Wednesday, September 28, 2011


Rumplestiltskin - The Epilogue
By Natasha Cabot

Rumplestiltskin tossed his empty bottle of whiskey into the corner of the wall, where it shattered in a million pieces and rained down upon the dirt floor.

That blonde bitch cheated me out of what was mine, after all I’d done for her, he thought.

He went to the cabinet for a new bottle of scotch and opened it, taking a long chug and wiping his mouth with his dirty, ripped sleeve. The bell on his hat jangled morosely.

“I was supposed to have that child! That child should have been mine!” screamed the angry imp, tears forming in his grotesquely mutated eyes.

He remembered that day in the dungeon when the miller’s daughter had promised him her first-born. She was facing execution when he appeared to her. She was terrified. She wept. She prayed. Her father told the king she could spin hay into gold…a corn-fed alchemist, she was. The miller lied! He lied to the king. No human being can weave straw into gold. Not one. Being a kind and sensitive imp, Rumplestiltskin took pity upon the blonde beauty with the big blue eyes and giant breasts. He gave her the power to turn straw into gold and all he received in return was broken promises. In the end, she got a crown, a king, and kept the baby and he received nada.

“I have nothing,” he whined into the air. “I am alone.”

Rumplestiltskin puked and fell to the ground, passing out for the eighth time that week. When he came to, he felt the dry vomit on his cheek and went to the bathroom to wash it off. He looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes reddened by drink and fury. His pathetic visage stared back at him.

“All I wanted was to be a dad. All I wanted to do was to care for someone. To hold a child, raise it, and give it love. I can’t have children of my own. She can have others. She’s such a selfish bitch.”

He splashed the cold water on his face and dried off with a towel that was hanging on a nearby rack. He flicked out the light and went into the living room and sat on the sofa. He turned on the television; the news would soon be on. He turned it to the sports channel instead. It was playoff season and there were a million games from which to choose. Besides, the breaking news was that the queen was expecting another child and he didn’t want to be reminded of what could have been.

He lit a cigarette and sat in the dark, with only the television providing light. He blew smoke rings and looked out of his window. He had a perfect view of the palace. All the lights were on and the festive sounds of celebration wafted down the valley and into his ears.

”She has everything and I have nothing. I’ll never help out anyone else ever again,” he promised himself, taking a long drag off his cigarette and washing it down with scotch. “Never again,” he promised himself as he wiped away a tear and dreamt about unobtainable fatherhood.

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Natasha Cabot is a Vancouver-based Canadian writer who has been published in numerous journals, likes odd things, owls, and writing. She has a BA in English Literature that has proven to be useless in pursuit of high-paying employment. Her advice to you is don't get a BA in English Literature unless you are going to teach.


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