Waiting for my Happily Ever After

By Andrew G. Schneider

"Fairytales are real, and they walk among us.

"I should know, I’m one of them. Beauty, mistress of the hundred year nap, the 50 foot ponytail, and the glass slipper two-step, at your service. Chances are, you’ve seen me slinging lattes at the Tale’s End Café, a favorite safe house for us fairy folk since the invention of the camera; since we became inspiration in a can, to be bartered and traded by authors on the black market.

"There should be more to it than that, but it turns out my ever after is only happy enough. I don’t get out much, my job’s only perk is all the free coffee in the world, and the charm has rubbed off my handsome and dashing prince. But I have a plan to turn things around. Tonight is our anniversary, me and the prince. Tonight, we have a date that’s gonna rekindle the old flame. Tonight is going to be page 1 of our new life."

200 years ago, the invention of the camera allowed fairy folk to be trapped, packaged, and sold as bottled creativity. Folk quickly abandoned their magic castles and secret lairs for cities, hoping to blend into the mass of humanity without losing who they are, what makes them special.

Today, relations between mortals and Folk have settled into a delicate detente of hide and seek, catch as catch can. Authors grow fat from Folk labor, and refuge becomes harder to find as technology nibbles at the edges of the world’s mystery. It is a status quo that will end with the disappearance of dreams, when the last Folk vanishes in a flash.

That is, until an accident between Beauty, an empty camera, and a too-pink hubcap margarita changes everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew G. Schneider
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310686627

Andrew G. Schneider

Andrew G. Schneider always wanted to be a wizard when he grew up; now he makes magic with words. In addition to his novels, he is the author/designer of the critically acclaimed RPG, Nocked! True Tales of Robin Hood. When not writing, he hunts the wild dust bunny and makes a mean pot of French onion soup. He lives in Washington, D.C., believes in unicorns, and is married to a wonderful woman who believes in him.

Book preview

Waiting for my Happily Ever After

Tales from a Coffee Shop Princess, Volume 1

By Andrew G. Schneider

Copyright 2015 Andrew G. Schneider

Smashwords Edition

Cover art copyright 2015 Amanda Spaid

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Epilogue

About the Author

Part 1

I’ve been stood up. Again.

Check my watch, check the door. Bob my head in time with the bass banging a reverb through my breastbone, to the arterial pulse of neon down the spine of the bar. Check the door, check my watch.

It’s Charlie, of course. Charming stupid Charlie; my very own personal prince in shining armor. My boyfriend, suitor, fiancé, husband, and ex. When is it ever not Charlie?

Because when it isn’t, it doesn’t count.

Strobes strafe the dance floor, a freeze-frame frenzy of hot young things out for blood. Though still hot, I’m no longer young. Not in my bones, behind the eyes, everywhere it counts.

Still, prop up the bar, twirl my too-pink hubcap margarita and try not to look bored. Try not to be an easy target while flashing lights hit a constant cold chord in my stomach. Too dark for photos, too crowded to be truly seen, maybe I can stand here and spin away the night on a spindle of rose-colored what ifs.

I can’t believe he stood me up! Again and for the last time, this I swear.

Pardon me, miss. Words at my elbow, and the cadence is all wrong. Can I buy you a drink?

Another chance be damned. I should never have come.

Pardonnez-moi, madame? His voice cuts through the stop-motion courtship, edits out the interference. Neither shout nor shriek, but soft, gentle, almost too polite, and pitched for my ears alone. Not Hey, good looking or Hello, gorgeous, but pardon me. Pardonnez-moi.

Color me blue, then red in the slashing sound, the lifeblood laser spectacle reflected in the rail gin. Perhaps gentlemen really do prefer blondes? Color me intrigued.

I’d love to. I can’t master the trick, lean in to make myself heard. But, I look at my drink, aswirl with pink and salt and fury to last the night over, for revenge is best served without a shred of inhibition.

Not a problem, he smiles — glasses, tweed, very white teeth. You looked like you could use another.

Touché. Raise my glass and down the hatch. There are other pathways to anger.

I let him kiss my hand, take a step closer than necessary. He introduces himself, and the name blows over my head like a strong wind.

