Grimm, Grit, and Gasoline, page 5
part #1 of Punked Up Fairy Tales Series
We rolled away, erratically flying down in a forced descent. What was even worse, I saw a crow diving after us, positioning itself for another shot—a fatal one.
The next few seconds felt like hours. The crow’s eyes brightened, and two red torrents of light were hurled towards us. I had a fleeting moment of panic, followed by acceptance. And then… an angel intercepted the shot, only, it wasn’t an immortal being coming to my rescue, it was Odette.
She absorbed the worst of the crow’s discharge and smashed against Reggie. Her inert body slid down the fuselage, disappearing into the sea of clouds.
***
I landed Reggie on the lake’s grassy shore. It’s a miracle we survived such a ludicrous landing, but, to Reggie’s credit, and my eternal gratitude, he didn’t try to stop me.
At that moment, my own survival was secondary. All I cared about was Odette.
I found Odile first. Dead on top of a rock bank. So, my mercy had been for nothing. And then I spotted Odette’s alabaster figure laying still on the gravel. I dashed to her side and fell to my knees, cradling her heaving body in my arms. She was still alive, but not for long.
“Just hold on,” I whispered.
When I’m human, I heal, she had said. She would be all right if she survived until sunrise. But dawn was still hours away.
A tear ran down my face as I went from a state of denial to anger. Why? She was going to die because of me. Because she was trying to protect me. All she had done in our brief acquaintance was save my life, and I could not even return the favor.
“The only way to break the curse is with the heart of a good and honest man,” I repeated Odile’s words. She had found a way to break the curse and used my infatuation with her sister to get close to me. It was my foolishness that would cost Odette her life.
The irony was that I would have willingly ripped out my own heart if it would save Odette’s life. I gave it some serious thought, but I concluded I would die before I could get it out.
Odette’s breaths were becoming sparser. I couldn’t bear it. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, unable to find something more meaningful to say. “Your sister tried to take my heart, but it is you who possess it. Since the first time we met. I—”
I was blinded by an intense glow that enveloped the swan in my arms. She floated away, moved by an invisible force and I was left staring in awe as her body transformed in the air. Unlike the first time I saw her change, this was a smooth, seemingly painless metamorphosis behind a glowing curtain.
When the light subsided, Odette’s human figure emerged and touched ground a few feet in front of me. She closed the gap between us and threw her arms around my neck. Her creamy skin was, once again, unblemished.
“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear.
“What for?”
“Giving me your heart.”
***
Zannier Alejandra grew up in Cochabamba, Bolivia, land of coffee and eternal sunshine. After university, she set out to travel the world and ended up living in London, where both coffee and sun seem to be in short supply. In a past life, Zannier was a credit analyst at an international bank, but traded in her spreadsheets for more creative pursuits. Nowadays, she spends most of her time writing short fiction, watching movies and analyzing TV. She even gets paid for two out of those things on a regular basis.
Her story, The Loch, was inspired by the ballet Swan Lake.
Evening Chorus
Lizz Donnelly
The Nattergalen was lit up every night with the glow of neons and the hum of chatter from the City’s most elegant citizens. Martinis flowed freely and the occasional guest spilled drunkenly into the street. Of all the bars in the city, the Nattergalen was the place to be and be seen. It was owned by a man known only as The Emperor; no one alive remembered him by any other name.
The Nattergalen was famous for being, and owning, the best: every surface gleamed with gold and chrome. The flowers were always real, and rare, the liquor was top shelf, and the cigars were always Cuban, even after the country itself was gone. Still, the thing the Nattergalen was most famous for was the floor show. The Emperor brought in top talent from around the world. The most beautiful songbirds and highest caliber entertainers took the main stage seven nights a week.
One day, a talent scout for The Emperor appeared in his office. “I’ve found her,” the scout said. “I’ve found the best damn singer this lousy city has to offer.”
“When does she start?” The Emperor barely looked up from his paperwork. His hat sat low on his head and his cigarette—Turkish, naturally—was burning in the ashtray, untouched.
