Cynthia Der Ella pulled off her rubber gloves and took a step back. Running a cleaning company in any magical realm was a challenge but in Fairyland… well, no one had yet written the book, had they? From composting bean husks, to sweeping up gingerbread debris through clearing up after rufus-related wind damage and oat-caked orsines, the stories may differ but the consequent messes were a constant.
Take today and those bloody trolls. Most normal countries were happy with passports and visas for non-indigenous entrants. Fairyland preferred trolls and narrow bridges. Yes, there were some similarities. Stamps, for instance though visas tended to be two dimensional whereas a troll’s stamp might end up with something three dimensional being converted into two dimensions. Especially if the questions were incorrectly answered. So many body parts, so few reconstructionist magicians. She’d need a bigger furnace.
She unfurled her diary scroll. As she did so ink emerged from the parchment. The appointments had updated themselves and her ten o’clock with the Fairy Godmother had been moved again. She sighed. The amount of debris that woman accumulated after one of her shape shifting sessions beggared belief.
Instead of the usual address for this weekend’s clean up, this one was a cave in the Misty mountains. Not that there was much mist these days what with the king’s edict on reducing cauldron usage for a more emission-lite, free-spelling approach, the royal entourage going charm-neutral in January and the eco-witches substituting Seed of Apple for Wing of Bat in all potion recipes.
Cyn packed a bag and headed out. She wondered what would have happened if she’d accepted the FG’s offer of a different internship back in the day. The Uglis weren’t the easiest employers but they understood a focused cleaning structure. Goodness how close had she come to giving in to those gilded coach blandishments, and that silver maned team of four nearly had her slipping on the frock. If the FG hadn’t been so full of herself and offered up glass slippers instead of the de rigeur DMs she might have gone. Glass slippers, indeed. Everyone knew Charming might look and prance like a prince but he danced like a discarded fridge.
And when it became clear the old bat had used pumpkins and mice, it was clear Cyn had dodged a bullet.
Now she ran the Sistas Cleaning Corps, made more gold than the wand repairer and was stepping out with Snow. Hell, even digging out the effluent from the Grinch’s hibernatorium was better than a life of crustless sandwiches and corsets that would have been her lot in the palace.
Yes, siree. Cyn der Ella had made her own fairytale. She didn’t need no hubristic ancient fairy or a despotic inbred royal for her happy ending.
Though, from the smell of it, some better nose plugs wouldn’t go amiss….
This week’s #writephoto prompt is