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Jan 18, 2022 16:36
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PROMPT: the first mistake the dead make is to assume that nature is kind; nature simply does not care. Your old person understands this accutely, and who betide those who cross them A Villain’s Guide to Necromancy 1,200 words The thing about raising the dead is that they refuse to be silent after. “Oh, I can’t believe you defiled my grave,” they rattle as they emerge from their tombs. “Oh, what will my poor family do,” they croak from their collapsing coffins. “This is, like, literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” “Insolent wrench, you were murdered by your own brother,” I snapped. It was the middle of a long night, and the cold was doing a number on my joints. Every time I shifted my weight, I felt a sharp burning sensation in my legs. “You died a gruesome, pitiless death and none of your foolish brother’s descendants care of your fate. “Okay, but, like, you don’t know that,” said the corpse of the long-dead prince Abd. He was a forgettable, ignoble figure of a dozen generations passed, known only for the shortness of his life and the cruelty of his death. A circlet with fine jewels wrapped around his head but among the hundreds of other risen corpses he was unremarkable. “They could be super bummed out about me!” “Always worried about yourselves, aren’t you?” I muttered. “Never caring, even in death.” I hobbled away, letting Abd and the other members of my skeletal retinue look at my large shape against the black sky. The effect was diminished by the curve of my back and walking stick, but I was determined to make the theatrics work. “Well, ignorant creatures, you are in luck. Very soon, you will have your chance to see just how your fellow royals feel about you.” I said in a voice full of ominous portent. “You’ll have your chance very soon indeed.” There was a pause. The undead looked at each other. Then, from the crowd came Abd’s voice. “What’s that even supposed to mean?” The moment ruined, I let out a sigh. I turned back to the mass. “We are to destroy the kingdom. I harnessed dark majicks so I could inflict suffering and ruin on those who inflicted suffering on me.” “Oh.” The corpses nodded. “Cool.” Deep inside me, there was a dull ache. *** Necromancy isn’t a young man’s game, an art practiced by someone young and spry and full of hope for the world to come. Oh no. Necromancy is the kind of dark art that a man resorts to at the end of a long career. It is what happens after every other option has been exhausted. It is what happens after a man spends decades of his life trying to be good and wise to a king and his people because that is what a good court wizard does. He leaves cryptic but insightful advice about which wars the king should and should not join. He teaches the king’s wards about the burdens of power. He gives answers to the great questions of the world, no matter how unpleasant or unsatisfying the answers might be. Then, of course, the king croaks and his heir, a hedonistic delinquent, rises to the throne. He says that he is not interested in burdens or unpleasant answers. He would much rather live a life unexamined, taking advice from mummers and charlatans instead of a wizard who only wants to keep him aware of the horrors of the world. Then, he demands his faithful wizard leave the only home he has ever known. He does this even knowing how few opportunities there are for someone of advanced age, of how his vows of poverty preclude retirement. “You okay, my dude? You’re looking pretty grim.” We were almost in sight of the castle walls when I turned to see Abd, his face nothing more than a skull and some loose bits of flesh. Lacking the tissue for expressions, he cocked his head, dog-like, in concern. “Yes,” I lied. “I am wonderful. My revenge is almost complete.” “Man,” the skeleton let loose a series of gasses like a groan, “you gotta learn to chill out. Relax. Enjoy life.” “Enjoy life.” I let the words stain my tongue. Ahead of us, there were screams. The undead army had reached the gates and were climbing the ragged walls as sentries fired arrow after arrow into them to little effect. “Yeah, exactly!” “For five decades, I devoted my life to unlocking forbidden knowledge. I came to know every unpleasant truth, every horror this world has to offer. I tried to impart those gifts and was spurned for it. In my twilight, I have been forced to confront the pointlessness of it all.” I paused, staring ahead bitterly as the corpse army assaulted the guards. “Any pleasure in this world is momentary. Then it ends. Not a soul cares.” There was a pause. “Well, duh,” said Abd, putting a cold hand on my arthritic shoulder. “The best parts of life are those momentary distractions. You gotta take them to keep yourself busy. Otherwise, you wind up alienating everyone by obsessing over the fact that one day you’ll be a body in the ground. As a soulless, reanimated husk, I would know!” I said nothing. The skeletal army had overwhelmed the castle and taken the