Writing Pilates

As the hooded farmers pushed their lumpy wagon toward the castle walls, Bosomella hovered near the balcony peeking past the smooth rock down down toward the glint of blades beneath their plain brown cloaks. And then rising slowly from below, like the cloying mist off the clumberslurch swamp came the soft hiss of chanting. Miss Borka turned suddenly pale and clutched at her leg and Bosomella knew that the time had come. Her mistress would never allow the fairy to warn the prince about the farmers/monks, no matter how well armed and lumpy. Not after his dog had snatched her new leg. And so despite a great wash of shame Bosomella fled.

Past the hunting hound gnawing Miss Borka’s leg amidst a pile of shortcake in the main hall, down two twisty corridors and one long flight of stairs, and into the Prince’s solar, where he sat staring at the bobby pens that Miss Borka had left behind in her flight. Why did it have to be bobby pins, they could fit any number of girls, at least Cinderella had had the decency of leaving a slipper. But Bosomella knew that her mistress would snatch her back with a word at any moment and so rather than going with a calm respectful bow and dialogue, she flew into the solar screeching at the top of her little lungs. “The Monks are at the gate! Aaaaaaaaaah! Did you hear me the monks, floating monks, gate, SWORDS, SHINY SHINY THING UNDER TARP, AT THE GATE!

And then Miss Borka must have called upon her rights as the little fairy’s owner for Bosomella felt a sickening tug deep in her gut, like a twine tangled in her innards had suddenly been yanked hard, and she snapped out of the room backwards, bumping against walls, up stairs, under tables, over shortcake, through the dogs legs, up over the discarded leg, around a bend, out onto the balcony, and into Miss Borka’s white shaking palm.

But instead of the look of fury that she had expected an expression of abject horror graced her mistresses lovely face. For it was sunset and the floating monks had begun to rise. And Miss Borka, bound to them through the terrible magic that had snatched her legs, was being slowly slowly tugged across the tiled floor, fingernails catching at each stone. They had not come simply for the castle and the royalty that lay within. But for all who had dared to defy them. And the slim girl scrabbling at the stone floor was inked in bold upon that terrible scroll.