F is for Fairytale

So, fairytale retellings.

I don't mind reading them, but I've never, ever had a desire to write one. BUT, I've been participating in a 12 week writing competition and a couple of weeks ago they had us write a scene for a fairytale retelling. And it was kind of fun. Especially since I could twist it however I wanted.

So, fairytale retellings. I may possibly write one. Someday.

Are fairytales your thing? Every written one? Plan to?

Until then, if you have time, enjoy my 600 word submission below. And after reading it, let me know in the comments if you figured out WHICH fairy tale I retold. :)

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The first thing I feel is a pair of lips on my mouth. Warm. No—hot. Burning. A part of me thinks they burn because my own lips are cold as ice.

The fire lips on mine are soft. Gentle. Then harder. Firmer. So forceful they cover all of my mouth and I think my breath is being stolen out of me. But then I feel air flow into me, not out. And I realize these hot and firm lips are trying to give me life, not take it.

My lungs fight against the forced air. This isn’t right, they scream. Not right at all. But the rest of my body fights. Take the air, they beg. We need it. Desperate, my body shakes and my heart pounds against my chest. Inhale, damn it.

I sit up and gasp, winning the battle against my lungs. Panting, I look around. I’m in a room with metal walls and marble floors. I sit in a hard plastic bed with sides and a hinged cover that reminds me of a coffin. My eyes adjust to the dim light of glowing computer monitors along one side of the wall and I see more plastic beds scattered throughout the room.

A man in front of me covers his mouth and shakes his head. He lowers his hand slowly and I know, just by the shape of his lips, he is the one with the burning kiss. “You’re alive,” he says in a whisper, as if saying it any louder would make it untrue.

“Where am I?” I ask. My voice is dry, cracked. I wonder when the last time water has flowed down my throat.

“Moab,” he says, rifling through a bag on his shoulder for something. “Utah.”

The words mean nothing to me. My head is fuzzy and I struggle to remember how I got here. To this room. Into this plastic coffin.

“I’m Phil,” he says, handing over a clear bottle filled with water.

I drink greedily, letting too much of it spill down my chin and onto my clothes. I look down at my black jumpsuit and it triggers a memory—my mother zipping me into the one-piece suit. I look around the room again and narrow my eyes at the other beds.

“I was hiking through the canyon just east,” Phil says, pointing with his left hand. “I heard a buzzing sound. I guess it was the hum of the computers.” He steps toward me, then back again, unsure. “I found this room hidden in the rock.”

I press my hands to my temples, trying to remember something. My family. Danger. A curse.

“I saw you lying there,” he continues. “Through the plastic. And you were breathing and peaceful and…” Phil rubs the back of his neck. “But when I opened the cover you stopped breathing and I didn’t know what to do, so I—“

I touch my mouth and remember his burning lips on mine.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Phil gestures to the other beds. “Do you know who all these people are?”

Suddenly, I know within each of those plastic coffins will be someone I know. A brother, sister, mother, father. It is my family.

I pull my foot up to read a digital clock strapped to my ankle. It reads 100:00:00:05:36. I’ve been asleep in this cryogenic chamber for a hundred years.

“What’s your name?” Phil asks, finally daring to step close to me.

“Aurora,” I say. “But my friends—and those who decide to save my life—call me Rory.”

Phil smiles. "Nice to meet you, Rory."