• Fairy tales always have a happy ending, right? Well that may be true now, but that never was the truth from the beginning. Old fairy tales sounded so wonderful, with all the knights in shining armor, princesses and princes, flaring dragons, and wicked witches. But you probably never heard of Victoria's Black Rose. Children never heard of such a story, perhaps it was because everyone has forgotten all about it, or maybe the people who have heard of it wished to not upset anyone. But come, gather around, for I will tell you...

    Victoria was a creative little girl, such life came to her when in hand a pencil, and in front a mere piece of paper. Whatever came to her head was incredible and wondrous, and it came out more incredible and wondrous onto her paper. And yet...Victoria was a lonely girl.

    She would draw a million pictures and prose each day, but who to share it with? No one. The fairies and pixies were always away to a "more important" event. The royalty were too busy with other things than rather wasting time with a mere child. Victoria had no one to smile to her when she wanted a bright light, to hug her when she wanted warmth, or to even adore her amazing creativity.

    Then one day Victoria came up with an idea. If she had lived her entire life with her art and prose, she would then literally live her life with it.

    She went out to find the most precious, most beautiful thing she could ever find. She found a rose, a dead one in fact. It's peddles were fragile and dry and crumpled. Why would she choose such a thing? Because she saw the true beauty of it. She then drew the rose and it came to life out of the paper. It looked nothing like the dead rose that modeled it. It was the loveliest thing you would have ever seen. Its peddles were fragile, but in a soft kind of way, and a bright red with a lighter tint. Its stem was a bright green and the thorns were sharp, their tips a dark shade of red.

    She took care of it, she gave it only the finest soil there was from the gnomes acres, the best water out of the pixies' waterfall, and the the deepest love her inexperienced heart could give. And all the while, the Rose grew human emotions. When Victoria was happy it would dance for her. When Victoria was sad, it would try its best to wrap its rather flexible stem around her without injuring her at the least. And Victoria had loved it as a child would to a house pet or a toy.

    Victoria had told the kingdom about her precious Rose, but all they did was laugh, just as most people would. At first it was just a harmless joke, then the word got out to the nobles which then went out to the king and queen.

    They king was a good ol' man and just laughed at the poor girl's idea of "friendship". But the queen on the other hand was extremely jealous. How could a mere girl have a good enough more magic, let alone creativity, to make her work come to life? She sent out five of her greatest men out to kill either Victoria or her beloved Rose.

    "Why not both?" asked a knight.

    "So either one may die, and the other will perish from being alone." explained the queen, in an almighty way.

    The men questioned her about it, but in the end, they agreed. They sent out toward the old cave in which Victoria called her home.

    Victoria was asleep when they came. The rattling sound of their weapons awoke her. Her Rose tilted slightly as if it too were just waking up, but then again, it might have.

    "Oi! Girl!" barked one of the men.

    Victoria swayed out of her rock floor of a bed. She rubbed her eyes and let out a faint, "hm?"

    "It is an order from Her majesty herself to kill either you, or that unsightly rose of yours," Another man barked. "You and your rose are a great threat to the kingdom. Either you or your work may be killed, your choice."

    This angered Victoria's Rose a great lot. It whipped its stem around but dared not move an inch closer to them.

    Victoria's eyes widened. Her lip quivered. And she began to cry. She was mad, what had she had done? Only made a friend who would care for her because no one else would. And at the same time she was feeling helpless, if they killed her beloved Rose, she would be alone again, if they killed her, who would care for her dear friend? This was nonsense. Everything slurred in her head and came out her eyes.

    And all the while, her Rose began to absorb her rage and sadness.
    It began to grow bigger and bigger, and its thorns became sharper and sharper.

    Then suddenly, Victoria's gentle and loving Rose became a monster. Its thorns were like blades of a newly-made royal swords. Its peddles were almost as sharp as its thorns. Its stem was as thick and tall as, maybe, a two-hundred-year-old tree. It took an almost Venus flytrap appearance.

    The men were stunned, at first. Then the next second they were running for their lives. But they were not fast enough...

    The Rose, whipped its stem, and everything fell at its feet, or, shall I rephrase, its roots. The palace was the first to go down, along with the queen, and everyone else. The village was an easy place to crush, the Rose just simply ran, or shall I say, dragged itself through it. Victoria's Rose crushed everything and everyone in the entire kingdom, until all that was left was blood on a baron land.

    Victoria's crying had little by little deceased, and her Rose slowly decreased in size. But now Victoria felt horrible, she was completely alone. She was torn. No one was there anymore to help her, except her Rose. Was she getting tired of her Rose? No of course not. But she was completely alone in a world she didn't know very well. She didn't want to anger her sweet Rose, but they couldn't go on by themselves.

    Another idea came to her mind. She began drawing a picture. Then she showed it to the Rose. It was shocked by what it was seeing...

    It was a drawing of her being eaten by the Rose. To us it may seem like her being eaten, but to her it was like opening a door to a new world...

    And of course, her rose did so. And when it was done, I mean certain that Victoria was "gone", the Rose began to die, and it began to look exactly like the rose that modeled it. Fragile, dry, crumpled. But there was something that distinguished it from its model. It turned black, and a single wet drop of dew lay crystallized on the softest, most delicate peddle. Some might say "dew" but to Victoria, it was a tear.