🎅🎄⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🎄🎅: A Villain for Christmas by Alice Winters

Summary:

Vexing Villains #1

“I want you to help me rob a bank.”

The moment I heard those words, I should have slammed the door in my brother’s face and cracked open a book. Though if I had, I wouldn’t have run into August, the city’s main superhero… and the man of my dreams. He’s sexy, kind, and sweet—everything I’m supposed to dislike.

You see, I’m a villain… well, kind of. Honestly, I’d rather curl up and read than commit crimes, but life doesn’t always go the way I want it to, especially after being raised by some cut-rate villains who can’t even steal toilet paper without getting caught.

Suddenly, I find myself spending time with August and realize that maybe there is more to life than petting my hairless cat, but the issue is… what happens when he figures out that I’m Leviathan, an extremely powerful villain? Can he still love me regardless of who I am?

When actual supervillains start targeting August, I might be forced to show everyone who I truly am, but villains and heroes aren’t supposed to save each other, let alone fall in love.

Although, I’ve never been one to do what I’ve been told.

Original Review January 2020:

There is just not enough superhero/supervillain(or in the case of Landon's family not-so-super-supervillians) stories in the LGBT genres.  A Villain for Christmas was the first book of 2020 for me and what a way to kick off the year!

This is another one of those stories that I'm not going to say too much about because you really do need to experience Landon and August's journey to fully appreciate the magnificence that is Alice Walker's storytelling.  There is so much goodness in this story and the genuine-ness of the characters, whether they fall on the good or bad side of the scale, is what makes them stand out.  You'll have moments of shaking your head and saying "WTF is wrong with that person?" and you'll have equal moments of "OMG how can one person be so understanding?"  It's these emotions that make this story so hard to put down.

This is only the second Alice Winters book I've read and it definitely cemented my desire to read more of her backlist this year.  She has a way with what I like to call "snark and cuddle" that make her characters not only fun(even if you want to shake them or smack them upside the head with a kitchen appliance) but that much more real, which isn't easy to do in the fantasy world of superheros and villains.  Being a holiday setting only makes the magic of the story that much sweeter.  Definitely a win win for both my holiday and superhero shelf.

Original Audiobook Review October 2020:
I'll admit that with everything going on in 2020 that I forgot it had only been about 10 months since I read this delightful gem.  Now I didn't forget just how delightfully genius and fun A Villain for Christmas was just that it had been only 10 months since reading it.

Having re-read my original review, I don't think I can add much more without giving anything away because even though this was from last year's Christmas releases I have a feeling there is still plenty that have yet to experience it's greatness.  There still isn't enough superhero stories in the LGBT genres for my liking so I know this won't be the last re-read/listen I enjoy of this Alice Winters gem.

I'll just add that this is the first audiobook with Michael Lesley as narrator for me, personally new-to-me narrators can be almost as "scary" as new-to-me authors. I needn't have worried because he does a wonderful job bringing this holiday fantasy to life, making Landon and August even more real than the author's words already did.  I could almost feel the jarring sensation in my arm when I wanted to smack a couple of characters with a frying pan, that's how into the story the author and narrator make the reader/listener, which is a mark of true talent.

RATING:

“Landon, I want you to help me rob a bank.”

I try to ignore my brother, since I clearly didn’t hear him right.

“Won’t you do me a favor?” he asks after letting himself into my house without bothering to knock. Not that knocking would have done him any good since I wasn’t planning on letting him into my house at all anyway.

“No,” I say without bothering to look up from the book I’m reading.

“Just hear me out!” he exclaims.

I lower the book and look up at my older brother Brandon. Thankfully, I don’t take much after him. Not that he’s ugly or anything like that, he’s not, but just because he’s an idiot. And the one thing I don’t want to be is an idiot. “What, Brandon?”

“I want you to help me rob a bank.”

“No! You asked me last week, and I already told you I have better things to do. Like…” I look around as I try to think of something. It’s hard when my life consists of trying to avoid my family and reading every book I can get my hands on. Oh, and did I mention avoiding my family? Honestly, that’s a full-time career when they all have powers that allow them to better annoy the shit out of me. “Work.”

