More than once, Manley saw the Bigfoot prints in the woods behind his apartment complex and wondered who was mocking him. He wasn't taken seriously within his field, which wasn't itself taken seriously. One day he glimpsed a furry skulking someone, and he leaped from his low balcony to pursue the miscreant. Never minding his bare feet, he soon had the brute trapped against a garden wall. Manley broke off a handy tree branch and looked for the least padded parts of the costume.
Only it wasn't a costume.
"It's really you." Manley reached for his phone. "Oh, man." He hadn't forgotten to put his phone in his pants pocket, but he had forgotten to put the pants on. "I wish I had a camera. I wish they could see me now. I wish you could tell me where you've been all my life, you beautiful creature, you bed of roses, you -- "
"No," said the creature. "Not beautiful."
Backing into a quaking aspen, Manley dropped his stick. It wasn't just that it spoke. It was that it spoke like a woman.
"And no roses. The only flowers that grow here are the kinds with eyes. See for yourself." Her hairy hand tugged him through a gate he hadn't noticed. "Daisy, Marguerite, and of course black-eyed Susan."
Hundreds of blooms answering to these names winked their single eyes at Manley.
"I...should really be..."
But when he tried to leave, the gate only embraced him. He attempted to scale the wall, but the bricks took turns poking out to nuzzle him and keep him unbalanced.
"Looks like you have to stay." His hostess didn't quite manage to sound sad about that.
Manley looked at her sensible eyes and natural padding and decided not to be afraid. She was, if not exactly gentle, at least too well fed to need to eat him any time soon.
In the middle of the walled garden was a cottage. "And we've all been looking for you out in the wilds."
"You never thought to search for a monster inside?"
"Not a monster. A cryptid, that's what you are. It means, um..."
"Something hidden?"
"That's right! Note to self: B. is highly intelligent. You don't mind if I call you -- I mean, do you have a name?"
She shrugged. "Just B. Just be. B. sounds good to me."
"I'm Manley, by the way. And you've been living here the whole time?" Forgetting himself, he led the way into the cottage.
"Since it happened, anyway."
"Since what happened?"
"The magic, naturally."
The man of pseudoscience said, "I don't believe in magic. I suppose as an idea it served a purpose in the Dark Ages. But we're living in an enlightened new world." He pretended not to notice that the butterfly wings papering every wall reacted to this by rolling their eye spots. "I have so many questions for you."
"It's nice of you to take an interest."
"Not at all. Believe me, my notoriously camera-shy friend, anyone would be interested."
"May I ask you a question, Manley?"
"Of course."
"Could you be in love with me?"
"You're very intelligent, so you know that wouldn't be a good idea."
He was always prepared for this kind of thing. (Well, not this exact kind of thing.) He was a very good-looking guy, and he made an excellent first impression. Just look at the way so many conventionally beautiful (and beautifully conventional) women over the years had been proud to be seen with him, at least until their friends found out what he did for a living. (It never seemed to get far enough for their families to matter.)
"Now, tell me. Are there others like you?"
"I am quite alone."
He nodded. "I figured."
Manley intended to get her measurements, but he forgot all about that once they got on the fascinating topic of her dreams.
"Are you sure you're not in love with me?" she asked.
"You're very good, but only bad could come of it."
He meant to interrogate her about her diet, but then he heard her sing and asked, "Do you dance?"
"Maybe. I guess. Yes."
"Well, please do," said Manley, settling back to watch.
"Why aren't you in love with me?"
"You're very kind, but I am not your kind."
She opened a storybook and began to read. Manley was about to interrupt in order to ask certain burning questions about her hygiene routine when he heard her laugh. Suddenly the one thing he most had to know was if she was ticklish. He knew one way to find out! He stopped himself just in time, horrified by his own wiggling fingers.
He said, "Why are you reading that nonsense? Those stories only give you the wrong ideas about, well, what is even possible."
B. looked up from her book with a frown. "The literature is very big on kisses."
Manley shrank behind a screen of peacock feathers and could not meet their eyes.
She shook her head. "I don't see how that could be applied to me, though. I don't believe I was ever a princess, and I'm sure I was never beautiful."
"We are in complete agreement."
"When will you be in love with me?"
"You are very special to me, and I would especially hate to ruin what we have."
She sighed. "Don't let the mirror hit you on the way out."
"I'm sorry?"
She pointed to a door.
He opened it to reveal a curtain. He pushed this aside and found blinds. He pulled the cord and saw a mirror. "Ah." He gazed at himself (and who can blame him?), relieved to see that he hadn't changed at all.
"Look, you're a great guy, but this isn't going to work."
"Wait, you're getting rid of me?"
He was back on his balcony. He picked up his binoculars but could spot nothing more exotic than yellow monkey-flower. No monsters. No magic.
(And still no pants.)