The scout hesitated. “That’s the problem, boss. She doesn’t want to work here.”
The Emperor looked up slowly. It had been a long time since someone had told him no. He took a puff of his cigarette, stubbed it out, and stood. “Bring me to her.”
The car that pulled around could hold a small army but only The Emperor and the scout climbed inside. It rumbled, the low diesel mantra of tubers—potato, potato, potato—and shone in the lights of the city. It was a Vanderbuilt Dreamliner, a luxury whale of a car that was already a classic, even though it was brand new. They cruised downtown, across the electromagnetic monorail tracks, the scout giving directions as needed, since no one drove this car except The Emperor himself. The Emperor pushed the button for the mechanical arms to raise the top of the convertible over them. The streets on this side of town were hungrier.
When they finally arrived at the pub, The Emperor nearly missed it. It was an almost literal hole in the wall, iron bars in the windows snaking like vines of a great tree, and dwarfed by the buildings that climbed several stories higher on either side. It looked like it had the weight of the world bearing down on it but still stood firm, short, but strong.
The Emperor sneered as he pulled the car over to the curb. “She sings here?” The scout nodded. “Not for long.”
It was cool and dark in the pub. A dull roar of noise filled the room; the chatter of patrons came in chirps and growls, the clink of glasses and the trickle of taps. The Emperor eased himself into a seat at the bar. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn’t sticky, and in the low light of the pub, no one recognized him. It wasn’t long before he had a drink in his hand and a dim, wobbly spotlight lit up the stage.
She wasn’t much to look at, The Emperor thought. She was a plain woman, with dusty brown hair and dark eyes. Her dress was drab too, a russet brown that she’d clearly been wearing all day while she waited tables and cleaned the kitchen. But when she sang, The Emperor was spellbound. Her voice was clear and sweet; it lilted and whirled through the pub in a melody that he’d never encountered in all his years of entertainment. It was, without a doubt, the finest song he’d ever heard.
The Emperor waited until the pub was closing for the night before he approached the woman. She was putting up the chairs so she could let the VacuBot roam free, so The Emperor strolled across the room and lent a hand.
“I’m not interested,” she said, after glancing up at him.
“You don’t even know what I’m offering.” A smirk tugged at his lips. She was stubborn, he liked that.
“You’re The Emperor,” she said. “I don’t need to know what you’re offering to know that I’m not interested.”
“You have me at a disadvantage then, because I don’t know anything about you.”
The woman sighed and stuck out a tired hand. “Luscinia Meg Arhynchos. Most people just call me Luz. It’s easier.”
The Emperor didn’t need to be told twice. “Luz, you sing beautifully. I don’t need to tell you that.”
“And yet, here you are,” Luz said. “Even after I told your man the other night that I wasn’t interested. I have a pub to run, Emperor, and I don’t have time for fairy tales.”
“Surely the owners can manage without you for a few nights. A two-week, limited run. Give the people what they want and then take it away; it’s the best possible business plan. Leaves them clamoring for more every time.”
“The owners can’t manage without me,” Luz said. “This is my pub.”
“I see,” The Emperor said, wheels turning in his head. Luz eyed him suspiciously. “I have a better deal. A one week engagement. I’ll send someone out here for you to train to run the pub in your absence. You’ll come and sing for a week. At the end, you’re free to go, or stay. Your choice.”
Luz laughed. “I don’t really have a choice here, do I, Emperor?”
He smiled the smile of a man used to getting his way. The deal was set.
A week later found Luz backstage at The Nattergalen. She didn’t have anything remotely suitable to wear to an establishment like The Emperor’s so she had gone in her plain brown dress. The costumer took one look at her and sighed, but there had been no time to find her anything else. She was due onstage.
There was a twitter of laughter from the audience when Luz stepped onto the stage. She nearly disappeared into the shadows at the edges of the spotlight and had none of the glitter and pizzazz they’d come to expect.