“Mom told me you got fired,” Brandon says as he sits down on the couch next to me.

“I got fired because Mom came in and told the boss that she needed me. When he said I was working and couldn’t just leave, she told him he looks like an overripe nut sac.”

Brandon starts laughing. “That’s so cool.”

“I hate all of you,” I decide as I lift my book back up.

“About the bank. Come on, you borrowed money from me last week.”

I stare at my brother in disbelief. “Five dollars. You honestly think the equivalent of you lending me five dollars is me helping you rob a bank? I’m not going to help you rob a bank again!”

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1

Alice Winters
Alice Winters started writing stories as soon as she was old enough to turn her ideas into written words. She loves writing a variety of things from romance and comedy to action. She also enjoys reading, horseback riding, and spending time with her pets.

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A Villain for Christmas #1

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🎅🎄⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🎄🎅: Just Jack by Meredith Russell

Summary:
Can two broken men find love in the chill of Winter?

Leo is having a bad day. Finding his boyfriend in bed with another man was one thing, being the subject of office gossip another, but falling on his ass in the snow in front of a gorgeous man was the final straw.

Jack has existed in a solitary life of ice and bitterness after betrayal. He swore no one would ever break his heart again, gave up on love, and became something else; Jack Frost.

As Jack and Leo get closer, Jack is left torn and confused. Jack yearns for anything that reminds him of his humanity, but the truth is, he feels nothing, not warmth, not love, and he knows he might never be able to love Leo the way he deserves to be loved.

When the line between fairy tales and magic, and the real world become blurred, can love conquer everything?

Original Review January 2018:

I'm not sure which character I fell for harder, Jack Frost who feels his heart is cold or Leo who has his heart finally broken when he finds his boyfriend in bed with someone else.  It's pretty obvious that Jack's heart is not as frosty as he believes just from his friendship with Abe and his family but when he meets Leo there is whole other level of not-cold he is about to discover if he only lets himself.  Leo has not been completely blinded by his boyfriend's wandering but its this first-hand discovery that opens his eyes and lets him finally break free.  Just Jack is so much more than a Christmas story, actually its really not a holiday tale at all and yet Christmastime seems the perfect opportunity to give it a go.  Sometimes the coldest hearts have the most room for love.  Just Jack is fun, loving, and full of heart.

RATING:

Chapter 1

“Not again.” The man gritted his teeth and pulled on the handle of his car door. The door wouldn’t budge, and the man, looking to be in his fifties and carrying a little weight, grew red in the face and wiped at his brow with the back of his gloved hand. “Denise,” he called toward the house and then walked, far more delicately than a man of his build should, down his driveway.

Winter in Maine was gloriously frosty. A layer of snow had settled on the tops of houses and cars, the trees looked magical coated in white, and it was easy to imagine them shivering in the chilly morning air. Every warm breath taken that cold morning caused a white mist to hang in the air.

Jack leaned against the lamppost on the opposite side of the street and enjoyed his new game. He didn’t know who the man was, what he did for a living, or care who Denise was to him. For Jack, the man was entertainment on yet another wintry January morning. This was the third morning in a row Jack had walked the street before sunrise, tormenting the man by freezing the door of his seventy-plus-thousand-dollar car. Another day or two and Jack would get bored with his mischief and search out new acts of trickery to see him through the day. Every day so far, the man’s reaction had been priceless and something to call on when Jack’s day needed brightening. But today Jack was left disappointed when the man made his way to the house and back unscathed.

Yesterday had been far more fun. The man had ended up flat on his back, having slipped on the ice. He had lain on the ground like some up-ended turtle, rocking around in his thick winter coat, unable to bend his limbs in such a way to get himself the right way up.

Jack grew tired of waiting for something comical to happen. “Maybe tomorrow,” Jack said in a low voice. He pushed off the streetlight, eyed the icy handprint he had left, and then carried on his way.

