The Correct Story of Cinderella

By Norman the Millipede

Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl called Cinderella, blah blah blah… isn’t that how all the incorrect retellings of this story start? Well I, Norman the Millipede will be telling you what actually happened to Cinderella, as I bore witness to every twist and turn the course of her life took. Before I get into the correct story of Cinderella’s life I feel obliged to tell you why I, the reputable millipede that I am, know what happened better than anyone else. It all started when my family disowned me as they said I was too extravagant, and that they couldn’t afford me. You see, I have always been a fan of the finer things in life, I’ve always had a refined palette. For example I enjoy artisanale aged cheddars accompanied by a bottle cap full of 1984 Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte (its a french red wine). To this day I still think to myself, why did they find it so hard to just go fetch me a piece of cheese and a bit of wine? It wasn’t costing them anything except time and dignity. In my opinion that wasn’t too much to ask of them, after all, it was their choice to have me, did they think it was going to be easy? Anyway one night I was wallowing in my sadeness (I have to admit I was a bit sad when my family disowned me)-- whilst enjoying a locally sourced goat’s milk brie (I like to support small local businesses)-- it came to me! The second best idea I’ve ever had. Obviously the first best idea I ever had was the one where I’d decided to put fig chutney on this thin bit of bread, it was very crispy, almost like a cookie but thinner and savory. What an amalgamation of flavors and textures truly life changing, I highly recommend. But I digress, where was I? Oh yes, the second best idea I’ve ever had, it was to move into one of these gigantic human houses. They seem to keep all the good food there. At first these enormous animals had seemed intimidating, they stomped around and talked loudly. Part of me thinks they’re permanently in a bad mood. I went from house to house searching for one that fit all my criteria, which was: good food, a nice view, a comfortable place to sit and admire the nice view, and NO pigeons. The audacity of those filthy animals baffles me. Eventually I came across a house that ticked all my boxes. It was none other than Cinderella’s house. Enough about me, my riveting life story, and the evidence testifying to my qualification of knowledge about Cinderella’s real story.

Cinderella’s life story is almost as tragic as mine. Just as I arrived Cinderella’s mother was being traded for a mean nasty old woman, it seems that when one of these animals gets bored of the other they just swap them out, I wish I could’ve done that with my parents before they had done the same to me. Unfortunately this new woman didn’t just come with a lot of wrinkles and smile lines, but included in her package were two nasty small versions of herself. My guess is that the people who supply wives needed to get rid of this woman’s two smaller versions in order to make room for their new stock, so they had a buy one get two free sale; I wish they had done that type of deal for handcrafted celtic smoked salmon. These two smaller versions of that big old monstrosity who I assume are sisters, were horrible to poor old Cindy. I refer to Cin derella as Cindy to illustrate the casual nature of our relationship, despite the fact that she doesn’t actually know me; should I be found out to be living a life of culinary luxury alongside them all I fear I would be put out on the street. These two sisters would always laugh and make fun of her dancing, oh I think I forgot to mention, Cindy is a dancer. As soon as her mother was traded for the terrible trio, she seemed to take an interest in dancing. She would wake up at the crack of dawn and start to dance, it was quite incredible really, she would dance, and then breakfast would be ready, she would dance and then the kitchen would be clean. Sometimes she would dance with objects, like this one long wooden stick with bristles on the end that would brush up against the floor. Or this plastic rod with a bit of fur at the end that looked like a fox’s tail, she’d wave it around as she twirled and all the dust would disappear. The terrible trio would always make fun of her dancing and tell her it wasn’t good enough. Cindy would always sleep on the floor. My guess is that it keeps her back nice and straight, as a dancer with a hunch back is never a good look. For some reason she always chose to sleep near the fire palace so she was always covered in ash and soot. No wonder she was named “Cinder-ella”. Cindy’s dad wasn’t around much anymore. He wasn’t too nice to Cindy either, he seemed to go into hiding after that nasty old bum showed up. I often wonder why he chose to trade his wife for her. I know what it feels like to be abandoned, as that is what both my parents did to me; I often felt as though I could relate to Cindy. We both lost parents although of course my situation is worse as I lost both my parents.

