Snow White - Sinisterised by Lauren Whitmore.
Power is something that even the most unusual person wishes to attain; to have the power to speak and for people to listen, to buy the finest clothing and still have enough gold to buy long elegant drapes for every room in the abode and still live in comfort.
Some are lucky enough to be born with power within their chubby, moist hands, while others slave away until their bones are lain into the cold, cold ground to get even the slightest respect and riches. That is the only reason for life; for jobs. No person has spent their entire life at just one job, and no person has never met up with their friends and said how much fun their job was.
They work like ants; look like them too, scurrying to and fro between the houses, milling in their numbers over the land and infesting everything they touch with their contaminating illnesses.
They should be locked away in a zoo, the key thrown into the murkiest sea, but then those atop the highest rung of the ladder shall have no support, and shall fall unmercilessly to the ground, arriving at the ant's own level, on the dirt and below the sky.
How many are needed to run a castle, a kingdom? One. How many to work for that one person? Hundreds, possibly thousands of ants, just within the walls of Royalty, to cook and clean, give advice and spread news. Every single day is filled with hushed gossip, low bows, curtsies, pleas for forgiveness, even the odd ant who has the nerve to suck-up like a leech. But whom, in the entire land, would imagine that on of these ants, these creatures, is the 'fairest of them all'?
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Her hair as black as coal, her skin as pale as snow... Go forth into the forest with this axe, sharpened to cut the hardest of materials, and hack off that head. Leave the body where it falls; the grass she sat upon shall be splattered in her rich red blood, the animals she frolicked with shall have the nevereding scent of decay and salty smell of her life plastered into their nostrils.
Bring it to me, bring the head. Use this box; spare no trailing veins or the tip of her sliced-off spine, and bring it back, with haste. Then the Mirror will see who the fairest of all is.
A harsh wind blows a navy cloak backwards, as it tries to retreat into the bowels of the dark tower, but a pair of dark eyes remain, holding it firm, still as man and horse race from the gate, toward the distant shadows of the horizon. A dark cloud settles over head and lets out a low rumble, shaking the battlements. Speed to your steed, and wind to steer your path… Do not disappoint.
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At last, the box. The red velvet covering ripples in silent excitement as it is placed on the table, the latch trembling as shaking fingers reach for it. A cough. Leave now. A small purse of money is tossed to the pale faced man, his head bowed. His arm reaches forth and the brown bag vanishes. Leave. His footsteps echo down the stone hall, then silence. At last.
The latch resumes trembling and red painted nails probe it gently, stroking the small indentations along the edges. The box is lifted; a sigh blown onto the red velvet. It tilts, one way then another, hands relishing in the heaviness of the weight and the dull thud that accompanies each angle.
The Mirror unfoggs as the box approaches, a white mask peers up in apprehension. A curled smile on deep red lips and the velvet is stroked. The box flexes against the hand like a lonely cat, and the latch redies itself as the fingers hold it, more determination in their tips. Mirror. The face glances from the box. Who is the fairest once more? The glass mists over, and shows the girl once more, the last image of her fully-bodied dark eyes had stared at with brute envy. Another curled smile, more intense with please. Mirror, where is she now?
The face appears on the picture, silent, with its eyes staring with awakening horror at the box. The latch shivers beneath the warm fingers as they tense, ready to lift it into the air. Whom now, magic Mirror, is the fairest...?
A creak, and the lid is lifted. The face vanishes into the blackness of the mirror with a terrible howl, disturbing the crows resting in the shadows. With terrified croaks and caws, they swoop by the box, heading out the window as lightning cracks against the land, cutting a sharp line through the dark air.
A laugh, sinister and filled with revenge, breaks the momentary silence between crows and sky. Black hair fills the box and the fingers that had once captured the latch, dug deeply into the messy hair, lifting it high over the box as it is blotched with spatters of blood.
A head, rich red lips parted, eyes already dilated, severed half-way across the neck with arteries and veins dangling, screams silently with every facial muscle creased. The pale skin was speckled with small flecks of skin glued to the face by the dried blood, and the girl's mouth dribbled in the left corner with the last remaining amount of her saliva falling to the cold stone floor.
Another laugh, followed by another, filling the air with the sound of victory as the head is reflected in the mirror, two identical faces, dribbling with blood, staring into each other's lifeless eyes, exchanged screams of agony.
So, Mirror, who indeed is the fairest of them all?...