It was seven in the morning, barely light. The early risers heading for work were up and out in their driveways, complaining about the cold as they defrosted their cars. The sidewalk was covered in fresh snow, which glistened beneath the man-made lights and was, as yet, undisturbed by human feet, just a spattering of prints from birds and what was possibly a cat. Jack loved the cold, and he smiled as a chilling breeze circled him, carrying with it the fresh scent of the day and the crisp brown leaves that had fallen from the trees. The prickle of cold against his skin was one of his favorite feelings, like a thousand icy fingers pinching at his arms and face. God, how he loved it.

Opening the top button of his jacket, he savored the cold against his chest and gently traced his fingertips over his chilled skin. He breathed deeply, content with his icy touch and the feel of the cool air whipping up around him. What he wouldn’t give to be wrapped up in a blanket of cold. To slip inside the deliciously chilled wind and zip it up as if it were a sleeping bag made just for him.

Holding out his hand in front of him, Jack encouraged the breeze into a spiral that wrapped around his arm and caused a delightful shiver to pass through him. The air glowed the most beautiful shade of blue as it danced around Jack, and his chest ached from the knowledge this beauty was only for him—and those like him—to see. Anyone watching would think he was mad. They wouldn’t see the dance of blue and silver, nor would they hear the wind’s angelic song reverberating in the air.

Jack stroked the breeze as it snaked through his fingers, gently drawing moisture from it and into the palm of his hand. He rotated his fingers, spinning the moisture into a sphere, and then gently teased it with his icy breath until the sphere hardened. The size of a tennis ball, the sphere became a ball of ice, and Jack flicked it into the air and caught it.

“Perfect,” he said.

The ball was smooth, flawless, and transparent. He reached out his other hand and dragged his fingers over the hedge he passed. The leaves of the hedge crackled and curled in on themselves beneath his touch, which left them coated in wintry white frost. All he needed now was someone to have a little fun with. He grinned at the thought.

A dog barked, and Jack looked ahead. “Perfect,” he said again and teased the ball between his finger and thumb.

A large German shepherd was standing several yards in front of him. The dog was on a leash, and on the other end of that leash was the dog’s owner, a petite woman dressed head to toe in pink with matching accessories. She was talking on her cell phone and looked to be in her forties, dressed in winter clothing, each item seemingly edged in white fur.

Too old to be playing at Barbie, Jack decided.

He blew on the ball of ice and watched as frosty patterns formed across its surface. He admired what could only be described as art. Spirals and symmetrical branches merged together in raised icy paths, very much like patterns etched into Christmas tree ornaments. It was all about the details for Jack. If he was going to do something, then it should be perfect and beautiful.

Content with his creation, he pulled back his arm and bowled the ball toward the dog. The sphere rolled along the sidewalk, leaving only a small line in the snow as it seemed to weightlessly skim its surface. Jack watched and waited, merely encouraging the sphere along its chosen path.

As if it had a mind of its own, the sphere steered to the left, and as it neared the dog, the ball skipped off the sidewalk and into the street. The dog barked loudly, pulling at its leash as it sought to chase the ball of ice. The woman struggled to hold the large German shepherd and stumbled forward as the dog darted after the ball and into the road. She performed some poorly crafted acrobatics routine as she desperately held onto her dog. But the dog’s desire to chase the ball was greater than any strength she might have had to hold onto him. It was as if she weighed nothing as she was dragged forward by her pet and into the road. Cursing, she eventually gave in as she tripped up the opposite curb. With a yelp, she let go of the leash and landed on her face in the snow-covered grass of a neighbor’s lawn.

Jack laughed as the woman lifted her head. White covered her cheeks and forehead, and she rolled over to sit on the frozen ground. Her mouth curled down with a pathetic whimper, and she slapped the ground in a halfhearted tantrum.

“Caesar,” she called after the dog.

The German shepherd pricked up its large ears and glanced back at his owner. The dog’s tongue hung out the right side of its mouth, all wet and shiny as it panted excitedly. White puffs of the dog’s warm breath filled the air around the animal’s head, and choosing to ignore the woman, the dog ran off down the street.

“Caesar!” She lowered her head and brushed the snow from her coat.

Had she seen him? Jack wondered. Jack didn’t know whether she had or hadn’t, and though he claimed to not care, there was always a pang of disappointment in his chest, a need to be noticed.

Turning away, he walked down the street. He didn’t look back or stop to help her. He never did. It was not in his nature to worry about the misfortunes of humans. They were just something to pass his time.

A short way down the street, Jack spotted the escaped German shepherd sitting on the sidewalk, seemingly waiting for him. The animal held in its mouth the ball of ice, though the ice was already melting from the dog’s breath. As Jack got closer, the dog placed the ball on the grass and sat upright. Jack smiled and held out his hand, running his fingers over the dog’s coat. He frowned as he stroked the soft fur. Though he knew there should be something more, he felt nothing but the cold.

“Get away from me,” he said to the dog. “I’m no good for you.”

The dog simply looked up at him through large amber eyes.

“Go on. Get.”

Jack narrowed his gaze and looked down at his hands. The prickle of ice played in his palms. He could show the dumb animal exactly what he was capable of.

The dog licked his hand, and Jack tempered his desire to strike out. The dog, clearly oblivious to Jack’s nature and wanting nothing more than to have him throw the ball again, just sat and stared up at him.

“Okay,” Jack said softly.

The dog nudged at his hand.

“I said, okay.”

Jack bent down to pick up the ball of ice. He wrapped his hand around the slippery lump and squeezed. It only took a second and the sphere was solid again, a frosty layer coating its surface once more. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the German shepherd’s home. The dog had done him no wrong, and as much as he liked to mess with the lives of the humans in the town, he never meant them any real harm.

“Go home,” he said and threw the ball back up the street.

Happily, the dog bounded off, its leash trailing on the ground as it chased the ball. Jack worried his lower lip and waited until the dog was out of sight. Hopefully, the animal would be reunited with his owner.

Cramming his hands in his jacket pockets, Jack looked at the ground, and with the toe of his boot, he drew a circle in the snow. Adding eyes and a smile, Jack admired his masterpiece for a moment. It wasn’t quite right. He crouched and held his hand over the simple drawing. Slowly, he pulled back his hand. The soft flakes quivered. He teased the snow, rearranging the picture, then straightened up. The image’s smile was gone, replaced with a frown.

“Hello, Jack,” he said to the drawn face.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged his foot across the image, wiping the sidewalk clear. If only it was that easy to wipe away the morose feeling from inside him.

He rubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. There was a smile on his lips as he looked ahead at the elderly gentleman making his way toward him.

“Too cruel?” he asked himself.

Maybe. Jack smiled. Or maybe not. He wiggled his fingers and felt the cold air surge between them. This was who he was—the bringer of mishaps, ice, and mischief, and of the frost on the window panes.

He was Jack Frost.

Meredith Russell

Meredith Russell lives in the heart of England. An avid fan of many story genres, she enjoys nothing less than a happy ending. She believes in heroes and romance and strives to reflect this in her writing. Sharing her imagination and passion for stories and characters is a dream Meredith is excited to turn into reality.

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🦃Monday's Musical Melody🦃: The Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega by Lorelei M Hart

Summary:

Alpha Kissed #3

Of course I’ve noticed him.

He’s Hal, the singer who everyone loves and fawns over all night. There is no shortage of suitors surrounding his piano while he sings songs that drive directly into my heart. I wouldn’t stand a chance. So I sit here on my barstool and listen and pretend he might know I’m alive.

But he never takes anyone home, and I doubt he’s going to start with me.

I’m not the type of guy who approaches a man like him. I see him every night I perform at the Moonlight Lounge. The songs I choose are pointed in his direction, but nothing seems to make him look my way for more than a few seconds. His sweater vests and ties make him look a little uptight but I know there’s more. The way he bites his lip. The smooth manner in which he tips back his drink. The outline of biceps under the button down shirt I need to know him. Because my gut says he´s mine.

The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega is a MM non-shifter mpreg with a hot musical alpha, a ninja competitor, psychologist omega, and a holiday surprise meeting that sets everything in motion. The Alpha’s Cranberry-Kissed Omega is part of the Alpha Kissed series but can be read as a standalone.

