By Edward Sand
I should have been suspicious of the name. Whirlpool of Destiny. The ancient scrolls promised that I, Prince Quenton, would find freedom in its magical depths. Instead, as soon as I touched the water’s surface, I emerged through a flash of green light in a room smaller than a servant’s bedchamber.
I held my sword aloft and turned a circle, but no foe approached.
Sunlight filtered through the shuttered slats of the lone window. Overflowing bookshelves lined the walls around a desk littered with mugs, notebooks, a stuffed dragon, and… a laptop? I somehow knew of this device. Perhaps the whirlpool had unlocked vast knowledge beyond my realm.
I stood upon an open book in the middle of the carpeted floor. After stepping aside and lifting this book, I recognized myself on the front cover, which depicted my finest moment: I stood, blazing sword in hand, before the dragon of Halfmoon’s Deep.
Shards of a Prince by Rita Knife.
Something in me said this wasn’t a biography. Clearly I was but a character in a novel. The whirlpool had indeed set me free… from the tyranny of an author’s whim.
“What shall I do with my newfound freedom?” I wondered aloud, which was a habit of mine that now made sense. I pondered the many tortures I had endured for the amusement of this Rita Knife. The death of my parents, my mentor, my horse, my hilarious sidekick. I would need years of therapy in this new world.
I shook my fist at the book. “I shall have my revenge, Rita Knife!”
I seated myself at the laptop and created an Amazon account, then typed my two-star review for Shards of a Prince.
“Meh. Run-of-the-mill Ring of the Lords rip-off.” I created more accounts and wrote more reviews, my grin broadening with each submission.
“I read the first three chapters, then Tahini Street came on so I watched that instead.” I thought for a moment, then added, “I have no offspring.”
Twelve reviews later, I laced my hands behind my head and leaned back with a contented sigh. Perhaps I could forego therapy after all.
I explored the other open webpages. At first I thought the next tab was nothing but pictures of me, but it was actually a Pinterest board of actors and former boy band members who shared my handsome features. I took a closer look at my surroundings. The mugs had coffee residue inside and snarky phrases outside.
Coffee first. Words later.
Not a morning person.
The notebooks bore names of my brethren next to four letter codes like ENFJ and ISTP. From these clues I deduced that the Whirlpool of Destiny had delivered me into the author’s office, the lair of my enemy. I closed the tab, and a word document filled the page.
As Quenton touched the water’s surface, he emerged through a flash of green light into a small room.
An icy cold settled over me.
A pop-up appeared. Low battery.
After failing to find a power cord, I scrolled frantically through the document.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever eyed.
I hesitated here but scrolled on. I had to reach the conclusion of this 314,878 word document. I had to know my fate. The scrolling came to an abrupt end.
Quenton dove in front of the love of his life and intercepted the bullets meant for her with his torso. He lay on the sidewalk in more pain than he had ever known and stretched his hand toward the princess. “I gladly accept these twelve bullets for you.”
“Eleven, actually,” she said. “One missed.”
I kicked off the desk and rode the rolling chair into the far wall. “No, it can’t be.” Tidings of my death troubled me, but the author’s script moreso. I searched in vain for a framed publishing contract on the meager wall space. I snatched the copy of Shards of a Prince off the floor and flipped to the title page. An unreadable signature filled it. Above that, in slightly neater handwriting: For Tiffany, my biggest fan!
The book fell from my fingers. I clutched my face, threw myself against the nearest bookshelf, and sank to the floor. “I… am…” I swallowed. “I am fan fiction.” I had emerged in the office of Tiffany, not Rita Knife.
But wait, the document. I could forge my own destiny. I scampered back to the laptop, trying to remember if bulletproof was one word or two, but the battery had died. Curse my habit of becoming dramatic in time-sensitive situations.
A college-aged woman entered the room, frizzy bed hair bobbing on her head. She wore pajamas with bunny slippers and had both hands cupped around a steaming mug that read, “I have coffee. Your argument is invalid.” Clearly this was Tiffany, my true creator. Her jaw dropped.
Another flash of green light flooded the room, and with it came—I had to admit—the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had eyes of ice and long, white hair, a throwing knife at each hip and a crossbow nestled behind her black cape.
“I can’t believe it worked!” Tiffany danced from foot to foot, carefully maneuvering her coffee to keep from spilling.
“M’Lady.” I dropped to one knee before the magnificent newcomer. “Of whom do I have the pleasure of sharing oxygen?” I had, in the back of my mind, just enough self-awareness to send Tiffany the dirtiest side glance I could muster for writing this line.
Tiffany nearly burst with excitement. “This is Ice Black from Rita Knife’s amazing Snow White retelling.”
Ice Black slapped me. Hard. “Am I some prize to you? Have some dignity. You disgust me.”
I glared at Tiffany, my cheek stinging. She had been mouthing along with Ice Black’s words.
“Don’t worry,” Tiffany whispered. “She’ll come around. Eventually. It takes warmth and patience to thaw a frozen heart.”
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