Joelle “Snow” White [part 9]


West Africanly costumed stepqueen Trefoil, seeing fear etched into the Princess’ face, quickly appeases her.

  • Do not worry my child. This be a perfectly natural powder made from savannah herbs, no known side effects. Nowadays many a writer uses it to expand her creative horizons. Here, I will let you have some and if you feel up to it you should give it a try. Before you read or write something, take a half a teaspoon and rub it onto your gums.

Given the convivial evening the two of them end up spending at the Pace Aeternum, e.g the divulging of heart-felt literary ideologies, the explication of seemingly insurmountable inner-life travails, etc., this having been what has passed between the two, upon returning home to the sparkle of their 8-people appartment, Princess Joelle comes around slowly and arrives in the mood for giving maleficiently bogus MaleMale! a whirl. ‘Tis a most execrably laced substance.

Late in the evening her seven friends return from work but how shocked they are when they see their dear Joelle “Snow” White lying on the floor and that she neither stirs nor moves, and seems to be dead. J.S.W. is bleeding from her nose into the open pages of “Girl w/ Curious Hair”. They rush her to the local hospital, a burgundy skyriser resplendent with hundreds of maws of light. There the doctors chemically reanimate the Princess just in the nick of time.

When her friends learn what has befallen J.S.W. Cynthia Biggo-Ego advises her in a caustic tone:

  • The wizened Senegalese literature expert was no one else than the wicked stepqueen Trefoil; take care and let no one deceive you when we are not with you. Be wise with us. Don’t cut yourself off from us!

Joelle, seeing her own foolishness, makes up her mind not henceforth to be tricked again.


Meanwhile, termagant usurperess manqué, la Trefoil, who has shuttled back to Altra Luna, is running up the steps of the penthouse to her 2nd floor bedroom, tears off and casts her dark-brown, hyper-real, polyurethane facial prosthetic into a corner and literally bounds in front of her magical mirror. Out of breath, staring at her sweaty brow, she repeats the same-old, lame-old

  • Looking-glass, Looking-glass, on the wall,

Who in this land is the fairest of all?

And it answers as enervated as ever:

  • Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see,

But over the seas, where Charlie Kreyzey & Co. dwell,

Joelle Snow White is still alive and well,

And none is so fair as she.

When she hears the glass speak thus she trembles and shakes with rage.

  • Joelle Snow White shall die!

She cries

  • Even if it costs me my life!

Thereupon she goes into a secret, dark room where no one ever comes and there, with help of a cunning wraith or two, she concocts a very poisonous apple to end this bothersome matter once and for all.


After her close brush with oblivion the Princess decides that her days of blow are definitely over and that she will rededicate herself to literature/volleyball/Arslanian art and even re-establish lines of communication with her father, whose image has never once faded from her mind to see if an emotional rapprochement might be a medium-term possiblity. She is exchausted of fumbling in lands unknown.

Then one sunshiny day during Joelle’s second week out of hospital, not having done coke in ten days, gazing at the sky as a flock of puffy, many-headed clouds graze upon its azure pastures, she experiences this emotion she has a hard time recognizing: good about herself and confident about the future. Happiness floods her body at once, washes into the least of Princessely cells and thence purling laughter gushes up from her belly.

On this merry morning, the Princess in exile is on a jaunt to the organic co-op as Herman Hungrey asked her for her skinny, helping hands on a fruit-pealing chore. Yes, it is truly enchanting outside, as in a fay tale, with skylarks, tanagers and juncos twittering up in the verdant canopies, butterflies whirling all about, the scent of vanilla/lavender floating down the avenues, some urban deers sauntering about and plentiful people out in the parks, some of them whistling for joy.

Just two minutes after J.S.W. sets foot outside their red-brick, graffiti-covered crack palace, still down on derelict Badnooz Avenue, to her great surprise she saunters by an old, beat-up VW bus beside which is arranged a considerable stand of fruit and vegetable so lucious and mouthwatering that it stops Joelle dead in her tracks. Hawking them is a gentle, long in the tooth peasant woman, whom J. “Snow” White can not see with any precision the features of, for the sun is beating down on her forehead mercilessly. Seeing her apparent rival for beauty and royal affection, the old harridan blurts out

  • Aye there, charming young lady, it is only right for you to be taken with my wholesome, fresh harvest. Best in all the lands, I tell you. Would you care to have a taste of a fruit or vegetable my dear?


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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