Run, rabbit, run. Down the rabbit hole. It goes faster if you tuck your skirt around your legs tightly and close your eyes.
Go, Bridget, go!
I was up off my backside and running, never daring to look behind me, since the shadow stretching out in front of me was enough incentive. In my head the constant soundtracker took over and put Vivaldi to my movements, which made my brain compete with my legs for speed and made me dizzy. I fought to replace it with Bach. Angry, brooding German. Sonata No. 1 in G minor. Hell, pick something, princess, just get moving!
Down further and further, the cavern looped around and around, a spiral deep underground, leading God knows where. A door. It's a door. Open it. Run inside and SLAM! Turn and survey the room. Lightbulb in the ceiling and a tiny bottle on the floor in the center, almost directly underneath the bulb.
DRINK ME.
Who am I to question the weirdness of the moment or the relative recklessness of drinking something that I can't identify?
Whoooooooosh.
I'm tiny. The size of a firefly. My voice is a helium buzz and I laugh, a chipmunk bubble not even loud enough to echo off the stone walls. I can hide anywhere now, the problem is running. It will take weeks to cover the same distance I just ran when I was big.
The door flies open and I hide behind the tiny bottle, crouched down because it's empty. Hoping it's enough.
Fee Fi Fo fum.
What the fuck? I don't remember a giant in this story. But where there are giants, there are beanstalks. And golden eggs. Maybe if I can find both I can buy my way out of this mess. The goose was probably eaten already by the Queen of Hearts and her ludicrous children and I am fresh out of luck and storybooks. Why oh why can't this be The Princess and the Pea? That one is easy.
I step out.
Caleb.
Yes, princess?
It doesn't go like that.
It doesn't matter. I have money, I'll just change it.
But you can't. It's a classic.
Write another.
I don't write fairytales.
Sure you do.
Not until after they happen.
Why is that?
It's just the way I am.
He grinned, and the giant was replaced by the beast.
Stop that.
Stop what?
Stop changing. I can't keep you straight.
That's my point. If you didn't write it, I can do whatever I please. Free reign on the page.
Then it won't be a very good story and no one will read it. A sad ending to your hopes of becoming a classic.
Suddenly he was Caleb again and I blinked and he passed me a cookie. One bite and I was back to Bridget-size, all five feet of anxiety, words and humor that becomes unrecognizable emo swill with one good shake. Nice yellow dress. I don't wear yellow. Christ. He held up the rose. It was already dead. My favorite kind.
So what would make it a classic?
Time.
Hard to have time when you won't stop running, Bridget.
Fairytales have happy endings, and I am nowhere near one right now.
How do you know that?
Because you're here.
Aren't you supposed to give me the gold? Then I'll go away. Unless...
Rumpelstiltskin!
*POOF*
