I went a more than a bit long on this one, but I was having so much fun writing it. . .
Sabrina was not one to only go 1/2 way, she had to go over the top. The invitation to her wedding (and this was not her first) was in fairy font written in gold and silver. It indicated to arrive with your ticket in hand or miss the elegant and tasteful affair. Upon reading, the lettering turned to small birds and flew towards the west.
On the morning of the “special day,” I was in a panic, my house looked like a whirlwind had swirled through. I couldn’t find my ticket. Perhaps it had turned to butterflies and flown east. Or, in typical Sabrina-style, hadn’t contained a ticket at all!
Just as I was about to text Charming to go it alone, I found my ticket, shoved into the toe of my rubber boots. I didn’t even want to guess how it got there. And, I had 1/2 a glasshour to magically turn from a disheveled wreck into a wedding presentable pixie.
Dress code. Grungle! I didn’t know the dress code! Knowing Sabrina, she would had told everyone else but me how to arrive: elegant, in costume, formal wear, informal wear, family colours and style . . . . Still in a panic, I texted Charming: dress code? His less than helpful reply: ?
So I tried to channel Sabrina; get a hologram of her in my living room expounding on manners and dress. I gave up. The prospect of getting inside Sabrina’s mind was just too scary. Especially on Friday the 13th. Melodramatic Sabrina would pick that date.
I ended up in my best pixie clan clothes: a shimmery long scarf the colour of lavender lake, a underdress of spun from dandelion fluff, and an overdress of woven spider webs dyed to a peacock’s coloration, shifting with every subtle change of light. Without a permasecond to spare, Charming was knocking on the door with a spray of shooting stars for my dress. I had picked and ribboned crystallites in various colours to match whatever he chose to wear. It was the prince as knight without the amour look. It suited him.
“Tickets,” we both said at once, laughing and with gift in hand, walked arm in arm to the pickup spot. As we approached, it became obvious why we needed tickets. A train hovered just above the ground – when did Sabrina become one of the tree huggers – and decked out in non-traditional wedding decorations. Cobwebs, skeletons, Zombies (I hoped they were just holograms. Zombies and punch with a punch never went together very well), and other ghoulish items from man’s imagination of what scaryland is like.
That’s right – she’s marrying a human this time. The train is for the benefit of his family. No mother-in-law would dare make even the slightest suggestion, or a touch of criticism after a ride on this wedding train. Probably never visit either.
Well, things started out okay. My clan clothes were perfect. There seemed to be no dress code. Very unSabrinaish. Was she melting due to love? Her floating down to her love, Bob, was rather showy, conjuring the ring predictable and the troll fireworks . . . need I say more.
Asked to retire to the no longer invisible tents for finger food and music. At least I hoped the fingers on the sprite silverware were elaborately carved and decorated carrots. I didn’t think I’d go for the canapés, or “veggies with dip.”
Fred and Vall were the DJs. A great team, obviously chosen for her edgier friends. Fred, with the full moon, in all his howling glory. Vampires kept their looks, but Vall is at least 500 by now.
As during the ceremony, Bob’s family were huddling (almost hiding) as far away from Sabrina’s guests as possible. Except for the girl I assumed was Bob’s niece. She was leaning to Sabrina’s guest side. At the reception, she approached me, exclaiming “You’re a pixie!” I pretended to be investigating my clothes, fingers, hair. “Why you’re right. I am a pixie. Thanks for reminding me!” She proceeded to name each group: sprite, elf, imp, troll. Impressive, “You know a lot about us.” She replied, “When everyone kept saying Bob was marrying a witch, I didn’t think they were just talking about her personality. So I did some research.”
I’m don’t know who was in charge of the bowl of punch with punch, but they slipped up big time. Next thing you know, Zombies (not all had been holograms on the train) were getting a little rowdy. “Zombie.” “Reanimated.” “We find the word Zombie insulting – it’s the reanimated.” “Zombie.” Pretty soon chairs would be breaking over heads – trolls, the instigators in this one, had very hard heads.
Sabrina and Bob had slipped away, and no one wanted to take charge. I grabbed Charming, pointed to the Zombie – Reanimated dispute. “Grungle, who let them near the punch?”
If we run for it now, we can get good seats on the train. Either Bob’s family is too frightened to escape before it gets any uglier, or if they run for it, they’ll take up all the good seats. Sabrina’s friends often got out of control. Even a sprite or pixie or two had taken them on!
The train was where we’d left it. I tried to make out the name on his official Sabrina’s Fabulous Wedding badge. “Jeb, you’ll a life saver (oops bad term to use at this function) if you can get us away from the fuss.”
“Actually, I’m Steve, Jeb’s alter ego. He wasn’t feeling too well, so he set me as a substitute.”
“Where to?” Charming and I looked at each other. We were hungry – the finger food had put us off – and as we were in our finest fancy dress, eating out at a classy place seemed in order. But where? Grandmother’s House? The Mad Hatter? Witch’s Brew House? Jack’s Beanery?
“I might suggest,” Jeb/Steve asked. If you really want a treat, and to be edgy and outré I can take you across . . . the forest I mean . . . then it’s through the portal to a place that humans seem to like. Jeb says their addicted to this special sauce. The place as far as I can tell is called: I’m Loving it, Mickey D’s.”