Original Review November 2024:

I previously included this book in my Turkey Day blog post a couple of years ago but hadn't had the opportunity to read it until now.  Lorelei M Hart is not a new-to-me author although I've only read one other so nearly a new-to-me author😉.  Mpreg is not for everyone, frankly I didn't think it would be for me either until I read a few fan fics of various fandoms.  I really enjoyed them, my experience in the published world is still kind of limited to about three authors but I've enjoyed them all and Hart is in that column.

As my listings are limited I kind of have a preconceived expectations on the whole alpha/omega characters and in my mind's eye, I expected Hal and Kiplings roles to be reversed, don't ask me why because beyond lack of experience I have no reasoning.  I enjoyed the flip in types for me at any rate, it just completed the whole package I guess, making Cranberry-Kissed all that much more intriguing.

There aren't many Thanksgiving themed stories out there so when I find one that even mentions the holiday it goes in the Turkey File but Cranberry-Kissed begins and ends at Thanksgiving making the story seem even more complete.  Some might use the term "fluff" but to me that terminology isn't all that flattering and Cranberry-Kissed is a fun, holiday read that will warm your heart and put a smile on your face so I prefer the term "fluffy" as in Despicable Me when Agnes gets the new unicorn doll and screams: "It's so fluffy!".  Nothing but squishable goodness in Lorelei M Hart's The Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega.

RATING:

Chapter One

Hal

The week before Thanksgiving brought more kids in since school started. With the almost-year-round school schedule giving them the entire week off, parents tried to schedule their cleanings and fillings and since we were only open three days, they all had to cram into that time frame. Not that we minded, but by Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Patrick Chen, my boss, his assistant, Suzi, and I were more than ready for some time off.

And while they were done working, I had my other job to do every night starting tonight at the Moonlight Lounge. Usually I only played piano there three or four times a week, but the other entertainer was heading for Hawaii and her family for the holiday, and we always filled in for one another.

Still, at this point, I’d welcome any environment that didn’t involve screaming toddlers and cranky parents who were making them scream because they were in a rush to get to the market to buy a turkey. Apparently, they’d just gotten the memo that they should serve that on Thanksgiving.

To make matters worse, the pre-Thanksgiving night crowd at the lounge was a crowd in name only. It seemed even half-price beer and wine wasn’t enough inducement to bring the folks in. Hell, they were probably home making pies. Tomorrow was going to be even worse. With the twenty or so people scattered around the maroon leather booths and seated at the bar, there was no chance of missing the one omega I’d hoped to see.

He’d been in a few times, either by himself or with a friend, and he wasn’t without a date because he had no offers. He’d sit on a barstool and have a glass of cab, leaning against the bar and watching me play. Alphas approached him every time, but he waved them off. I couldn’t figure out his game. He seemed to enjoy my music, but never came and joined the crowd around the piano. Never called out a request or approached me when I took a break.

And since lots of guys wanted to chat up the piano player, I never managed to get to him, either. Okay...and because I wasn’t sure if he’d want me to and didn’t want to be embarrassed. Cowardly.

But this weekend, no more cowardly lion. The guy looked like an ad for surfing the waves in on a California beach. His sun-bleached hair was a little long, like getting it cut wasn’t a priority. He had deep-brown eyes and full lips that revealed very white teeth when he laughed at something his friend said. His usual tight T-shirts showed admirable upper-body development. Not like a weight lifter, everything just as it should be. If you were a hot beach guy, that is. The bartenders didn’t know a thing about him—a total rarity for those nosy parkers—and I didn’t want to keep asking because they liked razzing me about it.

The night fizzled to a close with not much in the tip jar and only one slightly inebriated alpha requesting a lot of Black Sabbath. Not that I couldn’t accommodate him, but it wasn’t really lounge fare.

Maybe my surfer boy was out of town with his folks. He sure wasn’t born and bred here, and those who weren’t cooking dinner for twenty people tomorrow were attending a dinner for that number, so the manager made the decision to call an Uber for tipsy-Sabbath guy and shut down early.

A dreary, cold late fall weekend seemed in my future. Awesome.

