Let's Scrap a Cinderella

My main character in Scrapping Cinderella is half fire-demon. Her name is Ashley. I imagine most of you are used to my very bad puns at this point. (Ashley... Cinderella... get it?) She is telling the story and while no narrator is trustworthy, you're really going to be questioning what she tells you, probably as much as I have been the past eleven day.

Here is a small preview from the dirty and unedited prologue:

“Police reports indicate that area resident, Marisol Blacksmith Eldrid, has passed away from injuries related to the fire that occurred at her residence just outside of Eastwood. Investigators are still searching as to the cause of the fire.”

Everyone but Mr. Uchida wore black that day. Gray, darkening clouds, provided a dense cover of shade but the air grew heavy in the ninety-plus degree weather. My grandfather’s hands proved strong, stalwart, guides as my sister and I headed towards the family plot. My mother’s body was lowered into the dry earth by a mechanical wench system that looked more like a monster to my eight-year-old self. My older sister was twelve and seemed more aware of what was going on; she, at least, mourned properly.  Tears and gasping cries mottled her face a peculiar purplish red.

I clenched my tiny fists and silently swore death upon whoever or whatever had taken my last parent away. Father’s grave was barely a year old. Our grandfather had buried his only remaining son and his daughter-in-law over the course of a few months. I cannot imagine what he was feeling that day, but I know I was bitterly swallowing the fact that we were orphans, but perhaps fortunate orphans.

The state could not take us with grandfather around. That was enough. I remember how long we kept the funeral home staff that day as we mourned. I remember the colors and the texture of the casket spray. I could tell you every single minor detail. But I can’t remember anything about how my mother looked or who she was; memories of my parents are long since lost to me. I envy my sister that, more than anything else she has received in life. I would kill just to hold a mental image of them, rather than just what I have to try to glean from worthless photographs that can never tell me anything about the person who lived a life and gave me my own shot at existence.

When we walked away from the cemetery that day, Grandfather was once again the head of the Eldrid clan.

Rain beat a somber tattoo against the metal roof of the main house when we returned to our new home. Drunken mourning wails from the downstairs main areas kept two sisters clinging to each other’s wet skin like we were the last two lifeboats in a swelling ocean.

We’ve never been as close since that day. In fact, it would be safe enough to say that we quickly grew to hate each other after our mother's death.