied, “what time are we leaving?”

“Around ten thirty,” Logan said. “We need time to get to the theater and get good seats. We’ll have to get there at least forty-five minutes early.”

“Cool, but what do we do until then?”

They looked around skeptically, unsure of how to fill the time. There was a rather impressive computer setup on the desk, but the thought of watching their friend play World of Warcraft for the next hour and a half was enough to make the girls’ stomachs turn. Helen turned around and eyed a stack of DVD’s atop an old TV set.

“We should watch Temple of Doom,” she suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” Rhiannon said, falling onto the couch. Logan agreed and started setting up the movie. Rhiannon and Helen began digging through the unusually large purses they had brought along for the movie. Helen produced three orange sodas and threw one to each of her friends.

“What’s this?” Logan asked.

“Chilled monkey brains, of course,” Helen replied. “The finest delicacy that this jungle has to offer.”

They were drawn into the movie, sipping on their drinks mindlessly, cringing at just the right moments, and cheering on Short Round as he narrowly escaped a certain death towards the end of the film. The time escaped them, and by the time the movie had finished, it was nearly time to go.

With Logan’s mother acting as chauffer, coffee in hand, the trio hurried to pile into her car, anxious to get to the theater. They spoke fast –a combination of caffeine and excitement at work- and forgot to busy themselves with meaningless details; details concerning things such as keys and lights and tickets.

In all of the excitement, Logan had forgotten to safely tuck the tickets under his hat as he had originally planned. They were already running late and having to return to his house only pushed them further behind schedule. After a few anxious moments, they were on the road again, headed for the theater and praying that there were some seats left.

When they arrived at the theater, it was completely packed. A seat in which one wouldn’t have to lean back one’s head to an unnatural position to see the screen was a dream, an impossibility. They ended up with seats in the front and settled into them as best they could.

They weren’t surprised to find others dressed up, playing the characters they had come out at such a late hour to see. People were passionate about this. This was a truly historic event, a rebirth of a classic. It had been years since the last movie, and now, finally, the beloved Indiana Jones was to return as the epic hero of the screen. This was easily the greatest night of their young lives. Their eyes sparkled with excitement and their breath stopped dead in their throats as the lights dimmed…

*****

This was an epic battle indeed. They were all battling their eyelids, which were growing increasingly heavy as the movie wore on. And just as Dr. Jones and his trusty team of minions and Russian scientists escaped the rapids of some waterfall or another, Helen lost her fight, her head nodding against the seat. ‘Just for a minute,’ she told herself, ‘I won’t miss anything important.’

When she awoke mere minutes later, she was sure she was dreaming. Her idol, the unbreakable, amazing, and most importantly borderline realistic Indiana Jones was surrounded by…Aliens? What kind of sick joke was this? And was that his….Son? She shook her head, trying to chase the dreams from her eyes, but it was no use. This was what her idol had come to, a typical, supposedly heartwarming, jumping-the-shark ending that almost involved him passing down his trademark Fedora to some greasy-haired, Pony Boy wannabe. This couldn’t be happening. It was a travesty. Without Indy, she would have to settle for a typical idol or teenage nerds, Han Solo or Fox Mulder or even worse, Captain Kirk.

“That,” she said to no one in particular as they made their way out of the theater, “was insane. I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry.”

“I’m just glad he didn’t pass down that stupid hat,” Rhiannon replied as she skipped through the parking lot.

“He used to be so…Cool,” Logan said, looking down at his costume in shame. Was Dr. Jones even worth impersonating anymore?

They were all in shock. Sure, the beginning had been classic Indy, but aliens, really? It just didn’t make sense. Where were the holy grails and the human sacrifices? He didn’t even have to eat anything particularly nasty. And what’s so great about the crystal skulls and escaping nuclear explosions in a lead-lined refrigerator anyways? No, the old, classic Indy they remembered was gone, replaced by this wimpy imposter in a floppy Fedora.

“Cheer up kids,” Logan’s mom said on the painfully quiet ride home. “You’ll always have Star Wars.”

The End