Princess Charmer

Princess Charmer (Title from Title Generator)

This is (not) a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom far, far away, lived a Princess.

Let me pause here for a second and tell you that when we write about Princesses, we must describe them as Beautiful Beyond Belief. It’s in the rules, large print, bold typeface. Everyone in the Fairy Tale Author’s Guild knows about it. Little girls will not sit still or go to sleep without hearing those words. For let’s face it, if Fairy Tale Princesses were meh, that would mean that all those magical things could happen to meh little girls too.

Ages ago, someone wrote a story about an average, homely princess. It was banned and burned. The writer stripped of his author rights and run out of town by angry PTA members who chased him with feather pillows because it was considered too dangerous to run with cauldrons of tar. Ever since then every fairy tale author has followed the rules faithfully. It doesn’t matter whether you write for Disney, Pixar or as someone from the Grimm family, now known as Urban Fantasy, the storytellers must use an excessive number of superlatives when describing a princess’s looks and virtues.

But I am not going to do that. (See disclaimer above).

Our Princess was lovely, of course. I mean, let’s be real, when dad’s a king, who’s gonna say that his little girl is not lovely? She was blessed with wishy-washy brown, also known as dirty-blond hair, poo brown eyes, the healthy kind of poo, of course. A well-proportioned figure, maybe a tad bottom-heavy, and a solid base. No, really, her feet were enormous. Snowshoes quaked in her presence. But everyone agreed that her best feature, by far, were her lips. Oh, those lips! Generous, plump, with a perfect cupid’s bow and the color! Oh, la la!. Not Passion’s Kiss lipstick red no, her lips were truly cherry red.

Her father, as benevolent as any omnipotent ruler could be, had been patient with her. He had sent three of his four sons out into the world, making sure that they made advantageous matches, established lucrative trade agreements and peaceful alliances thus benefiting the kingdom and filling the coffers. His fourth son was still too young and thoroughly supervised by a phalange of tutors.

The Princess, however, was hanging around the castle. Though she had her own suite and rarely attended state functions, or even family dinners, every once in a while, snippets of news about her actions filtered through to the King. At twenty she was rapidly gaining a reputation of being opinionated, stubborn, reactionary, and a blue stocking.

I’ll let you in on a secret. The Princess was not aware of these rumors and would have been both surprised and hurt. The substantial young woman was too busy to attend to gossip. She was fully engaged in equality and teaching the women of the land how to earn their own living.

One auspicious Tuesday morning, one of the king’s sycophants bowed before His Highness and offered him the local rag turned to page two. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am reluctant (yeah, right), but feel it is my duty to show you this news item.”

Stifling a sigh, King Milton XXVIII reached for the tabloid.

When will XXVIII reign in his filly and get her married off? The headline blared. The editor did not mince words in his harangue. He ranted about the wayward Princess, her attendance at a women’s trade show and her keynote address in support of women’s suffrage.

King Milton XXVIII crumpled the rag, strongly suggested someone find the Princess and waved the lackey away. This time the King didn’t bother stifling a sigh. Since both their schedules were booked well in advance, it was several days before the Princess found time to visit the Throne Room.

“You called for me, Daddy?” she said bestowing a perfunctory kiss on his cheek.

“I did? Yes. I remember. You need a husband.”

“No, I don’t, Daddy. Was there anything else?”

“No. That was the only thing. Adverts inviting all the eligible men in the kingdom to send their resume, have already been placed.”

“Okay, whatever.” She rose from her chair. “Have the resumes sent to my secretary, will you Daddy? We’ll look them over. May I go? I have a women and children’s hospital to dedicate.”

“Yes, of course, dear. Wait! A whole hospital just for women and children?”

“Yes.” She waited patiently.

“Isn’t that a bit extravagant?”

“No more so than all the men’s hospitals. Be sure to send all those applications to me. Bye Daddy.”

Though the king’s men dutifully sent the resumes on to the Princess’s secretary, who tossed them unread in the trash, they made copies and contacted each applicant who did not have a criminal record. There were dozens.

A festival was organized. Pick-A Hubby Day. All the Royal Protocol and Regal-ma-role was invoked. The Princess, her brothers, even Alfie, the youngest, and of course, both the King and Queen were in attendance. Each applicant was given thirty minutes to plead his case. Then the Princess was allowed five minutes to interview each one.

Bill, Loren, Richard and Geoffry spoke about hearth and home, protection, procreation, and childcare. About nutritious meals from a kitchen garden, laundry, and discipline. Some mentioned barefoot and pregnant. Some mentioned obedience and subservience.

William, Matthew, Thomas and Dirk spoke of love and quoted verses, not their own, of course. They mentioned long walks on beaches, though the kingdom was landlocked. They alluded to moon beams and candlelight, roses and laced fingers and needing a mother for the children they begat in previous unions.

There was eighty-seven-year-old Janus, who was looking for a nurse, Sixty-three-year-old parson Lewis who needed a housekeeper for the parsonage and Mother Benedicta who prayed for a cook for the convent. The testimonials lasted through the day.

The Princess sat still, eyes glazed over, mentally reviewing next week’s schedule. Finally, the hall fell silent. Everyone turned to her, she was supposed to decide. Fear clutched at her heart. Would her father really make her choose one of these empty suits?

“Excuse me.” A young man, dressed in snug, worn jeans and a form-fitting t-shirt, in need of a haircut and a dab of boot polish, stepped forward.

“I apologize for being late. I’ve been out of the country but would like to have my say.”

Bored to the tassels on his Royal Slippers, and wishing he could scratch certain body parts, the King inclined his head.

“Thank you, Sire. My name is Fritz. I guess, I could speak of love, but you love chicken and applesauce.”

Her plump cheeks flushed, the Princess nodded, for she truly loved chicken and applesauce.

“I could speak of sultry nights, warm smiles, growing old together, your hand in mine. But what’s important is that I’m looking at a girl with dirty-blond hair, poo-colored eyes, a bottom worthy of holding on to, a brain and heart to match, and feet that are solidly planted. I want to taste every last drop of her cherry lips and grow old while learning all she can teach me. But …” He paused. “Her name must be April”

The Princess blushed. “My name is Autumn.” She whispered. “But you may call me April.”

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.