Some #microfiction for all those who didn’t think Prince Eric was up to much…
“You have three days to secure true love’s kiss, or your soul is forfeit. Three days.”
In the end, it only took three hours for the mermaid to work out that she and the prince were *terrible* for each other.
Still, she had two days and 21 hours of freedom left, so she shrugged her shoulders and decided to make the best of it.
What followed was a bender of such epic proportions that “the redheaded devil” was barred from every tavern in the kingdom for a century after.
An orgy of drink, drugs and lovers that reduced every bed in a hundred-mile radius to matchsticks.
A bacchanal of such excessive debauchery that Dionysus himself turned up to tell her to “maybe take it easy, yeah, mate?”
She walked back into the sea wearing only sunglasses, somebody else’s shirt and a hat so impressive that it blotted out the sun.
The sea witch rose up from the depths.
The mermaid took a drag on a disheveled rollie that hung out the corner of her mouth like s dying thing.
“Your soul is mine, young-” began the witch.
“Do you mind?” Said the mermaid, making shushing gestures. “I’m feeling a little delicate.”
“Ahem,” said the witch, briefly cowed, “your soul is-”
“Yeah, we could do that.” Mumbled the mermaid, apathetically. “Or, I reckon I’ve got five minutes left if you cut the gloating.”
The witch was mildly speechless.
“Wanna make out?”
The witch continued being speechless for at least five minutes longer…