MY REVIEW
I don’t read a lot of fairy tale retellings, but when one comes my way by an author I enjoy, bring it on. That is the case with Only Until Midnight by Michael B Chikondi. It’s always fun to see what kind of spin an author can put on an oft told tale and Michael did a great job.
The mice running around the house added a fun touch.
There is not a lot to say on a subject that has been written about so much, but Michael added this and that, making the story his own. The Prince…that was nice touch, even though I had immediately caught the twist.
A quick, fun story that is sure to entertain, and it left me with a smile on my face.
GOODREADS BLURB
There are battles in this world which most people never see.
Sometimes the need to preserve our spirit, hope and dignity is the trial that we face, and love just the prize. This is one such tale.
Retelling the classic fairytale, this story focuses not on the quest to win the handsome prince, but on Cinderella before the ball, and the reality of life with a narcissist – the stepmother in whose ‘care’ the young girl is left after she becomes an orphan.
How does a person maintain their optimism and their sense of self in a hopeless situation that they cannot control, when even other people living in the house cannot see what is going on right under their noses? Some conflicts are fought over many years, lost and won without anyone knowing that a war was happening at all.
Only Until Midnight is at once a return to the traditional values of the fairytale and an unflinching look at the reality behind it, making the magical princess more relatable than ever as a woman in an impossible situation.
- Genre: Fairy Tales and Folklore, Fantasy, Fiction, Romance
- 193 pages, Kindle Edition
- Published April 15, 2024
ABOUT MICHAEL B CHIKONDI (from Amazon)
Michael B. Chikondi is not to be trusted, but the creature agrees to a meeting in its burrow. We enter with trepidation, given that the thing has no doorbell. As we crawl through the narrow tunnel, gored out by its own teeth, by the texture, we hear what can only be described as a hacking cough.
“Can we approach?” we call.
“No soliciting.” the voice returns.
“You sent for us; you told us to ask you questions. You know, for promotional reasons.”
“Ask.” the dread voice responds.
“Alright, who are you?” we try.
“A creature of mist and shadow, half-mad, I used to go out, I did, and know those…humans. Not now, not since…the pen.”
“You found a pen? That’s why you became a writer?” we ask, now terrified, trying to gauge how fast we can leave the burrow. The photographer has already left us, chewing off his own watch, caught on a tree root.
“Yes, but now…I hunger…”
We are not proud; we turn tail and flee, before it can leave its den. We aren’t paid enough to get a full bio. We can only pray someone buys its books, so that the thing never comes out on its own.
Ed. What the hell is this? This isn’t what we requested. Just some nonsense and an artist’s rendition of what one of my people saw before he contracted rabies? Eh, whatever. Plenty more writers in the sea.
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