#this is generally what happens whenever I try to write something cutesy sdlkhofgkkgf

[sleepylop]

Fairytale Getaway (Of Cherry Skies and Sour Apples)

I.

His tongue is a slab of rotting pulp. That same mutant sugar embeds itself into each outcoming word. This, at the very least, explains the unconditional notes of fermenting orange in his breath. Or, maybe, it’s just the rejection of oral hygiene. He’s not exactly keen toward mouthwash.

The reality is, I’ve grown up knowing that someday, whenever I was to skim the surface of womanhood, I’d be married off. I’ve spent just as long with intrusive thoughts, silently begging for a tolerable husband. Most suitors have met this low-bar threshold. Elric Bliss, however, has fallen fatally short. So short, in fact, that each time he over-enunciates his “t” sound, I now have to restrain myself from wringing his skinny neck—every movement he makes seems to aggravate me further.

Elric is also the sole candidate to earn my mother’s approval. Read: He was the only man of royal blood to proposition me. Royal blood so thick, that clearly, it’s congealing inside his skull. No person with such a self-important worldview could ever be in full control of his brain function.

Nonetheless, as a fairytale protagonist, I’ve found ways to hold onto hope. Although, there will always be something morale-gnawing about having such flimsy control over your own destiny. Which daydream-tier tropes will consume the remainder of my life? Is my unwilling existence only satire? Or, possibly, I’m only the victim of some sort of macabre snuff fantasy. Soon enough, I’m certain that this smog will clear, and I’ll meet my fate. After all, my story doesn’t truly begin until I’m forcibly thrust into my first prince-aligned chronicle of drama—please, disregard Elric’s lack of literal princehood. It’s not as if my mother can tell the difference, either.

“You know, my dearest Connie, I look forward to boiling alive the flesh of any man who dares interfere with our union. Ha! I’m hilarious, aren’t I? Please, dearest Connie, tell me that I’m the unmatched master of relatable comedy.” Elric spits each word like a spongy bullet, squeezing out from between chipped teeth and settling into my lap. Soon enough, my own vomit is likely to take their place.

His muddy eyes are glazed over and look as if they’d be as malleable as flan. On that note, I could certainly benefit from some midday dessert, right now. Maybe just some freshly-picked fruit.

I roll the tulle of my dress between my fingertips, shrugging from across the table. “Well, of course. Clearly, you’re a very relatable person, with in-touch life experience. How else would you be able to channel the thoughts of a common person so accurately? Anyway, could I have a sip of your gin?” I ask in my most milk chocolate-drenched voice, slowly beginning to snake my arm across the tabletop.

Elric contorts his face in disgust. “You may not be familiar yet, but distinguished ladies keep away from alcoholic drinks,” he says, curling his fingers around his glass, lightly sloshing the liquid. “Soon enough, I’m sure you’ll be able to unlearn such savage habits. No need to worry.”

Then, following a beat of heavy silence, “It should still be some time until our meal is finished being prepared,” I say. “Would you mind if I step out, privately, for a minute? I just need to stretch my legs. I’ve been sitting here for quite a long time.” It feels like it’s been decades.

“Do you not want me to join you?” Elric questions as we continue to hold eye-contact, the suspense nearly visible between us.

I force a taut smile, the strawberry tone of my lips turning pale from the tension. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to burden you. I’ll only be a moment.”

I begin to stand as Elric scoffs. “Fine,” he says, before snorting. “Please, be back soon. I’m sure our food will arrive from the kitchen soon enough.”

I scuttle toward the door, the tapping of my heels echoing off the dining room walls. Those same vinyl heels are abandoned shortly thereafter, as I begin to jog down the hallway.

Sun-faded portraits track me with their eyes.

The air of this estate is slowly poisoning me—as is the heir.

II.

Just beyond the manicured gardens, at the point where weeds are spared and allowed to curl up from the dirt, I slow from a gallop to a trudge. I finally attempt to catch my breath.

Faded cherry skies are hanging above and around me, gelatinous, and infused almost comically with specks of glitter. The clouds swirl like the mouths of paralyzed tornadoes. There’s a faintly nutty scent in the air, mingling with the much more potent smell of soil and artificial berries.  

