1002

He slipped a rufie in my drink. Idiot me, I was already tipsy—it was New Years, and the club was packed. Going out alone like that? Yeah, not my best idea.

Now it was September 27th, more than two years later. Or so said my nightstand alarm clock's calendar. December 31st would mark the third year he'd kept me here.

Wherever this was. The Mojave, maybe? Something told me that despite the dry air and golden sand all around his stone fortress, I was still on American soil. I hoped. That was all I had left, you know?

“Scheherezade, my love.”

I gritted my teeth and looked away as he wrapped me in his arms. That was the price for having hippie parents. “I’ve told you a thousand times. It’s Sherry.”

See, Stockholm syndrome? Not really my thing.

He shook his head at me. “No, dearest. Tonight is our thousand-and-first.”

I suppressed a snort. His gaze cooled, reminding me of the torture tools in the dungeon.

“Y-yes, darling,” I simpered. “And what tale would you hear from me tonight?”

Once I was a children’s librarian. Now I tell this nutjob stories.

“Your namesake,” he breathed, clasping my hands tight. “Please.”

Nodding, I guided him to the bed. Our bed, unfortunately. Seated between him and the clock, I began:

“Once there was a sultan whose first wife betrayed him. In anger, he took a new wife to bed every night, then had them beheaded the next morning. Until Scheherazade. Each night, she told him tales, but she never finished before sunrise. Each morning, he would let her live so that he could hear the story’s end. When on the thousand-and-first night she ran out of tales, she expected him to kill her, but the sultan realized he’d fallen in love instead. They were happy to the end of their days.”

“And you, love?”

I blushed. “Of course.”

At that, he fell to nuzzling my neck, so passionate, so sure of himself. So foolish. I smashed the alarm clock against his skull.

Damned if I’d live with him another night.

* * *
This was my entry for Yearning For Wonderland's Once Upon A Time flash fiction contest. Be sure to check out other entries below, and feel free to join in!

Job Satisfaction

There was a new figurine on the basement mantelpiece.

The summer I was seven, Grandma Taylor took to babysitting me and my sisters, since Mom’s last mat leave was done with and she couldn’t afford otherwise. I was the eldest, and back then I escaped from my snotty, whining siblings whenever I could. The basement, a cluttered monument to years gone by, had its own fireplace, and Grandma liked to put her garage sale finds along its edges. No matter how poorly made or what they portrayed, tiny statues were her favourite. And since this was a Monday, I knew there’d be something new waiting for me.

I crept closer, peering at the addition. Squarish and squat, wings folded back upon itself, the miniature stone statue scowled through the gloom. Just as I reached him, gaze level with the mantelpiece, the drafty room grew colder.

Then his eyes moved.

“Of all the injustices,” he muttered, and I could have sworn he clenched his claws. “To be consigned to a dungeon!”

I blinked, but I wasn’t fazed. Children never doubt the magic, not even the first time. “This isn’t a dungeon,” I told him. “It’s just a basement.”

His tiny gaze met mine. “Don’t you understand, child? This is a travesty! Gargoyles are meant to protect humans. What am I guarding here?”

“Well,” I hedged, “These are kinda like my grandma’s treasures—”

He sniffed. “I see no gold or jewels.”

“And I come here a lot,” I quickly added. “You could guard me.”

Now he studied me, intent. “Do you mean that, truly?”

I nodded.

“And you promise?” His voice now quavered with hope.

“Yes,” I breathed.

I don’t hear him anymore. Somehow I lost the magic when I grew up. But these days, he guards my apartment.

* * *
This was my entry for Yearning For Wonderland's The Fairy Ring Contest. Interested in participating? Here are the details: