The Bluestocking 2022-23

Dylan Adler | Grade 10 Cinderella’s BEWARE

It was so easy. The lies spelled from red lips, the toss of meticulously curled auburn hair, a lowering of the eyes in dreadful sympathy. I had been in a pub, nursing my losses as I watched the watered-down amber swirl in the chipped, sticky glass. My daughters? Who knows where. A man slumped down at the bar two seats down, saggy face mottled red, stubble cling ing to layers of fat. His straw hat was pulled down, clothes frayed. He was rubbing his temples, eyes downcast. He stank. A farmer, possibly? From out in the country, yes. The bartender slammed down a frothing glass in front of him, next to the empty three. I watched out of the corner of my eye in disgust as he drank deeply, a dribble escaping. He breathed heavily as he clutched it to his chest. “––so terrible. She’s a wonderful wife.” The bartender nodded, shaking his head mournfully. “How much time do they say she has left?” “...Few weeks, but one look at ‘er and you know she won’t even make it another. Awful, awful thing.” “And the daughter?” “Won’t leave ‘er side. Sweet girl.” Attention piqued, I leaned forward, smiling generously as I cleared my throat. The man glanced up from his glass, shifting his bloodshot eyes toward mine. I widened my eyes slightly, hoping my makeup wasn’t ruined. “Do not tell me you are talking about––” “Lord Tremaine,” the man blubbered. And there it was. Click. A target. Sparkling, surrounded by golden lights flashing flashing.

And all I needed to do was to nock the arrow. This man hasn’t realized it, but he has set the trap.

If he had any thought for this man, he would not have told this woman––this crea ture––the name. He would have warned the man. He would’ve helped somehow. Something.

But it was too late. It was just too good.

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