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    Twice Upon a Reality
    Twice Upon a Reality
    Twice Upon a Reality
    Ebook163 pages2 hours

    Twice Upon a Reality

    By Erin Lee and Alana Greig

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    About this ebook

    Are you ready to get twisted again? More horrific spins on the classics by bestselling authors Erin Lee and Alana Greig.

    What happens when fairy tales get real?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCrazy Ink
    Release dateApr 26, 2018
    ISBN9781386261261
    Twice Upon a Reality
    Author

    Erin Lee

    Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

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      Book preview

      Twice Upon a Reality - Erin Lee

      Dedication

      For all those don’t believe in fairy tales.

      The world needs your skepticism.

      Authors’ Notes

      Some people say there are two or more sides to every story. They also say the glass is either half full or half empty, depending on how you look at it. We believe them. But we also believe you can always get a smaller glass.

      The new glass is about the only thing we agree on when it comes to fairy tales. The reality is, depending on where you come from, what you’ve seen, and your own life experiences, we all see the world a little differently. Some people believe in fairy tales. Others don’t. We represent both perspectives, but have found common ground.

      Two authors with a shared passion for words and story-telling but very different voices on opposite ends of the big pond, we didn’t know if we could once again pull off a joint project that would do the stories justice. But, as happy endings rarely do, we clicked. We again went our separate ways, played with the words, and then brought them to these pages.

      Join us while we toss a little reality back at the classics again. What happens when fairy tales get real? Well, brave friend, you’re about to find out... And this time, it might get a little messier.

      -  Erin Lee (the realist)

      -  Alana Greig (the believer turned dark)

      Glossary of English Terms

      Pyjamas

      Night wear, top and bottoms.

      Mould

      A hollow container used to give shape to molten or hot liquid material when it cools and hardens

      Entrails

      A person's or animal's intestines or internal organs, especially when removed or exposed.

      Hilt

      The handle of a weapon or tool, especially a sword, dagger, or knife.

      Squire

      A young nobleman acting as an attendant to a knight before becoming a knight himself.

      Tell tale

      A person, especially a child, who reports others' wrongdoings or reveals their secrets.

      Sans

      Middle English: from Old French sanz, from a variant of Latin sine ‘without’,

      Barin

      A child.

      Bonniest

      Attractive or beautiful.

      Based upon the renowned

      Alice in Wonderland

      The original story:

      Alice finds herself falling down a rabbit hole after chasing a white rabbit, while out in the country. This takes her to a place called Wonderland, where logic is tested and flowers talk. Alice makes friends with a phantom cat and finds herself wanted for imagined crimes by the Red Queen. Her tears create an ocean and she’s quizzed by a giant caterpillar. Alice eventually finds her way home, but never forgets her adventures in Wonderland.

      The real deal:

      Cell

      I never wanted this life for myself. No way. I never saw myself living with all women and returning to my tiny, solitary cell for lights out before the night even got started. I wanted a horse, a motorcycle, a convertible, and a man with a hairy chest and big arms. That’s it. And that’s how I saw myself. It was nothing like the way it is now.

      I was a rebellious child. As a teenager, I spent more time in the principal’s office than I did in class. We’d set off explosions in the science lab, and I’d get the call: Lydia Ann. Lydia Ann... Even when I did nothing wrong, I was the first kid they called to pin it on. I didn’t mind. In some ways, to my sneakier friends, it made me a martyr. I had no problem taking the rap for it. I was relatively unselfish like that. Besides, what was a school suspension? Frankly, I had very little use for school at all. But that was then. Now, I’d give anything to be back in a regular classroom with guys who looked at me twice, or at least didn’t stare at me with squinty eyes that say what the hell have you done with your life? I can’t even think about it. I don’t have the answer.

      I return to my cell early. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, plopping down on my sterile, perfectly made cot and try not to break down all over again. I’m meant to be here. I know that I am. That much I am sure of. The best I can do is pray that I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and have that moment I’m sometimes blessed with—the one where I think I’m home. It’s a flash of joy that lasts only until I rub the sleep from my eyes and realize I’m still here. These. Four. Walls. The world out there. Missing it all.

