This was birthed from a fairytale retelling workshop I attended. Organized by the brilliant Saraswathi Sukumar, it prompted writers to rethink Cinderella and the story’s held beliefs.
Golden glimmering, shimmering shoes. Pointed slippers of gems, of stone, of priceless minerals. Nothing compares to their shine, their alluring aura of prestige.
But they are bloodied, can’t you see? Smell the metallic iron on the wind.
They are desperation. The unending lengths at which we agonize to please.
They are shackles, not shoes. Hard and unyielding, they anchor you to a life in chains before you unveil the truth.
They were forged in a dark place, a cold place. Wait. Forges are hot, aren’t they? Forged in a hot place. A fiery place. And yet, a cold and dark place. Despite the pressing fire, the blazing flame, the sweat on the brow of the figures at work. Little fae enslaved by the things that bind us all.
Power and Wealth. Because those born into the position to subjugate, subjugate.
They make trinkets, these fae. Shiny, glimmering, shimmering things that catch the eye and draw the hand. Suffocating piles of trinkets that pool on belts moving with the chains of time. The trinkets plop into barrels and whisk away throughout the lands.
Sold in markets and fairs. Placed in forests and fields. Hidden in cubbies and corners.
This trinket is a slipper pair, the one we’re so focused on. There is magic in these little slippers. They were crafted by fae, after all. But it is a cold and dark magic. Born of sorrow and servitude, they give only what they are in return.
These golden glimmering, shimmering shoes balance on the branches of a hazel tree. Waiting for an unsuspecting figure to cry out for
Power and Wealth.
Cinderella, they call her. The girl that so unfortunately cried out under the hazel tree. Aschenputtel, they call her. A dirty name made bright and clean by the twist of time and influence.
They never utter her true name because this stained name suits what they want her to be. It suits what they want you to be, too, when you think about it.
Put on the dress and crown and the glimmering, shimmering shoes and pretend you are Cinderella. Pretend that paradise and prestige are a fairy tale that only they can make true. We don’t need names when we wear the shoes. When we flow into the mold they make for us, we are Cinderella, too.
Anna - this is simply beautiful! Teared up towards the end. It is haunting and powerful - particularly that final paragraph, which I can’t stop re-reading.
Love the way you have drawn from the Grimm version - bringing in her German name. You’ve built this whole world and atmosphere, weaving words together beautifully and poetically. I get a sense of Tolkien when I read this. Anna, I think you have the beginnings of a novel here, if you wanted to develop this further. Keep going, keep writing and I can’t wait to read more of your work!
Sara