Silence reigned as soon as she opened her mouth to sing. The audience sat, stunned, by her song. When she was finished, the applause went off like a bomb. The Nattergalen roared for more, and Luz obliged them with an encore.
News of her amazing voice spread like a gas leak through the city and The Emperor’s establishment was filled to capacity every night. On the last night, Luz was considering The Emperor’s offer of staying on another week, at twice the pay, when a large box was delivered to the backstage.
“What’s in the box, boss?” Someone shouted down the hall and the Emperor’s best talent scout, the one who had ‘discovered’ Luz, materialized at his side.
“You’re going to love this. I had it imported special,” the scout said. Luz watched from the edge of the stage as The Emperor and the scout tore into the box. When the packing material had been cleared away, there was a beautiful woman standing before them. Her skin was a shining, polished chrome, and she wore a tiara encrusted with the rarest of gemstones: sapphires, rubies and emeralds, all real, not synthesized by machines. She stood as tall as Luz, and was dressed in the finest French clothes. Luz felt drab by comparison, but her curiosity got the better of her and she took a few steps closer.
“What am I looking at?” The Emperor asked.
“She’s called a Jenny,” the scout said. “She’s a one of a kind, custom order from the best automaton makers in the world. She sings, boss. All you have to do is wind her up.”
The Emperor walked a slow circle around the Jenny. She was beautiful, all shimmer and shine, an ostentatious elegance that fit into his establishment perfectly. He reached out towards the key in her back, wanting to know if her voice matched her exterior. A shadow caught his eye. Luz stood in the corner, watching the automaton curiously. The Emperor grinned. He had a brilliant idea.
He beckoned Luz closer, a spark of fire in his eye and his lips twisted into a smile that made her want to run away. He turned the key in the automaton’s back. “Tonight, we’ll have a duet.”
The machine woman sprang to life. Her eyes opened to reveal dazzling sapphires at their core, and her silk dress swished against the floor with the barest hint of a whisper. Everyone standing around her, except The Emperor, took a step back.
The Jenny followed Luz onstage that night. The Emperor watched from the wings as the audience took in the sight. A few people in the front of the room gasped, and someone in the back whistled. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the emcee’s voice reverberated through the club. “We have a special treat for you. Fresh from Paris, the latest in artificial intelligence technology, may we introduce you to Jenny, a songbird like no other.”
The audience applauded, eager to hear the machine sing. “For her first trick, a duet with our very own special guest, Luz!”
The lights dimmed. Two incandescent spotlights danced across the stage until they settled on the Jenny and Luz. The Jenny sparkled in the light, while Luz looked washed out and plain beside her. The audience rumbled in anticipation. The Emperor strode onstage, to a smattering of applause, and gave the Jenny one last wind up with her key. Then he flipped the switch and she began to sing.
There was nothing mechanical about her voice. It soared through the club, sweet and clear, with complicated runs and quick little grace notes. Her song was original, and beautiful. The audience was spellbound. Luz stood motionless in her spotlight, watching the Jenny with the same astonishment as the others in the room. After a few moments The Emperor hissed at Luz from offstage.
“Sing!”
She looked at him, startled. He gestured towards her. “Sing.”
Luz didn’t know what she was doing, but she sang. She usually performed alone at the pub, and she did her best to listen to the automaton, but the Jenny was on a set course, a pre-programmed spectacle, and Luz was at a loss. Her harmonies fell flat; she was off key, and out of tempo. The Emperor watched the audience recoil as the song came to a close. Someone in the back booed. Another voice called for a solo from the Jenny.
The Emperor strode onstage again, hands extended, palms out, in a gesture of peace towards the audience. He moved towards the Jenny and began to wind her up again. The audience cheered. When he was finished, he flipped the switch and left the stage, bringing Luz with him. The crowd settled as the Jenny sprang to life again and soon her tune filled the room. It was the same one as before, but the audience didn’t seem to care, or even notice. They were enraptured.
The Emperor turned to Luz and reached into his pocket. He produced an envelope and handed it to her. “Your wages for the week. I think we both know that your services are no longer needed.”