      It still feels like a dream or even a nightmare. My own family still can’t believe I’m here. They only know me as the girl who smoked too much, partied too hard, and never got home before dawn. They can’t figure any of this out, the way I live now. They write to me, sure. I’ve read the letters so many times I’ve memorized them. And I always write back. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I can taste the disappointment in my father’s shaky lettering, which was once so neat and clean. Now, he writes in scratches and asks questions I can’t answer for him. It’s almost as if I can hear him thinking, but why? Why did you have to go and do that, Lydia Ann? There are times I want to write back and ask him when he’s ever agreed with my life choices. Why would he be surprised? Why would he expect anything different? To him, and the rest of them, I never did anything right. Instead, I say nothing. In letters, I focus on life outside.

      I’ll never forget the day that I arrived. They walked me down a long, naked hall, and they stripped me of every possession. Before I arrived, it never occurred to me that I’d have to give up the locket I got from my best friend the year we turned seventeen. To this day, I don’t understand the point of that. Is friendship such a bad thing? I’d thought about my clothes, of course. I mean, everyone knows you can’t wear street clothes in a place like this. Still, it feels like madness: Like I’ve slipped into a rabbit hole, and I’ll never get back up. The hardest part of it is that I’m not sure I want to or if it’d even be possible to go back now.

      The hardest part about my life now is the regimented schedule. To go back to life on the outside might feel overwhelming. I spend all day, every day working at the same mundane assigned tasks, searching for answers and knowing there has to be more to it than this. I keep to myself as much as I can. I have no interest in the drama that goes on with other women in here. It keeps me out of trouble but gets lonely.

      If I could get out of here, the thing I’d love to do most is to spend an entire day on the couch. We get zero down time in here. From 5:30 a.m. until lights out, we are told what to do and how to do it. There are days when I question my sanity, and fluctuate between thinking I’m brainwashed or a zombie robot. And then, of course, I feel guilty. I turned myself in, after all. I’m the one who made the decision to answer the call—I make no excuses for that and can’t say I’m sorry and mean it.

      I shouldn’t complain about it. Things could be worse. I reach for my Bible, one of the only belongings I’m allowed in here. I’ve written my name on the third page in, just to feel like I still have something left. I flip to the first page I’ve folded over and made a mental note of biblical contradiction. "And Jacob begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ. (Matthew 1:16). But: And Jesus himself began to be about thirty years of age, being the son of Joseph which was the son of Heli, (Luke 2:23). Who the heck’s Joseph’s father anyway? What does his handwriting look like? Was he pissed when everyone in town thought he knocked Mary up? Poor guy didn’t even get the chance. Dude didn’t even get to live. Threw away his life the same way I did mine.

      I’m a criminal. I’ve stolen my mother’s dreams of her only daughter ever having children. I’ve taken the joy that comes with being called Nana or Papa from parents who love me in spite of it all. My father will never watch me walk down an aisle. He’ll never get the hairy-chested guy with the Harley parked out on the curb to ask for my hand in marriage. But the funny thing is that I feel worse for myself than I do for him. That’s the worst part of it all. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Of stealing? Yes. But not for doing what I felt was right at the time.

      We make choices. Choices have consequences—like life sentences. Like mine. To go back now would mean throwing away the last four years and saying it—the madness of this place—was all for nothing. Going back isn’t an option anyway. I pull the stiff wool blanket back on my cot and slide into crisp sheets fully dressed. I can’t sleep naked in here. Someone is sure to walk by and they always, always check. A girl down the hall lost her calling privileges for three months just for leaving a light on. It was wasteful they said. I’m telling you, it’s madness.

      How I got here isn’t really as important as knowing I’m doing my time. This cell is starting to stink. Tomorrow, I’ll clean my cell. I don’t want to listen to it about how I’m supposed to live more cleanly or have one of my two showers a week taken away from me. It’s funny, to me, how they are about living clean, but preventing us from the ability to have proper hygiene. Maybe that’s the real reason they don’t allow mirrors in our cells. It’s not so we don’t cut ourselves or hurt one another. It’s so we don’t cut them for taking away our ability to feel human. Here, in that way, we aren’t human anyway and there’s no need to beautify ourselves. I can’t say I don’t miss it.

      Dance clubs. Bars. Having fun with my best friend Suzie, flirting with guys or shopping at the mall. Shoes: I miss them. A closet full of them—in a rainbow

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