This week’s prompt is
Princess Petticoat folded her arms a fraction more tightly and pouted. Her mother, Queen Bustle would have been proud of that pout. Schooling her at home had moulded a suitable Royal heir: petulant, entitled, sleek and disobliging. The Minister for Gifting, Tim Idli-pathetic applied a grade three cringe to his already glowing unctuousness and waited. It wouldn’t be long. Any moment and…
‘A sodding door? Are you serious? Do you really want to be the first eviseration in the next fairytale, you wholly unworthy toad?’
So conditioned was the Minister to avoid even the merest scintilla of a hint of negativity that his head nodded itself while what was left of his own mind contemplated his chances of making the taxi rank before some regiment of Royal Archers stippled his spleen. Not large and even the effort would be terminal.
‘I think you’ll find, your glowing loveliness that this door is exceptionally perfect for one such as yourself.’
‘In what magical kingdom are Fairy Princesses gifted a door for their birthday?’
‘You father…’ The Minister quailed as the previously immobile heir loomed above him.
‘Do not,’ the hiss had more than a little serpent in its consonants, ‘bring Daddy into this. He would never… NEVER… countenance such an insult.’
Tim noted, not for the first time the continued dominance of the Wicked Queen’s mitochondria in the Princess’ gene pool and promised that, if he survived he’d reactivate his membership of the Fairy Kingdom’s Eugenics Society. He hinged lower, looking up at Her Royal Sneeriness from a position of base abjectness. ‘You always said you enjoyed opening your presents so this…’
Tim swallowed, even though that was difficult with the Royal Grippage playing knead-the-dough with his epiglottis.
‘That’s because the presents are so bloody trivial. Do you have any idea how let down I feel? I want… demand something with substance, with real teeth to it.’
Fortunately for Tim, his inability to breathe, let alone determine whether this last question needed an answer or was dangerously rhetorical rended him momentarily mute. He finally managed a ‘So you said…’
This seemed sufficient for Petticoat to release the quailing nave. To her, rhetorical was the Wise Man in Gone With The Wind. Her Petulancy grasped the door handle.
As she yanked it open, she looked at the pool of human ectoplasm and growled, ‘This better be good.’
Because she wasn’t looking, and her genetic line had evolved a instinctual deafness, she failed both the see and hear what was behind the door. However, she couldn’t fail to feel the gloopy sticky gunk of drool as it covered her from primped hair to perfect pedicure. ‘What the actual flip?’
What the actual flip was was an enormous hound of granite jaw, penetrating gaze and slathering saliva. And teeth. Unconscionable regiments of needle sharp enamel more likely to be found on beaches to deter invasion than in a canine jaw. To anyone with less self certainty than Petticoat, the apparition would have been terrifying in all its blood-chilling tackiness. The Princess, however saw something akin to a kindred spirit in that misunderstood malevolence. Something to be moulded to her well.
‘Daddy understands,’ she purred as she turned to Tim, her face a picture of impatience. ‘Well?’
Tim, who’d been led to believe the present would be a surprise was indeed shaken. He looked disbelievingly at the royal personage. She should be terrified, cowed but her icy sangfroid chilled him to the substructure of his core. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s a doll.’
‘I assume you’ve come prepared.’
‘Prepared?’ What could she want. An iron halter? A steel harness? Perhaps a strong sedative?
And that will probably be that for the Xmas period as I recharge some blogging batteries. I’ll no doubt post the odd thing as and when but to my loyal band of a dozen or so readers may you enjoy the festive season of your dreams.