Her Bio: Angela is a young adult writer, of both fantasy and contemporary . Before dedicating herself to writing, Angela spent her days on stage. She performed in over thirty theatrical productions, as well as touring in a Broadway theatre group. Italian to the core, Angela loves God, pink (the color), music, Sister Hazel, Disney World, theatre, caffeine and dachshunds. Angela is happily married to the lead guitarist of Particle Blue. Angela is also currently seeking literary representation for her YA Fantasy, CINDERELLA'S GLASS STILETTO.
Visit Angela at http://angelafrancis.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Twitter at @angela_francis
After
a day and a half in story book hell, I learned one thing. Princesses
were total bitches.
“She doesn’t
look like one of us.” Jen’s heavily lined eyes narrowed in on me
like a bug she insisted on squashing. She crossed one tan leg over
the other, the bright chandelier in the throne room glistened against
her gold stilettos. Seriously,
what’s with the stilettos?
Flats were much more comfortable.
I
was way too tired to deal with princess drama. To top off my fabulous
morning of being woken up by a gong—yep, a gong, because alarm
clocks are old news—I ran into April on my way to class and she
blew me off. No hello, nothing.
“I agree.”
Claire’s glare matched Jen’s. Lime seemed to be Claire’s color
choice and her bracelet said, BELIEVE, over and over again in fancy
script. Danielle told me this morning that Claire wasn’t a princess
but a fairy. Figuring out “who” wasn’t hard—blonde hair,
green clothes, bad attitude. Still, I didn’t know why the hell her
mini-self was here and not daycare.
“She’s
not pretty enough.” Claire added with a tiny smirk to Jen.
I
blanched and opened my mouth to tell her off, but Danielle placed her
hands on her hips, not letting their doubts falter her unyielding
confidence in me. “Norah is plenty pretty enough, which is why I
assumed she’d be a princess. She has the cheekbones.”
“And
hair,” Pearl added.
“And
lips.”
Jen
sneered, refusing to buy their compliments. “Not the fashion
sense.”
“Ankle
boots are so last season.” Claire’s eyes bore into my Steve
Madden boots, which were totally this season. I bought them before
coming here. “So is paisley.”
The
dress I wore wasn’t couture, but it wasn’t cheap! Man, I wanted
to smack the stupid pixie in her tiny face. Black eyes suited blondes
so well.
“Ladies,”
Danielle drew their attention back to her. “Let’s waste no more
time.”
As
if this school wasn’t insane enough, now they—people considered
to be my peers—were going to figure out where I fit in? Score.
Danielle
sat on the throne in the middle of the girls and motioned for me to
sit on the lone chair in front of them.
They’d
yanked me out of two classes—Transforming Princes into Frogs &
Other Nonhuman Forms and Being Evil 101: How to Eliminate Moral
Tendencies—classes I’d rather be in because…well, they actually
sounded amusing.
A
book no thicker than two inches sat on the glass table beside
Danielle. The spine cracked opened and Danielle retrieved a quill.
The thick, black feather drooped down, showing its age.
“This
quill dates back to the beginning of all fairy tales and was passed
down from generation to generation to the authors of our lives.”
Danielle and the girls stared at the pen as if it were a god to be
worshipped, when really, it probably should’ve been tossed out. Who
kept quills for so long…better yet, who even used a quill anymore?
They were ancient.
“These
are our seven ancestors. The ones who started it all.” Danielle
motioned to the mural behind them.
To
me, there was nothing different. It was like every other painting
hung around the school. The girls murmured in a language I didn’t
understand, bowing their heads to the seven men and women painted
above.
Danielle
lifted the quill in the air and their murmurs grew louder. A layer of
sweat coated my palm and my leg began to jitter. Without anyone
touching it, the quill floated to Beth. She sucked in a breath as the
tip pressed into her skin. The scent of burning flesh rose into the
air, as did smoke…from her. Ohmigosh.
The quill was carving words into her skin.
It
didn’t take long. Less than a minute later, Beth held her arm out
and spelled in blood was the name, BEAUTY.
Shut.The.Front.Door.
The
quill danced from arm to arm, spelling out their
identities—Cinderella, Jasmine, Tinkerbell, Ariel, Beauty. Each
girl took the pain as if they deserved it, as if it marked them as
the person they’d soon become. Afterward, pride washed over their
tired, pained eyes.
“We
suffer unpleasantries to show our creators love and appreciation. And
now, you will, as they are the author of your life too, Norah. Today,
you’ll learn your true identity. This identity will be your new
life. Today, you become reborn.”
Reborn?
This sounded like some freaky cult religion BS.
Danielle
stepped off the pedestal and walked toward me, the quill laying flat
over her palms. No way. No way I’d let her get close to me with
that thing.
Before
I had the chance to move, the two guards near the door advanced
toward me. Their strong hands forced me down in the seat. My throat
tensed, like a large golf ball was lodged inside. This wasn’t
happening.
“It’ll
only hurt for a second, Norah.” A devious grin wiped over
Danielle’s withered lips. “We own the blood to our creators.”
“Yeah,
but I don’t do blood well…or pain, so we need to…”
The
quill leapt from her hand, taking on a life of its own. Unable to
register its speed, the tip punctured my skin. I yelped and thrashed
up, but the guards were stronger, holding me firm in the seat. Tears
seeped from my eyes. The needle tore through my flesh, burning me
like a fiery branding iron. The tip traveled, tracing different
letters into my skin. A shriek soared from my mouth, a sound so
unfamiliar to me, but so was blood darker than I’d seen in my life,
pouring from the trail left behind.
The quill left, but
the writing didn’t stop. The letters came and went, changing like
the symbols of a slot machine. The faster they changed the more the
pain increased. My teeth gritted together, a string of curse words
flowed from my lips. Panting, I tried to grasp for air, but I
couldn’t. The left side of my face numbed. The rusty taste of blood
seeped into my mouth when I chewed on my bottom lip, praying for the
pain to end.
And
it did, like a clock striking twelve, everything froze. My vision
blurred, swaying back and forth. Voices hummed like a train far, far
away. The people who once held me back were gone. I gasped for a
breath and stared at my arm. Nothing.
No name, no words, zilch.
And don't forget, it's never too late to volunteer some of your own Epic writings. Contact me at amclites@gmail.com.
