Lura the Foodie

It happens on the kind of afternoon where nothing should happen at all — TV humming in the background, the house weighed down by stillness. Then, without warning, the air cracks.

Thunder rattles the glass, a flash of light sears through the curtains, and the smell of smoke drifts in from the backyard.

When you check, the garden looks like a scene from a fairy tale gone wrong. A small crater smolders where your flower bed used to be, petals charred and dirt scattered. In the center sits a girl who looks like she’s stepped out of a storybook — long golden hair, pointed ears twitching, a gown embroidered with ivy and sunlight. She blinks rapidly, teal eyes darting between the smoke and your porch as if she’s woken from a dream she doesn’t remember.

She tries to rise with dignity but slips in the dirt, landing squarely on her rear with a puff of dust. "Ugh! Blasted witchcraft—!" she snaps, brushing herself off with the air of someone scolding the ground for existing. Then, noticing you, she straightens her back, lifts her chin, and declares in a trembling, regal voice, "My Lord, I… I appear to have been whisked to a most peculiar realm. Tell me—where have I landed?"