After a long shower, he got dressed up to go out and celebrate his return to the land of facts. A fact he had always thought horse-faced was now seen to be quite attractive. He got into conversation with a plain fact and wasn't in the least surprised when they were joined by her handsome husband. The lucky guy. A beautiful fact asked Manley to dance, but he wasn't interested. He was so exhausted by adventure, or so bored by the sudden lack of it, that he went home quite early and quite alone. That night he dreamt, not of facts, but of magical B.
Wasn't she, after all, the one he had spent his life searching for?
In the morning, the path of his headlong pursuit was easily retraced. The garden gate groaned open. "B.?"
Then he saw her. "B.!"
Stretched out among the flowers, she did not move.
Daisy said, "Don't just stand there. Kiss her, you fool!"
Manley planted a fervent kiss on B.'s sloping brow.
Marguerite said, "Kiss her for real! Or at least like you mean it."
Manley made an awkward bob and pressed his screwed-up lips to the side of B.'s protruding jaw.
Susan said, "Kiss her long and kiss her hard. Who said this would be easy?"
Manley pecked the general vicinity of B.'s liplessness.
The Daisys and Marguerites and Susans began to shed sad petals. The young ones had been so sure he was going to turn into a prince at the last minute and make everything all right.
"Third time was supposed to be the charm," Manley said weakly.
On the other side of the wall, a Sitka spruce muttered to some bearberry, which complained to a few hovering blooms of Indian potato, who whispered to a maidenhair fern, who called: "Three is kind of an old-world number for such an enlightened new-world gent as yourself. Well, come on, what are you waiting for?"
Four? Four was a magic number? He was getting another chance? Manley raised his head. "You are my kind, in every way that ought to matter to me. I -- I will be in love with you!" He couldn't see through his tears, which doubtless helped his mouth meet B.'s in a thoroughly irrational (and irrationally thorough) kiss.
From the windows of the cottage flew elaborate formations of wings of butterflies and tails of peacocks and books of stories. They whipped around the garden with all of the Daisys and Marguerites and Susans (now tossing petals like confetti) until they were dizzy. Eventually they all fluttered away to frolic with the maidenhair ferns and monkey-flowers, and the gate at long last eloped with the wall.
When Manley and B. finally opened their eyes, all of the magic had gone. And Manley saw he'd been kissing someone who looked (it must be faced) quite ordinary. Undeniably, unbeautifully, unenchantingly ordinary. Just plain happily ever ordinary.
Only it wasn't a costume.
"It's really you." Manley reached for his phone. "Oh, man." He hadn't forgotten to put his phone in his pants pocket, but he had forgotten to put the pants on. "I wish I had a camera. I wish they could see me now. I wish you could tell me where you've been all my life, you beautiful creature, you bed of roses, you -- "
"No," said the creature. "Not beautiful."
Backing into a quaking aspen, Manley dropped his stick. It wasn't just that it spoke. It was that it spoke like a woman.
"And no roses. The only flowers that grow here are the kinds with eyes. See for yourself." Her hairy hand tugged him through a gate he hadn't noticed. "Daisy, Marguerite, and of course black-eyed Susan."
Hundreds of blooms answering to these names winked their single eyes at Manley.
"I...should really be..."
But when he tried to leave, the gate only embraced him. He attempted to scale the wall, but the bricks took turns poking out to nuzzle him and keep him unbalanced.
"Looks like you have to stay." His hostess didn't quite manage to sound sad about that.
Manley looked at her sensible eyes and natural padding and decided not to be afraid. She was, if not exactly gentle, at least too well fed to need to eat him any time soon.
In the middle of the walled garden was a cottage. "And we've all been looking for you out in the wilds."
"You never thought to search for a monster inside?"
"Not a monster. A cryptid, that's what you are. It means, um..."
"Something hidden?"
"That's right! Note to self: B. is highly intelligent. You don't mind if I call you -- I mean, do you have a name?"
She shrugged. "Just B. Just be. B. sounds good to me."
"I'm Manley, by the way. And you've been living here the whole time?" Forgetting himself, he led the way into the cottage.
"Since it happened, anyway."
"Since what happened?"
"The magic, naturally."
The man of pseudoscience said, "I don't believe in magic. I suppose as an idea it served a purpose in the Dark Ages. But we're living in an enlightened new world." He pretended not to notice that the butterfly wings papering every wall reacted to this by rolling their eye spots. "I have so many questions for you."
"It's nice of you to take an interest."
"Not at all. Believe me, my notoriously camera-shy friend, anyone would be interested."
"May I ask you a question, Manley?"
"Of course."
"Could you be in love with me?"
"You're very intelligent, so you know that wouldn't be a good idea."
He was always prepared for this kind of thing. (Well, not this exact kind of thing.) He was a very good-looking guy, and he made an excellent first impression. Just look at the way so many conventionally beautiful (and beautifully conventional) women over the years had been proud to be seen with him, at least until their friends found out what he did for a living. (It never seemed to get far enough for their families to matter.)
"Now, tell me. Are there others like you?"
"I am quite alone."
He nodded. "I figured."
Manley intended to get her measurements, but he forgot all about that once they got on the fascinating topic of her dreams.
"Are you sure you're not in love with me?" she asked.
