I’ve decided to enter the Flash Fiction contest hosted by the folks at Yearning for Wonderland. It’s the Once Upon a time Writing Contest, the theme is “unexpected fairy tails” and the word limit is 350 . I like this idea as well as anything involving fairy tails and turning fairy tails on their heads. So here’s my effort and see if you can guess which fairy tail inspired this one.
The Thing about Red-Hot Iron Boots
The thing about red-hot iron boots is not that they are heavy, nor is it the heat. It’s the fact that they are rusted iron boots glowing red. What sort of style sense went into making such a thing? Iron boots are passé. They reek retrograde and stink overindulgence.
Just like her and the way she’s handling our tiff. She’s married off; she’s got her charming prince, although personally I’ve seen better looking and heard brighter speak, she’s got her own new kingdom to add to the one she took from me. She’s got the waterfall wedding dress, the towering cake and the piss those midgets conjured and called wine. She’s got all these things, and still bears a grudge.
My guts rise when I think about the glut at that wedding. But that is how it has always been with her. Proclivity to excess, that one. She couldn’t live with just one midget; she had to hoard seven of them, and to watch them tumble over themselves for her, like nesting dolls, like she was gold, or something. She doesn’t have a heart of gold, I’ll tell you that –all show and shine.
Over dramatizing everything, like with the apple.
I’ll admit I let the brat get to me, but I didn’t put that much belladonna on the blasted apple, just enough to knock her out a bit, to miss her passing prince. It was the least I could do for all the trouble she’d caused over the years. But she escalated it with the fainting, the pretending to be dead, and the glass coffin thing, because everyone would want to see a dead person’s face as it turns to straw. So tasteless.
Now she’s congratulating herself for picking the red-hot iron boots when she’s really not got an original bone in her body.
Dancing in these boots won’t kill me. They are heavy and they crush my ankles. They are hot and sear the flesh from my bones. No, instead it will be death by “gaudy” for me. Red-hot iron boots indeed!
©Debra Providence 2012
To read some really great stories from other entrants in this contest please click this link and for more info on the rules follow the crescent moon.