a flash-fiction story
Snow White wished she hadn’t eaten the pink mushrooms. Even when you’re lost in the Green Forest and famished, circumspection is always advisable. Now she found herself in an extraordinarily quaint house, in its bed chamber to be exact, contemplating a row of seven small single beds. Each was dressed with an intensely cheerful counterpane, and on each headboard a different name had been painted: Color, Chroma, Pigment, Hue, Stain, Tinge and Shade. She had stumbled upon, and into, the home of the seven psychedelic dwarfs.
She felt a trifle faint then with the intensity of it and laid herself down across all of the little beds, width-wise, making sure her head was in Shade. Of course, this caused her feet to be in Color, which could have been worse (she didn’t want to think about which part of her was in Stain). She shortly fell asleep.
Whilst she dreamt, in soothing purple monochrome, she was oblivious to the return of the dwarfs from the mines. With a cheerful Hi-ho, they sang their way home, sacks laden with Orpiment and Azure and Vermillion and Viridian. Upon arriving, they were quite alarmed to find this long, pale thing stretched out on their beds. They volunteered Hue to give the thing a prod. Which he did. Reluctantly.
Snow White awoke with a start. The seven psychedelic dwarfs she had expected to see were nowhere around. Not even their colourful little beds; she was in her own perfectly ordinary one, under cream Egyptian cotton sheets. Boy, would she think twice about eating strange pink forest mushrooms again! Mushrooms? Forest?
It was all a blur. The last thing she could be certain of in reality was taking a gorgeous bite out of a rosy red apple her stepmother had insisted on giving her for tea. She wondered whether she had any more.
Whenever I read a horizontal list of around about seven related words, I cannot help imaging an alternative story to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I must have eaten a bad apple as a kid.