The Magic of Stories

"Your death will be slow,"

He said in a voice that chilled her to the bone.

"But if you tell me a story, it will be painless."

She trembled in his gaze, her ears filled with the sound of the crackling log fire

In her beating heart, she felt it become her pyre

Accepting his offer with a small nod, she tugged on her mustard sweater

A gift from where times were better

Her mouth, dry from the anxiety,

Began a tale of fantasy

Once she began, she wouldn't stop,

Talking night and day, like a fizzling pot without a top

Her words became tapestries,

A rusted key,

The feel of velvet,

Of beautiful maidens bearing chipped red nail polish

She spoke and spoke until the clock broke

Only when the prince made her pause for his scribe to copy the story did she pause

When the man of curly hair, round glasses, and pale blue typewriter stopped clicking the keys,

She returned to the point of the story

Days passed until her tale ended

Waiting for her soul to be taken,

She heard applause

"Wonderful, wonderful!" The prince cried

He declared that the girl would not die

Instead, her life of hardship became one of luxury,

All she needed was her ability to tell a story

The pair would grow close

The tales they swapped became the foundation of a home