The loveliest waxy red. A shine brushed over your supple skin, a sliver of moon.
You know the grey curve will soon be naught but a scant ring and your red will change back into flesh; proper and meaty, the orchard flies leaving you for rotting, frailer apples.
Your curse. To live numerous days, unable to speak nor move, no longer royal-blooded. Sweeter juice runs now.
No matter.
It will end once the black disk’s over the moon.
In your anticipation, you fail to hear the intruder. You cannot see her sallow expression, nor the danger of it. Desperation.
Hunger.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of 7 Fairy Tale-Inspired Drabbles
Kort verhaalWhat it says on the tin. (For those unfamiliar with what a drabble is, imagine a short story that's designed to stand on exactly 100 words. That's a drabble.)