Beauty. Of the Buchenwald; mistress of the hundred year nap, the fifty foot ponytail, and the glass slipper two-step. An immortal fairytale princess, once upon a time. Though not tonight, not anymore. Chuck stood me up. This was our dance, our chance, our anniversary. Now it’s just…just… Just, Beauty.

Boom, flash. Neon slides across the scene. Hours fly by, a mere formality and I’m leaning, laughing, plastered to his side while he fumbles with the keys to his apartment. Hurry up, I breathe.

Shouldn’t we get to know each other? he laughs.

You’ll never know me. Hand over his, I turn the key. Wordless, wild, lead him inside by his fingertips and hold back what he can’t possibly hear. There isn’t enough time.

I never believed all the stories of strangers meeting in a tavern.

You mean a bar? Reel him in.

My mistake, he presses his hand to the small of my back, steps forward in time. A bar.

We’re not strangers anymore. Spin out across the room and fall to the bed. Kick my heels in the air. You going to make me wait all night? Stupid Prince. Watch me find someone new.

I don’t want to rush into things. He sits instead, in the room’s only chair.

Sorry, boyo. Roll onto my side and prop my head on my arm. I’m on the rebound. Let’s be honest. Getting over my Prince Charming. Tonight’ll be a good time; an adventure, even. Tomorrow morning I’ll be out of your life like I never was.

This is harder than I thought.

First time? Poor thing. What happened to the suave man who talked me into his life?

I’ve never had trouble talking to women. But the rest… He shrugs. All my friends said it would be easier to just get it over with.

Pu-lease. Kiddo. Whatever your name is. Come over here. Over the half-crazed stack of books piled pyramid-high between us. I’ll walk you through it step-by-step.

It’s not that. I mean, I understand… He opens a bag, balances a camera on the books. It’s this.

I, uh, swallow hard. I’m not into that sort of thing. My reflection is there in the glass, backwards and upside down. Smile, pass it off. Just pass it off.

I’m serious. I want you for my book.

In a world where fairy folk can be caught in cameras, forced into novels… No joke, it’s my life. Falling all to pieces like the sequins on my worn-out dress.

Open my eyes. Didn’t even notice them close while I was waiting for the flash. But the camera’s still there between us, untouched. He’s still frozen in the chair, no longer fling or friend, but author, enemy.

How did you know? That I’m not like you. Not mortal? No sense playing dumb; the test is too easy. Just a click of the button and I’m gone, caught in the Dark. Trapped in a book. Not even a smoking pair of heels to mark my passing.

There’s a certain sharpness to the air. The description’s always the same. A quality of light bending towards the improbable. As if mortals can’t relate beyond the visible. Can’t wrap their heads around the idea of dreams made flesh…

So, the room is suddenly too small. Hot and heavy like a summer Sunday. Where does that leave us?

I don’t know. Another shrug. I have to write, but I can’t write a book without you.

You could try. Books were written before the camera. Inspiration was found.

Not if I want an agent. Not if I want a bestseller. I mean, sure, I could self-publish…

There are worse fates. Sword, sorcery, and armor smaller than a Brazilian bikini. Awkward love scenes. A life no longer mine.

Writing is my calling, my dream.

Mine is freedom. Self-determination.

We sit in silence, both of us staring awkwardly around the room.

So, it was that easy? I’m curious. Walk into the bar and there I was?

No, not at all, he blushes. I’ve been watching you for a while now, to make sure. I even ordered coffee from you, several times. We chatted.

I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Also, creepy. People come in and out of the café all the time.

I, um, I feel a little silly saying this. He squirms, sits on his hands. But I think I love you.

That’s ridiculous. Beat. You don’t even know me.

I was trying to get to know... Pause. Blink. No, really. I’m pretty sure I love you. The way the sun passes through your hair, that flick of your wrist when you dump the espresso—

You don’t know me!

I love you! He’s on his feet; I rise to meet him. The perfect curve of your neck, the way you smile every time I walk through the door.

I’m sorry. Fun fact, I smile that way at everyone. I’m leaving.

I love you, and I need you in my book.

Our eyes lock on the camera, halfway between us.

He’s faster, taller, but I have desperation on my side. And nails. Ow, watch the glasses!

Winner goes to the side with nothing to lose. I fall back onto the bed, camera in hand, and turn the device this way and that. I need to discharge the flash, buy myself some time, and get to the door.

Why’d you do that? He settles his glasses over his face, adjusts them on his nose. I hope you didn’t break anything. I don’t, I don’t think you did. Adjusts them again. I should have just caught you. But I wanted us to be friends, I think we can still be friends.

Really? Pop the flash, make for the door. Down the stairs and into the street, pull a traditional damsel in distress and disappear into the crowd. Because we could have been lovers. Now which of these buttons do I push? I hate these things.

Beauty, please. Have some dignity. He reaches out to me, waits. It’s just a camera.

The flash fills my world. The camera falls from my hands.

No man in glasses.

The camera lies open where it fell. No film.

No film, no man. Not possible.

No film. No man. My hands shake and it feels like the world is spinning end over end.

No film. No man. Third time’s a charm and no amount of wishing’ll change what just happened.

It’s all I can do to stagger out the door.

&&&

Moments in time shift and heave with my roiling stomach; I’m in a bathroom. Heave again and fill the toilet bowl with reddish-pink liquid. God, I spit. Is that blood?

Twill promptly heal, Beauty. A voice as deep as mountains wraps my chest, comfort and consolation. Hands hold my hair back from my face.

I’m home. Who knows how I got here, because between here and that apartment there’s nothing, a total blank.

I couldn’t find my way back if I wanted to.

One might venture — knowing thy proclivities — that it be nothing more than thy signature pink margarita, the voice chides, gently.

Am I that predictable? I groan.

We are unchanged and unchanging, Princess. Were the margarita extant in thy Buchenwald, twould have been thy beverage of choice, I am certain.

Thanks, Lance. For being here, for being a friend, listener, confidant. For, true or not, being the kind of man your boyfriend or husband always suspects of being just a little too close to your heart. For not judging.

I am ever at thy service. Pause. Perchance thy anniversary didst not play out as planned?

You remembered my anniversary?

Twas mentioned in passing once upon a time. Every year a hope of reconciliation.

My stomach rises once more like a tidal wave — nothing but water.

Rough night of it, eh, Beauty?

Get out of here, Chuck!

Chuck perches on the lip of the tank and tosses his hair out of his face. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.

You stood me up!

I took a nap. Must’ve slept through the evening. Beat. Surely, you can sympathize.

I swear, I will vomit on your shoes.

To his credit, Chuck edges away. So, uh, have a nice time anyway? Meet anyone nice?

A man in glasses, tweed.

The image slips sideways through my mind. Nothing more than glasses and tweed, like remnants of a lucid dream. Mortals can’t be caught; cameras don’t work like that. Too much pink is my last concrete memory. Maybe I really did get blackout drunk, somehow make my way home, my way to the toilet.

Tania’s coming, a boy’s voice sings out from the hallway.

Thanks, kiddo. Chuck waves.

You left Sandy on the lookout? I breathe, and my breath wafts back at me — petri and putrescence. So he could listen to me hurl? So he could see me like this? He’s too young...

He’ll always be too young. Might as well see the evils of drink sometime. Chuck wipes my mouth, then he and Lance help me stand and face the door. You got this?

I nod and grit my teeth. Pretense and pride is all I have left. Charlie will get an earful later, but not now. Lance squeezes my arm and steps away.

Tania — A-line skirt, pressed white blouse, copper hair in a tight bun — steps to the bathroom door. Titania, queen of the fairies, surveys the motley collection of Folk she holds in her employ at the Tale’s End Books and Café.

Lance and Charlie execute picture-perfect bows.

I sink into a shaky curtsy and stretch my cocktail dress as wide as it will go — not very.

We open in an hour, Tania announces. Have I been out all night? Lancelot, I believe there are croissants in the oven? Charlie, you’ll perform table service and be on the lookout for authors. Beauty, she smiles, cold and clear. You’ll man the register.

Be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, my stomach in knots and a hangover exploding behind my eyes? Of course. I wobble another curtsy. What else can I say? She’s the boss.

Excellent, Tania pauses. I trust the bathroom will be spotless by the time you leave. Good morning.

One more curtsy and I lose my balance, collapse against the wall. Everything I’ve been holding in explodes across the room.