What an incredibly ordinary, mundane day.

Shortly off the edge of the property, I come to a halt. Clusters upon clusters of trees stare down at me, scrutinizing me, bone by bone. What would a royal estate be without a forbidden forest, conveniently placed nearby?

A lopsided sign, its wood beginning to grow fungus and moss, offers a message:

“Warning!

Forbidden forest! Very forbidden! Boo!

Do not enter, Connie!”

My shoulders tense ever-so-slightly as I drift past.

The sky above me seems to darken under the canopy of rich greens and browns. Beneath my bare feet, the ground begins to resemble crusted-over custard. The sounds of chirping and squawking and intermittent crunching drown out my thoughts.

So, it seems, this is where I’m meant to be. Cool.

I begin to hum softly, matching the tempo of my movement.

Finally, I can breathe again.

III.

My feet are stained nearly ink-black by the time I see it. Meanwhile, the burning in the back of my calves is nagging me like a frustrated toddler.

A pastel-toned cottage sits under darkness. The roof and walls are sloped, curving into the shape of a colossal mushroom. I can only vaguely distinguish the shades of candied orange and petal pink from one another. A single door and slit-like window sit on the surface.

Well, that looks wonderfully suspicious and likely sinister. Perfect. Clearly, I’m right where I’m meant to be.

I rap twice on the door, which appears tall enough to accommodate a bipedal horse.

After a minute or so, when the cocoon of darkness is just beginning to weigh down on me, the door begins to inch open. A soft, orange glow creeps into the forest, along with a waft of burning sage.

A pair of seemingly backlit eyes rapidly dim as they meet my own.

Dressed entirely in black velvet, a sheet-pale woman looms above me. Her wide-brimmed hat comes up to a perfectly crisp point. While pursing her already thin lips, a boney, lithe hand reaches into her pocket. As she turns her nose downward, its sharp hook becomes all-the-more visible.

Meanwhile, the generic woodland backtrack seems to reach its end.

I stay still and quiet.

The harsh-angled woman pulls out a single piece of fruit, before holding it out toward me. Her razorblade nails dig into the flesh of an otherwise flawless apple, juice beginning to trail down her fingers.

“I assume you came for this?” she asks, her voice like soured honey.

“Did I? Oh. That makes sense,” I mutter, pulling the fruit from her grip. “Thanks.”

With only the lightest hesitation, I close my eyes, and push my teeth into the offering.

Her lips twist into a smile.

“Enjoy,” she whispers, voice practically dissolving into the space between us.

IV. Epilogue.

Nearly a year has passed since Gardenia and I first met. Since then, her dedication to her orchard has only deepened, as I have continued to support and encourage her agricultural hobbies. The quality of her product has also improved, now notably less sour, in contrast with that first sample she’d gifted me. I no longer taste her pickings at the front doorway. Rather, I often find myself enjoying at least a pair of freshly harvested apples, sitting by Gardenia at the dining room table. The thick scent of baking pie blankets us both.

Spread across the surrounding walls, there sits several clusters of wildflowers; which, are enchanted so as to cling, mummified in shades of spell-enhanced neon, to the darkwood. Gardenia is thumbing through her newest bread-focused recipe-book, sucking on the inside of her cheek as she jots another note in the margin. She’s absolutely beautiful like this. So entrenched in her passions, her moss-green eyes glowing—quite literally. Gardenia is a magical being with magical quirks, after all.

“Oh, wow, I have to try this out… sometime soon,” she says, pointing a sharp nail at the surface of the page, beside a grey-toned illustration of a dinner roll. “I’m not sure I’ve ever thought to add vanilla to this sort of mixture, before. Hm.”

As it turns out, settling into a domestic relationship with a witch comes with a wonderful bonus: It’s much simpler to hide from your family’s periodic search-parties. Of course, it isn’t as if I’d need that particular perk to keep me willingly tethered here.

I’d never planned to fall in love—rather, I’d begun to wilfully grapple against the notion—but I’m grateful to be in the position that I am, now.

After all, I’d choose my dearest Gardenia over all else, anyone, anyday.

Particularly over Elric Bliss.