"Shhh," I gently chastised, pressing my index finger to my lips.

My best friend, Philomena, clapped a hand over to mouth to muffle her soft giggles. While she had a problem containing her snickers in high pressure situations, I couldn't calm my rapid heartbeat. Didn't matter how many deep breaths I took, my racing heart was going to kill me one day.

I just prayed it would keep me alive through the night as Phil and I quietly sat on a concrete cobblestone sidewalk with our backs against a gigantic eleven-tiered water fountain. Every so often I felt small drops of cool water hit my neck since my long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"You ready?" I whispered, casting a nervous glance at Phil who simply nodded.

We both peeked around to make sure we were alone before our eyes settled on the prize standing before us a few feet away. A sword in the stone. Seriously. For some odd reason, the people of the Moneres Islands completely believed the King Arthur myth. The guy that could pull the super ancient and incredibly weathered sword from an equally beaten down boulder would become king of the country.

Other than being treated like royalty and living in a gigantic castle, the ruler actually wouldn't have any political power. He lived the life of a beauty pageant winner, traveling around the world, giving inspiring speeches, making special appearances, and attending charity events while proudly representing the country of eleven islands.

Two soldiers spent the day standing by the sword and watched men of all ages comically yank on the handle. According to the very sexist law dating back to when women were simply commodities, the sword was off limits to the female population. But one ruler in the fifteenth or sixteenth century decided girls ten and younger could have a go, and the dumbass law hasn't been touched since.

Of course, this hasn't stopped millions of women – okay maybe thousands – from trying to get their hands on the ancient blade of bullshit. Sometimes the soldiers could be seduced or bribed. But most of the time, women took their chances when the guards left the post for the evening.

A heavy duty chain surrounded the square area holding the famed tourist attraction. As if the rusty metal links could keep two drunk American girls from either crawling underneath it or hurdling over it.

The country's security measures are flawless, I thought sarcastically in my inebriated state.

Phil and I scanned the area one more time before pushing off the fountain wall and dashing toward the sword in the stone. Because my best friend was significantly taller than me, she chose to jump over the waist-high chain. Except she was extraordinarily clumsy when intoxicated.

She skidded to a full stop and attempted to hop over the barrier like the damn Easter bunny. Despite the look of determination and a loud grunt, she failed spectacularly as the links grazed her knees, catching her off guard and pitching her forward.

To avoid face planting, Phil twisted her body and fell on her right arm with loud high pitched giggles. Her snickers worsened as she tried to disentangle her feet from the thick chain.

Tears of hilarity filled my eyes as I slowly crawled on my hands and knees, ducking my head to avoid the swinging links. As much as I wanted to snap a photo of my friend's amazing mishap, time wasn't on our side. So, I watched her pull her long legs away from the chain for a few extra seconds like a real creeper to make sure the image was forever imprinted in my mind.

"Shhh," Phil shushed loudly, standing up and inspecting her arm for damage.

"Shhh," I parroted, dusting off small pebbles from my jeans, and examined our challenge.

The stupid sword was embedded in the top center of the almost five foot high and five foot wide stone. Anyone of average height or taller – like Phil – could easily grasp the handle and pull.

With her five-foot eight-inch height, slender hour-glass figure, and flawless caramel colored skin, she was often mistaken for a model or dancer. The sides of her naturally curly black hair were pinned back and cascaded down her back to her teeny tiny waist.

Dressed in black ripped jeans, a simple blank tank top, and black high heel sandals – because "white sneakers would have ruined the ensemble" – Phil confidently believed she rocked the look of a first-time criminal. A small part of her wanted to get caught to prove a good mugshot could be taken. Because the hundred of pictures we snapped of ourselves before our crime spree suggested we appeared pretty badass dressed in all black.

And the thousands of followers on our social media accounts also agreed. We were definitely not the smartest criminals.

"Ergh." My best friend shut her brown eyes, scrunched up her face with conviction, and yanked on the handle with all her strength.

I giggled as I recorded her effort on my phone.

Phil stuck out her lower lip to a cute little pout. "I guess I won't be living a life of luxury or ruling a small country. There goes my childhood dream of being a princess."

"You haven't even tried to seduce the prince yet," I pointed out, tucking my phone in the back pocket of my jeans.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure we're the only two women who thought up that brilliant plan."

"Quitter," I muttered jokingly as I eyed the rocky surface of the boulder. "I think I need to stand on it. Give me a boost."

Standing exactly five feet tall since seventh grade, I relied on stools, my upper body strength, and other creative methods to reach for the freakin' stars – or in my case, my favorite cereal box on the top shelf at the grocery store. If the bottom shelf wasn't empty, I had no problem smiling sweetly at a handsome guy and asking him to grab my favorite meal of the day.

Thanks to my Korean parents and even my two sets of Korean grandparents, all of average height, I had no chance of walking the runways of New York or Paris as a supermodel – custodial staff maybe. But I loved everything else about myself – my long straight black hair, dark brown eyes, slender figure, and naturally tan complexion.

As soon as Phil linked her hands together and bent her knees, I set one foot in the makeshift step, angled my body toward the rock, and placed my hands on the surface.

"Ready?" she asked, taking a deep breath. Using her for a physical boost was nothing new to us during our eight-year friendship. "On three. One. Two. Three."

With less-than-ladylike groans from both of us, I used Phil's momentum to pull myself across the uneven surface. Except she overestimated how much forced was needed and practically threw me over the top of the boulder. On my way to sailing to the other, I frantically grabbed the sword's handle and prayed it would be stop me from face planting onto the pavement.

Except my eyes widened with fear at the sight of the pebbled pavement as my body remained on course to crash to the ground. Fortunately, the fall would be similar to me tripping over my child-sized feet, which meant I cheated death tonight.

To protect my pretty face, my arms shot out to take the brunt of my fall and hit the ground the first. My head landed safely on my limbs as the rest of my body splayed out awkwardly. My eyes instinctively close as hot tears streamed down my face.

As I laid face down on the ground, probably looking like a murder victim on a crime procedural show, my mind assessed my right leg was safely bent at the knee and rested against the stone while the other leg was spread wide to inappropriate lengths. And my ears vaguely registered the sound of metal clattering against the concrete as my heart decided to start running a marathon at full speed.

"Are you dead, Winter?" Phil screamed wildly. Even with my eyes closed, I imagined my best friend standing over my broken body and covering her mouth with her hands.

"I'm not fat!" I sobbed.

It's not my fault the think tank of this stupid tourist attraction didn't do a better job of cementing the stupid sword in the freakin' stone, I thought miserably as my body started to feel the pain of the fall.

"Am I bleeding?" My imagination created a picture where a pool of my blood slowly increased in size under my head.

The sound of Phil's heels clicked near me as I imagined her crouching to scan my body for any obvious damages.

"I'm not seeing anything," she said, gently patting my head, before gasping loudly. "Winter! The sword!"

"I'm not fat!" I cried out defensively, not believing for a second my weight could budge the shoddy made blade.

"Freeze! Police!" a deep male voice shouted.

Phil screamed at the top of her lungs, frightened by the intrusion. Without an ounce of care in the world, I remained motionless with my eyes shut tightly and pictured Phil raising her slender arms above her head and standing still.

"Ma'am?" a second male voice asked cautiously as footsteps carefully approached me. "Are you okay?"

Ma'am? I thought indignantly. I'm a freakin' 26-year-old photographer from Wisconsin! I'm too young to be called "ma'am".

"I'm not fat." I seriously wasn't obsessed with my weight, but I found comfort in those three words for some reason.

"Did she hit her head?" the officer asked Phil.

"I dunno," she whimpered. "She was already on the ground by the time I walked around the boulder."

She walked! My mind yelled incredulously. My best friend flippin' walked to check on my well being after she basically threw me over a rock. I needed a new best friend. But then again, she probably had trouble running in heels or running intoxicated in heels. Or running in general.

"Ma'am? Can you tell me your name?"

"Winter," I muttered, finally opening my eyes to see a pair of scuffed black shoes.

"Uh, it's summer. You're on Moneres Islands, ma'am."

"Winter is her name," Phil explained with a dash of annoyance in her tone. "Winter Copeland."

"Moron," I murmured.

"Should we arrest them for breaking and entering and verbally assaulting officers of the law?" the first policeman asked impatiently.

Shit, I thought tiredly as my eyes fluttered shut again. How strict are the laws here? Practically whispering "moron" was considered verbal assault? My sarcastic tongue and I were so screwed.

Before our royally doomed covert mission, I researched the punishment to make sure we weren't beheaded or hung in the town square or needed to fight for our freedom gladiator-style in a gigantic coliseum. The penalty for a woman caught manhandling the precious sword? A one hundred dollar fine or forty hours of community service.

"You can't arrest her!" Phil snapped with a bit of authority. "She pulled the sword from the stone! So doesn't that make her your queen? Bow down to your queen!"

I groaned at my best friend's sudden act of bravery, realizing she's sobering up quickly. If I considered my dry and sarcastic sense of humor to be trouble, then Phil's no-bullshit and badass attitude was pure danger.

"Dudes, I really think you should bow down now," she pushed stubbornly. "Time to take a knee, boys."

Hey, heart, you can kill me now.