What the actual fork?

  I was getting married?

  No. I wasn’t getting married. I refused.

  But there I was, standing in a lavishly decorated pavilion overlooking a pristine, white-sand beach. The sun was shining. A pleasant breeze whipped through trees ripe with spring flowers. I wore an ornate, white dress with all the obligatory lace and ruffles.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The fork if I wasn’t getting married.

  Son of a biscuit.

  Whomever I was getting married to wasn’t walking down the aisle yet. I looked for a priest and found a Racoon in a pastoral gown with brocade patterns of gold and silver sewn into the dark fabric. He smiled at me warmly and nodded a rascally looking, rodent head.

  “Relax, Pom-Pom,” he soothed. “It’s just a wedding.”

  The good reverend racoon winked. He then glanced behind me and perked up.

  “Alright, Bride,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I turned around to see who was walking down the aisle to greet me.

  My eyes grew wide.

  Well, I thought, I certainly could have done worse.