Velli

Parents push, bargain with, and drag their kids out of the Fairy-Tale Forest. The transporter drops me off on the edge, so I’m a silent witness to it all. A beautiful arch of flowers sits as a perfect exit for many who have just had a wonderful day. Midnight’s ominous approach causes the flowers to shed their petals over a giggling young couple that swings their lanterns and holds hands. I try to be happy for them. It doesn’t work. They look like happy ghosts leaving another world, the way the light from the Fairy-Tale Forest sun shines on them then the dark of the real world’s night takes over.

In the sky, a second, dying, evening-orange sun with a cartoonish white smile, black freckles, and eyes that never grow weary mouths, “Bye, see ya later. It’s closing time.”

The crowd follows the dirt trail through the flower arch and past me. A few toddlers whine and refuse to leave. Eventually, parents will hurl their kids out of the forest if they need to. I laugh at the thought, though it’s true. No one wants to be here when the Fairy-Tale Forest changes.

My transporter offers to stay and wait for me. He thinks I won’t be much longer because it’s so close to midnight. I lie and tell him I’m meeting a friend who’s another transporter.

I’m a good liar, but it’s too close to midnight. He yells my name and offers me a discounted rate on the transport away from here. He tells me not to throw away my life on a dare or for curiosity’s sake.

My social battery is tapped from the night’s events. I don’t bother speaking with him anymore. He’s served his purpose.

I head to the forest for my destiny or defeat. Maybe it’s the same thing. The transporter’s voice grows fainter, fainter, and is finally gone. And yet I find no peace. The stench of truth in his warnings still makes my breathing shaky.

Darkness grows and feeds my fear. The cartoonlike sun isn’t enough to give light to the forest. The large trees block it out, almost making it like a rainforest canopy, except these trees are dark green. The beautiful smell of fresh air, grass, and dirt reminds me of a good hike. It fills my lungs and mind, taking me back to days with the Happy Doomed, days that can’t happen anymore.

I peek behind me. The transporter is gone as well as the last resistant toddler. It’s me and the fairy tales now, and they’re almost gone. The kindest fairy tales from history hold lamps as they prepare to take their exit from the forest. A knight in full body armor, a princess in a pink gown that doesn’t touch the ground, Red Riding Hood, and three pigs all walk around the woods with a sense of urgency.

A lantern falls by my feet.

“This brings back memories, doesn’t it?” a loud-talking brown donkey says right beside me.

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

“Memories.” His enthusiasm doubles. “This brings back memories. One thing about me, ol’ Eddie, I never forget a face.” He closes his eyes and walks around me in a circle. “You came here when you were a little thing and tried to ride me, then… then… you tried to steal the gingerbread man and put him right in your pocket. You would have gotten away with it, but Goldilocks knew he was missing. They were newlyweds then.”

“Wow.” I blink and shake my head in disbelief. “Yeah, yeah, that was me.”

“Velli, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s right. They say elephants never forget, but most animals don’t. We just don’t make a big scene about it. I was talking to Dumbo the other day, and he said, ‘Eddie, y’know, I got this good memory.’ He was saying it between burps because, you know, he still has that alcohol problem. Took one sip of the stuff, and he drinks it like Pooh drinks honey, but anyway, I said, ‘Dumbo, now, what does that have to do with anything? I asked you for a slice of cake, talking about your memory.’ I tell you, elephants always talking, talking, talking about their memories. Not donkeys. No, sir. In fact, we barely talk. I’m the only one.”

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He, of course, is not a real talking donkey. None of the creatures in the forest are the real thing. They are merely a result of the Rain on the theme park. What they would be classified as, though, is anyone’s guess. Although, I see his chest beat up and down like the real thing, he smells like a farm like the real thing, and his lips move and never stop like a talking donkey. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

“No, no,” he says. “Your average talking donkey won’t say a word unless spoken to. In fact, people say I don’t talk enough.”