But once I drove home and climbed into bed, the long day and night overwhelmed me and I fell asleep right away.

 

Thanksgiving dawned bright and clear. At least I think it did. I didn’t wake up until nearly eleven and then had to scramble to get showered and shaved and dressed for the Friendsgiving at Patrick and his omega, Damon’s house. I didn’t really know why I was going. It was just another day for single guys who didn’t have any local family and especially single guys who had to work afterward.

But they were so anxious to have me, Damon so worried about me being all alone, that I’d caved. With my tremendous lack of cooking abilities, I’d been assigned to bring assorted olives and “fancy” paper napkins. As usual. It didn’t bother me, much. Nobody wanted scorched pumpkin pie or half-raw mashed potatoes, both of which I’d managed to create in the past. With a fine plan in place to grab what I needed at the store then hit the coffeehouse on the way to Patrick and Damon’s house, I climbed in my convertible and zoomed down the street.

The grocery store was mobbed. I’d made fun of the patients’ parents who didn’t know they had to buy a turkey on Wednesday, but I’d had no idea how many would be buying them at noon on Thanksgiving Day. Even with my lack of skill in the kitchen, I knew it took a long time to cook one of those big birds. What time were they planning to eat?

I stood in line at the olive bar and when I got my turn, grabbed two plastic tubs and filled them with the varieties that looked tastiest. Then, swinging my plastic basket by the handles, I headed for the paper products where I spent fifteen minutes trying to determine what made paper napkins holiday worthy vs. not holiday worthy. Finally, an elderly lady took pity on me and showed me the ones on the top shelf that cost five times what the others did and actually were called “deluxe.” I also picked up a couple of bags of ice just to be extra helpful.

There. I had accomplished my Thanksgiving Day shopping and filled with a sense of accomplishment, added a box of cookies decorated like pumpkins and pilgrims to my purchases.

I ate half of them standing in line at the self-checkout, starving and pretty sure I was going to be late.

Turned out self-checkout was not a good choice on Thanksgiving. People were buying things they bought only on that holiday. Oddly shaped vegetables and strange-looking cheeses. Most either didn’t have barcodes, or they were so messed up, the readers couldn’t handle them. And, frankly, since I hadn’t had coffee yet, I couldn’t handle any of them. If I didn’t want to show up at a meal where everyone else had made something amazing with nothing in my hands, I’d have dumped my plastic basket and left.

But I persisted. As I shuffled forward, I became aware that the store was playing Christmas music. I had nothing against carols, but felt they were best after Thanksgiving. Or at least after coffee. Finally, after two hundred ten years or fifteen minutes, one or the other, I was in purchasing position. I lifted the napkins from the cart and slid them over the reader and froze.

“Oh my gods…” A guy was heading out the door, and not just any guy. I couldn’t be sure from the back, but the man exiting had that same sun-streaked hair, tight little butt, and was wearing a jacket I’d seen on the guy at the bar.

“Sir?” The high whining pitch of the self-checkout assistant cut through my stasis. “Are you having trouble?”

“I…” What to do? I shoved the three items over the reader, figuring if I moved fast enough, my quarry would still be heading for his car. I swear I finished in under twenty seconds and was racing for the door, chased by the assistant holding the game cards I’d earned and didn’t want for their holiday sweepstakes.

Outside, I stopped and looked around, and my heart sank into my stomach.

He was gone.

Candy  /  Cranberry  /  Santa

Lorelei M Hart

Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;). 

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Alpha's Cranberry-Kissed Omega #3

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👴📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation(Grandparents Day Week)🎥📘👵: The Princess Bride by William Goldman

Summary:

The beloved novel that spawned the cult classic film. Embark on a tale of true love and swashbuckling adventure like no other.

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father; prepare to die!

Beautiful, flaxen-haired Buttercup has fallen for Westley, the farm boy.

When he departs to make his fortune, she vows never to love another. But when she hears that his ship has been captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts - who never leaves survivors - her heart is broken.

Buttercup's charms draw the attention of the relentless Prince Humperdinck who wants a wife and will go to any lengths to make her his bride. But there are other plans afoot. Plans involving mercenaries, giants, criminal philosophers, villainous counts, and pirates. So begins one of modern storytelling's most beloved tales.

