|Age Range(s)||Young Adult (20-35)|
|Type of monologue / Character is||Angry, Talking to the audience|
|Description||Cinderella's sister has something to say.|
Cinderella's sister has something to say.
Written by chris wind
|Poor little Cinderella! Who more deserving of finding her prince and turning into a princess! Yeah, right.|
First off, Cinderella did not have to do all the hardest work in the house. Our stepfather was a man of rank, remember, and my mother no peasant; we had fine rooms and beautiful clothes, and status enough to be invited to the King s ball. So we certainly had maids and servants to scrub the floors and wash the dishes. Cinderella offered to help with the work. Probably because she had nothing else to do; she didn t seem interested in much besides pleasing people. Drove me crazy.
And she did not have to sleep “in a straw bed in a poor room at the top of the house ¯. Think her father would put up with that? Certainly not. She had a perfectly good bedroom just like the rest of us.
The story goes that my sister and I were proud. True enough. What s wrong with that? What s wrong with being proud of what you can do, of what you ve worked hard to learn well? All those gorgeous clothes people kept talking about were of my sister s making she was into fashion design. And as for me, well, it was known I could ride a horse to win most competitions in the land. So sure we were proud. But vain? Yes, we spent a lot of time in front of that full-length mirror: my sister had to see the effect of her creations (and so I suppose she s as vain as one gets in that line of work), and as a favour, especially on days too wet or too cold for the horses to be out, I often modeled her half-finished pieces for her. But that s it. I wasn t even good-looking, by contemporary standards, no peaches and cream in my complexion!
And it s true, Cinderella wasn t invited to the ball. But only because the King thought she was too young. And we certainly didn t snub her like you think. We called her into our rooms and asked her for advice on our clothes, to make her feel part of the excitement. She liked that, you know how younger sisters are, she wanted to iron this and mend that we even let her do our hair.
But we never called her Cinder-wench, or actually, even, Cinderella. Her nickname was Kinderella (little child), and somehow the K must have gotten changed to a C .
As for what happened at the ball, that s true too. She was very beautiful, our new little stepsister, we never denied that. And when beauty and wealth come together, most people fall over themselves like asses. Those at the ball were no different: to them, appearance is everything. My sister was stunned by Cinderella s gown, and she gawked, it s true. But out of professional interest, not jealousy as most people think. I wasn t jealous either I just wanted to ride one of those impressive silver stallions she came with.
And as for that bit about the yellow dress, the story goes that Cinderella asked my sister if she could borrow it to wear at the next ball, and my sister said no way. Well, I don t know, that might ve happened, I wasn t there. That yellow dress is one of her favourites, one of the first dresses she made. But I think that if my sister had said no, she would ve offered another instead. Then again, Cinderella s tone can be so sweet and self-effacing sometimes, I can imagine my sister saying no out of sheer irritation and leaving it at that.
The rest of the story is pretty much accurate. All three of us went to the second ball, Cinderella forgot about her curfew, lost her slipper on the way out, and there is one thing I want to set straight: I did not try on the glass slipper. Quite apart from the fact that I didn t want to marry that prince (or any prince, or anyone at all, actually) a glass slipper? You ve got to be kidding, that d be worse than wearing high heels! Not only would it make walking difficult, but with the obvious risk of broken glass, cutting, embedding, it would discourage movement altogether. No thank you!
(But as I said to Cinderella, if the shoe fits, wear it.)
(And we all will live happily ever after.)