As the weeks go by nothing changes. I’m still making the most of the delicious selection of food that I have access to. Clearly this new way of living suits me as my skin has been glowing recently, not a pimple in sight. One afternoon a letter came through the mail box, I heard a bunch of squeals and squeaks. I thought someone had died, maybe that horrible old woman had finally met her end. I started to get my hopes up, but as I turned the corner I saw that the old hag was very much still breathing, unfortunately. The hideous woman and the two sisters were all huddled around a piece of paper. Clearly this must have been the nicest piece of paper they had ever seen, it may have even been cardstock. I do love a good bit of cardstock. After admiring the cardstock for a prolonged amount of time, they all ran upstairs. Before I knew it they were all back, but this time they were wearing hideous dresses, that were covered in frills, lace, and glitter. Something you might not know about me is that I am a fashion consourer, I am a big fan of the avantgarde, more is more fashion movement that is going on at the moment, but this looked like a trainwreck. They played around with their hair, and were then out the door. The sound of their shoes pitter pattering against the wood. A few minutes later I saw Cindy run into the room. She was wearing the most amazing gold and silver dress, now that’s what I call fashion I thought to myself.

Then she ran out the door. Cinderella came home first and changed into her old dirty clothes, who knows why because if I was her I would never take that dress off. Then was the return of the terrible trio. Everytime they left the house I always hoped they would never come back, but, inevitably, every time they did. The exact same series of events happened three days in a row! The ogre and the two sisters would put on these atrocious dresses and leave; a few minutes later Cindy would come running in, wearing a stunning dress and would then run out the house. One day Cindy came in wearing the most gorgeous gold slippers I had ever seen. I was dying to know where she got them and if they came in a size millipede. On the fourth day this cycle had seemed to come to an end, no one was running out the door in dresses. I was midway through preparing my pre-dinner charcuterie board, when I heard a firm knock on the front door. The door opened and I heard a gasp, so of course I quickly rushed over to see who it was. To my disappointment it was some mediocre looking man, dressed in very fancy clothes, and he was holding one of the gold slippers Cindy had on the other night. This okay looking man gave Cindy’s slipper to the youngest sister, she is also the most spoiled sister, might I add. The girl took the slipper and went into the back room. She came out with the slipper on her foot, but the slipper is overflowing with Ketchup. Now this was something I’d never seen before, but I am all in favor of employing outside the box tactics when it comes to making a fashion moment work, but this just seemed to be an extremely messy way to be able to slide that big, nasty, foot into a shoe that clearly didn’t fit. Cindy’s feet were much smaller than those of the two disgusting sisters. The ordinary looking man and the youngest sister leave together, this man does not seem to notice or care about the ketchup spilling out of the shoe, good riddance I thought to myself. To my surprise the man and the young sister came back just minutes after they left. The man had a look of disappointment on his face and the young sister looked as though she was about to burst into tears and then pass out. The sister wiggled her foot out of the slipper that was still drenched in Ketchup and she spitefully handed it over to her older sister. The older sister went into the back room. When she came out she also had the slipper on her foot, she seemed to also use the ketchup trick as her foot was also too big. The man and the older sister left, but they came back even quicker than the younger sister did. The man had a look on his face that was on the verge of anger and the older sister looked distraught. The not incredibly handsome looking man and Cindy’s father started to have a conversation. The conversation didn’t look friendly, but they weren’t arguing either. I heard the creaking of the stairs, I looked up to see Cindy coming down the stairs, she looked anxious like she might be sick. The man hands her the shoe, but unlike the other girls she doesn’t go into the back room, she slips it on right then and there. It clearly fits like a glove, no Ketchup lubrication needed. The man looked at Cindy and then they kissed. If I’m honest I think Cinderella’s standards are too low, this is probably due to her lack of leaving the house. Cindy and this indifferent looking man held hands and left the house, without saying goodbye. I never saw Cindy again after that. A goodbye would have been nice, but of course not worth blowing my cover and jeopardizing my living situation. Enough about Cindy, now back to me. I seem to have developed a drinking problem after Cindy left, so I’m thinking about maybe moving house, maybe the change of scenery will distract me from the wine. I am glad to say I have now embarked on the journey of house hunting. I have come across some lovely houses. I am thinking of making an offer on one I saw the other day. I shall keep you updated on how the process is going, but for now everyone is living happily ever after for the most part and I’m still working on my sobriety journey. The End

ORIGINAL TASTE: DELICIOUS & REFRESHING

Luke Henry

In an auditorium in Chicago, there’s yelling and cries from all ages. Old men scream for help. Young women demand change. One man, slightly old and fragile, walks out on stage, papers tucked neatly under his right arm. Suddenly everyone goes quiet. He walks up to a podium, puts down his papers, clears his throat, and says, “Ahem, my fellow Americans today is a good day to be an…American.” There’s an uproar in the crowd. The devout clap and scream, supporting their savior. He is another bureaucrat who says and does the same thing as those before him. He is corrupt and only interested in furthering his fortune. He cares little for the country. While his name might differ from the men preceding him, he is a carbon copy. The man’s name holds no importance or truth, just as his words hold no importance or truth.