Charlie blinks pink from his eyes. Sandy?

I’ll get the bucket!

Lance?

I shall swab. See to thy lady.

Beaut?

I’m done. I catch Chuck’s deep brown eyes for one, two, three. I’m done, I promise. And what’s more. No more anniversaries. No more fake, fragile reconciliations. We’re through.

Alright. Easy agreement to everything I’ve said and there it is, an end to 800 years of beautiful bickering. Charlie levers his shoulder under my arm and drags me towards the shower. Let’s get you cleaned up.

Welcome to my happily ever after.

&&&

Years go by. Blink of an eye and watch the time fly.

Nothing changes. We move cities once, twice, always one step ahead of the authors who treasure us for the ability to unlock the words trapped in their hearts. Always to another identical outpost of the Tale’s End Books and Café; the world’s largest coffee shop franchise no one knows about. Boston, New York, interchangeable bastions amidst the throng of humanity. Enough people to blunt that certain sharpness in the air, the quality of light leaning towards the improbable.

We move again. Washington, D.C.

Third time’s a charm.

Ding-ding. After you, Princess. Charlie holds the door to another room filled with rough wooden tables. A long bar and the latest, greatest espresso machines. And taps! Looks like we get to serve beer in this town.

What I want to know, Sandy darts past my hip, is how our luggage always gets here before we do?

What you should ask, dearie, Maeve rejoined us in New York after a dozen years gone, is who transfers the contents of our stacks? She balances an apple on black-lacquer fingernails and carefully, slowly, takes a bite.

Maeve’s ratty black cloak falls away, her back flows crooked to straight, and the passage of years marches in reverse.

Witch, sister, stepmother, but we each have our space, our place. Tania doesn’t let a little thing like shared history get in the way of business, survival. New town, new look? Still, I hate it when she does that.

Indeed. All traces of age vanished, Maeve rivals me for youth and vigor. She settles a pair of wireframe glasses over her eyes. Glasses that remind me… I thought it time for a change.

I thought you handled the books? Sandy paws through our pile of luggage and comes out with a pair of lederhosen. Are these still in style?

Does anyone really take charge of the books? Maeve muses, and struts into the stacks.

The stacks. Rows of leatherback novels that extend beyond knowing, piled high to the ceiling and past where the ceiling ends. Mortals don’t set foot there. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’ve ever sold a book.

Tania picks up a small briefcase I hadn’t noticed at her feet and pops the latch. Attend, all of you.

I glance over, then glance again. Inside the briefcase are stacks of American currency, mostly fives and tens, with nothing larger than a twenty.

Counterfeit? I wonder. Or heist?

I get an icy look. Their provenance is none of your concern.

Methoughts Christmas was not for several months, Lance remarks.

Tania hands everyone a couple of stacks. This is your allowance for the time being. I want all of you to go shopping at some of the upscale clothiers in town over the next several weeks. Attire yourselves in business casual, and pick up anything else you might need to replace what was left in New York.

Someone throwing a party? I heft the stack of bills and consider how expensive smoking has gotten lately.

Tania shakes her head, annoyed. We are to meet with a member of the current government concerning the status of Folk in this country. You did not believe our arrival in this sad excuse for a major world capital was by accident?

An open meeting. I— almost question Tania’s judgment. Almost get myself fired or turned into a toad.

Consider it a change. Titania offers us a tight smile. Until then, stay in groups, be alert, and for Grimm’s sake, don’t get caught.

&&&

A day at the register, it’s a day at the races.

Doors open at seven and they’re off! Bearded Office Drone takes the lead, his sandals beating to the register. But door to coffee is a long, winding path; Office Drone gets momentarily caught in his lanyard. And Office Drone falls to the back, passed by K Street Lobbyist in power heels and a tailored jacket. Click, click, click, beep! Rookie mistake. Lobbyist stops to check her cellphone, loses her spot to Three Piece Lawyer and Congressional Staffer. Neck and neck — its Lawyer; no, Staffer; no, Lawyer.

Organic whole wheat croissants! Staffer exclaims. A dirty trick.

Lawyer falls behind, mesmerized by those impeccable crescents of paper-thin pastry. Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, there is a genuine pound of butter in every bite. We don’t list calories