Luz took the envelope of cash without a word and disappeared into the shadows of the club. As the door shut behind her, Luz swore that she would never set foot in The Nattergalen again. The Emperor returned his attention to the Jenny. He’d felt a pang watching Luz disappear, but he quickly shrugged it off.
The Nattergalen’s popularity exploded. If it had been difficult to get into the club before the Jenny arrived, it was absolutely impossible to get in after. The automaton was the talk of the town and even if patrons had seen her before, they were clamoring to see her again. She had only one song, but that didn’t make a difference to the audiences, or The Emperor’s pockets. Every night, after her show, the cries for encore were deafening. The Jenny headlined The Nattergalen night after night, and Luz returned happily to her obscurity, running her pub and singing a song or two most evenings. Her pockets weren’t overflowing, but she had enough, and she preferred her cozy pub to the glitz and pretension of The Nattergalen.
Some years later, backstage at The Nattergalen, The Emperor stood opposite the Jenny. Time had been less than kind to both of them. Under his hat, his hair was a dusty gray, and the lines around his eyes were pronounced. He’d had to retire his beloved Dreamliner the year before. Despite meticulous maintenance, the old thing had simply worn out. The same was true of the Jenny. Her chrome, no matter how much it was polished, had lost some of its shine and the jewels in her hair were scratched and no longer gleamed. A few had even been stolen over the years, and The Emperor had had to replace them with copies. Excellent forgeries, to be sure, but fakes nonetheless. Her eyes were closed, because she hadn’t been wound for the night, and The Emperor patted her shoulder gently as he passed her, knowing she felt nothing.
That night, when he wound her up in front of a packed house, the Jenny coughed and sputtered. Her song came out slow, with the eerie bent notes of a music box that is worn out. The crowd recoiled in horror and her song stuttered to a stop before it reached its conclusion. The audience grumbled loudly.
The Emperor stumbled out of the wings and onto the stage, barely catching himself on his newly acquired cane, in his haste to reach the Jenny. The crowd was restless, some of them were getting up to leave already. He hastily wound the automaton again. Her voice came out a terrible, grating screech, before she ground to a halt. The Jenny had reached the end of her career.
The audience was on its feet now, booing and demanding refunds. The Emperor’s employees descended on him in a panic once he was backstage. He wiped a hand tiredly across his face and in a resigned voice told them to give the people what they wanted, since he couldn’t. His employees were stunned. All the fight had gone out of The Emperor. He looked frail, and old. In the main room the audience was growing rowdy.
“Go,” The Emperor said, with the last bit of authority that he could muster. “Give them their money before they tear the place down.”
His employees did as they were told. Alone backstage, The Emperor stared sadly at the Jenny. Her eyes were open, but her face was void of emotion, as it always had been. She was cool, chrome and collected, and completely finished as a performer or anything other than an obscenely large paperweight. The Emperor could barely remember the entertainers he’d hired before the Jenny. Her single song had filled his head for years and pushed out everything else. He’d been a fool to rely solely on her for so long, and now, it seemed, his folly would be the death of his business. The Emperor, like the Jenny, was obsolete.
The crowd was noticeably smaller the next night, and smaller still the night after. Word spread faster than a bullet monorail and by the end of the week, The Emperor had laid off the bulk of his staff. Only his faithful scout and costumer remained. They drank top shelf liquor long into the night. Finally, The Emperor stood. He shook their hands, gave them the best severance package he could put together, and said his goodbyes. He watched them leave The Nattergalen for the last time, and he locked the door behind them. He knew, from the solemn looks on both their faces, and their reluctance to leave him alone, that they didn’t expect him to last until morning.
The Emperor picked up his cane and set off, slowly, down the street. He caught the last monorail across town for the night, not sure where he was going, but content to wander. His expensive clothes made him a target, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His old feet traced a path that he’d only traveled once before, by car. When The Emperor found himself outside a plain old pub, half hidden by the other buildings, he wasn’t surprised. There were lights on. He let himself in and headed towards the bar.