He wraps up his speech saying, “This time things will be different.” The crowd yells and jumps up in down as one in support of their great leader, a man who holds the light in a dark and narrow cave.

He exits the hall and gets into his eggshell white Rolls Royce. “Those idiots will eat up anything I say, won’t they?” His chauffeur, Stewart, in a well-maintained light blue suit and cap says and does nothing but nod in concerned agreement. The man is driven to his house on Burling Street; protected by dogs and steel fences, the house clearly tells all not worthy to stay away. The man exits his car in a hurry to avoid the cold without bidding farewell to his chauffeur. This bothers Stewart rather little; he has grown tired of hearing the man’s empty words.

At his house, the man situates himself comfortably in front of his massive roaring fire. It’s a cold day but the man has everything he needs, including a large glass of rum. It’s a living room of a king adorned with large dark paintings of nobility and a warm but disturbing atmosphere. He sits devoid of thought on his leather throne–not yet gold but he’s got something in the works–when something curious happens.

There is a violent knock at the door. Thinking they will go away, he takes a swig and closes his eyes. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! “Claude,” he yells to his butler, “answer the damn door.” Not a moment later, the old weathered Claude walks in with a young handsome woman. She is holding a fine leather suitcase and wears an equally fine flame red pantsuit.

“Might I ask your business here at such an hour?”

The man’s face is flaming red with annoyance and rum.

“Sir, I’m here on behalf of Coca-Cola. Would you allow our thirst-quenching elixir to be labeled as a vegetable in school lunches?”

The man chuckles, intrigued by her proposal. “Well, perhaps, but I’m gonna need some encouragement.”

The woman winks at the old man and lays her suitcase on the arm of his throne.

“One million dollars awaits you if you make the right choice,” says the woman, pressing two golden buttons and popping open the top of the briefcase. The stacks gleam in the firelight, illuminating politicians that look just like the man.

“Say no more. I’m all yours,” says the man, attempting to spare the last bit of his dignity.

They laugh together and shake hands. Claude appears in the doorway and shows the young woman out.

Finally alone again, the man looks at his rum and decides to treat himself.

“I’ve been good. I think I deserve a Coke,” he says aloud. Raising his voice, he yells, “Claude, I demand a Coke.” His voice echoes triumphantly throughout the empty manor.

Claude, doing as he’s told, brings his employer a Coke. It would be a lie to say Claude doesn’t want to shake up the Coke and watch as his employer gets drenched from head to toe. Claude is far too scared of the man though and sees no need to be yelled at again.

As he is handed the Coke, the man inspects the can. “Phosphoric acids, high fructose corn syrup? Who even knows what that mumbo-jumbo means? All I know is that it’s bad for me.” He pours some of the bubbling liquid into his glass of rum and sets the now-mostly-empty can on the floor, and starts to drink.

He drifts off into a dream and awakes with a headache in the early hours of the morning. He slowly opens his eyes. He’s awfully parched and grabs at the floor where he left his almost- empty Coke. A shock runs down his spine. There is only floor. There’s no can. No Coca-Cola.

Suddenly he hears a noise. It sounds as if someone is in the room with him. He tries to calm himself. It’s probably just Claude, he thinks, attending to work.

Out of the corner of his right eye he sees something shiny. He turns his head to see a Coke can, as tall and wide as a refrigerator, looming over him. The man’s hands quake, but he says in a snobby tone: “And who might you be?”

The can calmly retorts, “And who might you be?”

The man is scared and enraged. But mostly enraged. He shouts, “Do you know who I am?”

The can calmly responds, “Do you know who I am?”

The man, with all the anger he can muster, says, “You are nobody. In fact, you are nothing. You are just a can– a can that needs to be recycled.”

The can stands silently for a moment, then says, “You are nobody. In fact, you are nothing. You are just a can– a can that needs to be recycled.”

The man stares at the can of Coke, shimmering in the morning sun. He’s confused. Why is this Coke can simply repeating him?

“Claude,” he yells, “remove this ‘thing’ at once!”

“Claude,” the can yells, “remove this ‘thing’ at once!”

The Coke looks at the man with pity and disgust. Unsure of what to do, the man clenches his hands and punches the can with all his might.