 

'As brilliant and funny as its screen version' Observer

'One of the funniest, most original, and deeply moving novels I have read in a long time' Los Angeles Times

'Both modern and timeless' Neon

'A wonderful fairy tale' The Times

ONE

The Bride

The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it did not escape the Duke’s notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke’s notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary’s tragic flaw.

Chocolate.

Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors.

Annette never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Annette, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding, next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn’t have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren’t called “ulcers.” The medical profession at that time called them “stomach pains” and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess’s grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except this was before Voltaire.)

The year Buttercup turned ten, the most beautiful woman lived in Bengal, the daughter of a successful tea merchant. This girl’s name was Aluthra, and her skin was of a dusky perfection unseen in India for eighty years. (There have only been eleven perfect complexions in all of India since accurate accounting began.) Aluthra was nineteen the year the pox plague hit Bengal. The girl survived, even if her skin did not.

When Buttercup was fifteen, Adela Terrell, of Sussex on the Thames, was easily the most beautiful creature. Adela was twenty, and so far did she outdistance the world that it seemed certain she would be the most beautiful for many, many years. But then one day, one of her suitors (she had 104 of them) exclaimed that without question Adela must be the most ideal item yet spawned. Adela, flattered, began to ponder on the truth of the statement. That night, alone in her room, she examined herself pore by pore in her mirror. (This was after mirrors.) It took her until close to dawn to finish her inspection, but by that time it was clear to her that the young man had been quite correct in his assessment: she was, through no real faults of her own, perfect.

As she strolled through the family rose gardens watching the sun rise, she felt happier than she had ever been. “Not only am I perfect,” she said to herself, “I am probably the first perfect person in the whole long history of the universe. Not a part of me could stand improving, how lucky I am to be perfect and rich and sought after and sensitive and young and . . .”

Young?

The mist was rising around her as Adela began to think. Well of course I’ll always be sensitive, she thought, and I’ll always be rich, but I don’t quite see how I’m going to manage to always be young. And when I’m not young, how am I going to stay perfect? And if I’m not perfect, well, what else is there? What indeed? Adela furrowed her brow in desperate thought. It was the first time in her life her brow had ever had to furrow, and Adela gasped when she realized what she had done, horrified that she had somehow damaged it, perhaps permanently. She rushed back to her mirror and spent the morning, and although she managed to convince herself that she was still quite as perfect as ever, there was no question that she was not quite as happy as she had been.

She had begun to fret.

The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight; the first wrinkles within a month, and before the year was out, creases abounded. She married soon thereafter, the selfsame man who accused her of sublimity, and gave him merry hell for many years.

Buttercup, of course, at fifteen, knew none of this. And if she had, would have found it totally unfathomable. How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not. What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful. Or the sixth. (Buttercup at this time was nowhere near that high, being barely in the top twenty, and that primarily on potential, certainly not on any particular care she took of herself. She hated to wash her face, she loathed the area behind her ears, she was sick of combing her hair and did so as little as possible.) What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.

The horse’s name was “Horse” (Buttercup was never long on imagination) and it came when she called it, went where she steered it, did what she told it. The farm boy did what she told him too. Actually, he was more a young man now, but he had been a farm boy when, orphaned, he had come to work for her father, and Buttercup referred to him that way still. “Farm Boy, fetch me this”; “Get me that, Farm Boy—quickly, lazy thing, trot now or I’ll tell Father.”

“As you wish.”

That was all he ever answered. “As you wish.” Fetch that, Farm Boy. “As you wish.” Dry this, Farm Boy. “As you wish.” He lived in a hovel out near the animals and, according to Buttercup’s mother, he kept it clean. He even read when he had candles. “I’ll leave the lad an acre in my will,” Buttercup’s father was fond of saying. (They had acres then.)

“You’ll spoil him,” Buttercup’s mother always answered.

“He’s slaved for many years; hard work should be rewarded.” Then, rather than continue the argument (they had arguments then too), they would both turn on their daughter.