"You're very good, but only bad could come of it."
He meant to interrogate her about her diet, but then he heard her sing and asked, "Do you dance?"
"Maybe. I guess. Yes."
"Well, please do," said Manley, settling back to watch.
"Why aren't you in love with me?"
"You're very kind, but I am not your kind."
She opened a storybook and began to read. Manley was about to interrupt in order to ask certain burning questions about her hygiene routine when he heard her laugh. Suddenly the one thing he most had to know was if she was ticklish. He knew one way to find out! He stopped himself just in time, horrified by his own wiggling fingers.
He said, "Why are you reading that nonsense? Those stories only give you the wrong ideas about, well, what is even possible."
B. looked up from her book with a frown. "The literature is very big on kisses."
Manley shrank behind a screen of peacock feathers and could not meet their eyes.
She shook her head. "I don't see how that could be applied to me, though. I don't believe I was ever a princess, and I'm sure I was never beautiful."
"We are in complete agreement."
"When will you be in love with me?"
"You are very special to me, and I would especially hate to ruin what we have."
She sighed. "Don't let the mirror hit you on the way out."
"I'm sorry?"
She pointed to a door.
He opened it to reveal a curtain. He pushed this aside and found blinds. He pulled the cord and saw a mirror. "Ah." He gazed at himself (and who can blame him?), relieved to see that he hadn't changed at all.
"Look, you're a great guy, but this isn't going to work."
"Wait, you're getting rid of me?"
He was back on his balcony. He picked up his binoculars but could spot nothing more exotic than yellow monkey-flower. No monsters. No magic.
(And still no pants.)
After a long shower, he got dressed up to go out and celebrate his return to the land of facts. A fact he had always thought horse-faced was now seen to be quite attractive. He got into conversation with a plain fact and wasn't in the least surprised when they were joined by her handsome husband. The lucky guy. A beautiful fact asked Manley to dance, but he wasn't interested. He was so exhausted by adventure, or so bored by the sudden lack of it, that he went home quite early and quite alone. That night he dreamt, not of facts, but of magical B.
Wasn't she, after all, the one he had spent his life searching for?
In the morning, the path of his headlong pursuit was easily retraced. The garden gate groaned open. "B.?"
Then he saw her. "B.!"
Stretched out among the flowers, she did not move.
Daisy said, "Don't just stand there. Kiss her, you fool!"
Manley planted a fervent kiss on B.'s sloping brow.
Marguerite said, "Kiss her for real! Or at least like you mean it."
Manley made an awkward bob and pressed his screwed-up lips to the side of B.'s protruding jaw.
Susan said, "Kiss her long and kiss her hard. Who said this would be easy?"
Manley pecked the general vicinity of B.'s liplessness.
The Daisys and Marguerites and Susans began to shed sad petals. The young ones had been so sure he was going to turn into a prince at the last minute and make everything all right.
"Third time was supposed to be the charm," Manley said weakly.
On the other side of the wall, a Sitka spruce muttered to some bearberry, which complained to a few hovering blooms of Indian potato, who whispered to a maidenhair fern, who called: "Three is kind of an old-world number for such an enlightened new-world gent as yourself. Well, come on, what are you waiting for?"
Four? Four was a magic number? He was getting another chance? Manley raised his head. "You are my kind, in every way that ought to matter to me. I -- I will be in love with you!" He couldn't see through his tears, which doubtless helped his mouth meet B.'s in a thoroughly irrational (and irrationally thorough) kiss.
From the windows of the cottage flew elaborate formations of wings of butterflies and tails of peacocks and books of stories. They whipped around the garden with all of the Daisys and Marguerites and Susans (now tossing petals like confetti) until they were dizzy. Eventually they all fluttered away to frolic with the maidenhair ferns and monkey-flowers, and the gate at long last eloped with the wall.
When Manley and B. finally opened their eyes, all of the magic had gone. And Manley saw he'd been kissing someone who looked (it must be faced) quite ordinary. Undeniably, unbeautifully, unenchantingly ordinary. Just plain happily ever ordinary.
*
Shannon Anthony's short fiction publications include fairy tale themed works in Kaleidotrope and Tales from the Moonlit Path.
The image, which we have altered, was originally by Carlos Schwabel.
1 comments:
This is a very interesting and original spin on a well-known tale. I think perhaps the most interesting aspect is the gender reversal of the main characters (not ironically his name is “Manley”). A female beast at first appears oxymoronic, as the typical fairy tale female usually takes the form of a beautiful princess. Such opposition of elements made the character hard to imagine, but nevertheless gave a unique twist not seen elsewhere.
The dialogue is also well written and entertaining. Setting it in the modern day and framing the beast as some sort of urban legend or “bigfoot” gave the story a different tone, almost a whimsical one. In addition, his forgetting his pants and the flowers egging him on to kiss B. more and more added humor and entertainment to the piece. Interestingly, as its down-to-earth setting would imply, this tale ends “happily-ever-ordinary,” quite different from the original tale.
Andrew S.
Post a Comment