In a Land Far Away: An Anthology

Maiden of a Broken World - Rapunzel's Tale

by EmiliaRamos21

Once upon a time...

There was a girl who knew not of this planet's guilty tales.

Of miners buried under their own fuel.

Of captains drowned by the ice their engines melted.

Of greed. Of guilt. Of pain.

Of a burning world.

This is her tale.

Year: 2296

 Wait, that can't be right, can it? White lilies, yellow daisies, blue tulips... those are all fine, but orange roses? Uh, all wrong! My garden house is supposed to have rich forest green vines with bright flowers and red roses. All the millennial-aged fairytales say red roses: Beauty and the Beast, you know, the old classics.

And that's how I programmed the garden house world, so why am I biking through a reality with orange roses?

Beep. Beep.

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM PRINCECHARMING08: Hi 

Huh, a message. And probably what interfered with my reality programming too. My eyes dart around the screen as I bite my lip. Is this real? Or just another one of Mother's tests to ensure no rules get broken? As I take off my VR glasses, a swarm of scenarios play out: a ruthless hacker, a dangerous scammer, and (of course) the usual handsome boy. The imaginary one that my brain has endless hours to construct while in my little tower. Mother says my heart won't get broken on her watch, but sometimes I wonder whether a bruised heart is better than none at all.

"Zel!" Mother's voice calls out from the computer on the other side of the room. "That's enough time in your reality for one day. Aren't you planning to make breakfast before you starve?"

I'd rather live on the sight of flowers. I think.

"Yes, Mother,"

My chamber had fallen into disarray, but a quick neatness filter on Mother's viewing camera fixes that. From her perspective, the dirty laundry bags, wrinkled dresses, and jumbled programming gear don't exist. That still doesn't stop her from fumbling about the decor, though. Bright lavender walls decorate my little room, some painted with rainbows, others with flowers. Chalk sketches of faces lay scattered across the room, too many for any filter to hide. Mother says it's childish, the way I paint every square inch of my tower with blinding color; the way I create faces to keep me company... but it's all just a distraction.

From how utterly alone I am.

Breakfast (aka nitrogen ice cream) is delicious as always, with the slight aftertaste of a sugary headache. For a solid hour, I just lay there on my bed, brushing my golden locks and thinking of the message I'd received. Of course, I know I'm wasting time, but after fifteen years locked in a tiny tower, wasting time has become a skill of mine.

Anyone who got through Mother's digital firewalls must be intelligent. Ooh, smart and handsome! (I mean, his name was PrinceCharming08). Why would he want to talk to me anyway? Oh, what would await me if I did accept the message? Which I couldn't, I know. But what if... Those are my three favorite words right there.

But: the answer to anything Mother says.

What: a creative catalyst.

If: the child of my runaway imagination.