“You didn’t bathe,” her father said.

“I did, I did” from Buttercup.

“Not with water,” her father continued. “You reek like a stallion.”

“I’ve been riding all day,” Buttercup explained.

“You must bathe, Buttercup,” her mother joined in. “The boys don’t like their girls to smell of stables.”

“Oh, the boys!” Buttercup fairly exploded. “I do not care about ‘the boys.’ Horse loves me and that is quite sufficient, thank you.”

She said that speech loud, and she said it often.

But, like it or not, things were beginning to happen.

Shortly before her sixteenth birthday, Buttercup realized that it had now been more than a month since any girl in the village had spoken to her. She had never much been close to girls, so the change was nothing sharp, but at least before there were head nods exchanged when she rode through the village or along the cart tracks. But now, for no reason, there was nothing. A quick glance away as she approached, that was all. Buttercup cornered Cornelia one morning at the blacksmith’s and asked about the silence. “I should think, after what you’ve done, you’d have the courtesy not to pretend to ask” came from Cornelia. “And what have I done?” “What? What? . . . You’ve stolen them.” With that, Cornelia fled, but Buttercup understood; she knew who “them” was.

The boys.

The village boys.

The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys.

How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway? What good were they? All they did was pester and vex and annoy. “Can I brush your horse, Buttercup?” “Thank you, but the farm boy does that.” “Can I go riding with you, Buttercup?” “Thank you, but I really do enjoy myself alone.” “You think you’re too good for anybody, don’t you, Buttercup?” “No; no I don’t. I just like riding by myself, that’s all.”

But throughout her sixteenth year, even this kind of talk gave way to stammering and flushing and, at the very best, questions about the weather. “Do you think it’s going to rain, Buttercup?” “I don’t think so; the sky is blue.” “Well, it might rain.” “Yes, I suppose it might.” “You think you’re too good for anybody, don’t you, Buttercup?” “No, I just don’t think it’s going to rain, that’s all.”

At night, more often than not, they would congregate in the dark beyond her window and laugh about her. She ignored them. Usually the laughter would give way to insult. She paid them no mind. If they grew too damaging, the farm boy handled things, emerging silently from his hovel, thrashing a few of them, sending them flying. She never failed to thank him when he did this. “As you wish” was all he ever answered.

When she was almost seventeen, a man in a carriage came to town and watched as she rode for provisions. He was still there on her return, peering out. She paid him no mind and, indeed, by himself he was not important. But he marked a turning point. Other men had gone out of their way to catch sight of her; other men had even ridden twenty miles for the privilege, as this man had. The importance here is that this was the first rich man who had bothered to do so, the first noble. And it was this man, whose name is lost to antiquity, who mentioned Buttercup to the Count.

A fairy tale about a beautiful girl who is to be married to a nasty prince, but who is in love with another.

Release Date: September 25, 1987

Release Time: 98 minutes

Director: Rob Reiner

Cast:

Cary Elwes as Westley/the Dread Pirate Roberts

Mandy Patinkin as Inigo Montoya

Chris Sarandon as Prince Humperdinck

Christopher Guest as Count Tyrone Rugen

Wallace Shawn as Vizzini

André the Giant as Fezzik

Fred Savage as the grandson

Robin Wright as Buttercup, the Princess Bride

Peter Falk as the grandfather

Peter Cook as the Impressive Clergyman

Mel Smith as the Albino

Carol Kane as Valerie

Billy Crystal as Miracle Max

Awards:

60th Academy Awards - April 11, 1988

Best Original Song - Storybook Love - Nominated

AFI's 100 Years...

100 Passions - #88

William Goldman

William Goldman (b. 1931) is an Academy Award–winning author of screenplays, plays, memoirs, and novels. His first novel, The Temple of Gold (1957), was followed by the script for the Broadway army comedy Blood, Sweat and Stanley Poole (1961). He went on to write the screenplays for many acclaimed films, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) and All the President’s Men (1976), for which he won two Academy Awards. He adapted his own novels for the hit movies Marathon Man (1976) and The Princess Bride (1987).

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