I resist challenging that and cough to slyly interrupt him. It doesn’t work.

The donkey keeps going. “Well, now, let me be honest. I don’t hear them say I don’t talk enough, but I know they think it. My wife. Now, my wife does not talk enough.”

We make eye contact. I don’t bother hiding that we have to wrap up this conversation.

“I know, I know,” he says. “Now, most men, they be like, ‘My wife talks too much.’ Well, she and I are different.”

He does not seem to understand that I don’t want to talk anymore.

“I love her. We are a beautiful mixed couple. Now, I love my Jennys, but sometimes, I need my Drakainas. You should see our kids! I actually have a phone in my fur. Sort of like a pocket.” He spins around and chases his own tail three times. “Hey, you’ve been standing there a minute. What exactly do you need? A story? Most of our plays, contests, and all those fun activities are done for the night.”

“I don’t need anything. I’m waiting for midnight.”

He’s in shock and finally speechless.

“Good day to you, Eddie. It was nice seeing you again.” I sidestep him to go deeper into the forest.

“Hey, now, wait a minute. What are you doing that for? I don’t know if you know this, but we all leave when midnight comes. We go into hiding, and the nightmares come out. I’m talking about every monster, everything from goblins to minotaurs, skinwalkers, vampires, old fae, the Goatman of Maryland, even Bloody Mary.”

Flashes of blood and gore leap into my head with every name he mentions. Things that I can’t truly prepare for because they don’t exist. Discomfiting. “Fake it until you make it,” as the phrase goes. So the only thing I can say to the donkey is “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“You… you throwing your life away for—”

I cut him off before he gets started again. “No, I’m not throwing it away. I’m using all of it for one beautiful purpose. Isn’t that why you’re here? I know the Rain brought you all to life and whatnot, and you have to live here. But your stories, they’re to help us live our lives to the fullest, aren’t they? To be brave. Accept ourselves. Believe anything is possible.”

“But there are scary stories, too, Velli. Stories to keep kids from going out in the dark, where it’s dangerous.”

“And,” someone else says, “we are much better off reading the best stories. The ones that tell us life is scary and to be brave anyway.” The voice belongs to a naked, chubby yellow bear.

“Pooh,” Eddie cries. “The monsters are going to crush him.”

The bear says in his iconic raspy voice, “A different monster could crush him outside the Fairy-Tale Forest, or a big oak tree could just fall on him.” Pooh stops speaking to Eddie and turns to me. “Do you have a good reason for this?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Then this is what you should do. When you don’t have all the answers, when you don’t know whether you’ll win or lose, you should be brave.” Then he walks past me and pats the donkey twice on the back. “Come, Eddie. We don’t have a reason to stay in the forest. Let’s go to our hiding spots.”

Eddie follows, and I watch them chat.

“Oh, wait, sir.” Pooh turns back to me. “If you do make it through the night—and I do hope you do—come meet us here, and bring all your friends for breakfast.”

“And in the morning,” the donkey interrupts. “I’m making w—”

“What can we put honey on? Waffles. I’ll be sure to smother them with honey.” Pooh pats his belly, and the two go off to hide, disappearing into the darkness.

I rush through the forest with the light from my phone as a guide. More fairy tales hold lamps and give me cheery, smiling warnings to leave. I don’t speak to any of them. I head for a certain stone in the center of the park. There it is, right where I remember it. The sword in the stone. Usually, the line is nearly a mile long. The last time I was here, I had to leave without a chance to see if I was worthy. That’s funny.

“To see if I’m worthy,” I mock.

It’s not actually stuck there. Anyone can pull it out. Something about everyone is worthy of success, some life lesson. We can all be kings, maybe. Yes, I like that, and I’ll prove it here, tonight. I reach for the sword and pull it out with such ease, it’s hard to believe people struggle with it.

Anyone can be a king. I only afford myself three practice swings to get used to the feel of it. Then I tuck it into my belt and climb the nearest tree to wait.