gates. Some rotting princess gave a thumbs-up before lowering the drawbridge. “Just, like, think about it, man.” Said the dead prince. “I’ll catch you inside!” Before I could react, he charged ahead toward the open portcullis. *** The interior of the castle was in ruin. Once-immaculate tapestries lay on the blood-stained floor. Dead guards rose from where they lay, joining the ranks of my army. I found myself once again in the throne room, standing before the brat king. He sat paralyzed on his throne, an assortment of know-nothing advisors cowering behind him. “So, we meet again, your highness,” I said. “I do hope your new advisors have been giving you the advice that you need to avoid desolation and ruin?” One of the men cowering behind the throne made a run for the door. He made it to the threshold before Abd shot him in the back with a crossbow. I waited a moment so everyone could watch him fall. Then, I folded my hands behind my back and turned away from the crowd for dramatic effect. “I must tell you, I came here prepared to talk about uncomfortable truths. I wanted to say that this skeletal invasion, summoned by evil forces, could be a kind of lesson, a reminder of all the cruel, unpleasant, and unpredictable things that life has in store for us.” I trailed off, enjoying the attention. “But you were never good at listening to my lessons.” “And while it is true that life is unforgiving,” I turned. “...I also realized that you had a point. Knowledge is important but so are momentary distractions.” The advisors exchanged glances. The king cleared his throat and gave a trembling smile. “So, uh, you aren’t going to kill us?” “Oh gods, of course I’m going to kill you. What kind of dark wizard would I be if I didn’t?” I said. “But I want you to know that I’m going to enjoy doing it. It will be exactly the kind of escape I need.” From across the room, Abd’s teeth gleamed.
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Jan 24, 2022 03:18
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In. Give me a stuffed animal.
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Feb 12, 2022 04:09
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i am in
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Jun 11, 2022 03:32
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In and fill my blanks. #spinthewheel
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Aug 1, 2022 18:45
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A [spaceman] agonizes over [a zoo] Rocket Man Word Count: 892 I’ve always believed in following my dreams, even the bad ones. It’s my secret sauce, the mindset that sets me apart from all the other dipshit Silicon Valley investors. When I have a dream about smashing oranges with my dead father, I don’t chalk that up to the coke. I find a loving juicing company to invest in and make billions. When I have dreams night after night about dancing among the stars with Academy Award-winning actress Sandra Bullock, I don’t go to a shrink or a rabbi or a fortune teller. I build a loving space company. I get on the cover of Forbes. I get Sandra Bullock to join me on the maiden voyage and make Twitter go haywire. The dreams are what make bank, what make the magic happen. But now that track record apparently isn’t good enough. Instead of hurtling through space with America’s Sweetheart Sandra Bullock and my recently imported special cargo, I’m stuck on a launch pad in rural Texas. I’m stuck. loving earthbound. In front of me is my personal secretary Sampriti. Blue and red lights flash in the far distance. “Sampriti, you traitorous piece of poo poo,” I begin. “I knew there was a reason I’ve been rejecting your request for a raise.” I stare daggers into Sampriti so that she knows she’s gunking up my vibes, my mojo. It’s been like this ever since I hired her from that fru-fru Ivy League school. Nothing but weary sighs and patient objections. Not a hint of imagination. But she, as always, ignores the glare. She looks at the empty crates and then into my face with an exhausted expression. “Mr. Thomas, sir. I’ve tried to be reasonable.” “Reasonable my rear end. Was Walt Disney reasonable when he made his mascot a giant rat? Was Thomas Edison reasonable when he electrocuted that big elephant? Success is built on dreams, not logic.” “Neither I, your board of directors, the Texas Department of State Health Services, or Sandra Bullock’s talent agency can see any financial or scientific value in the last-minute addition of several large animals to this voyage.” She says all this with a practiced calm that I desperately want to shatter. “You hired me to help manage your well-being and day-to-day business. If you do not immediately remove said animals, you could jeopardize your health—.” I jam my finger at Sampriti. “You think I care about health and well-being and bureaucratic bullshit like that? All this time and you still don’t get it.” I walk away for a moment shaking my head. The red and blue lights are growing closer but I don’t care. “Sam, I had a dream that Sandra and I opened a big zoo in space. I don’t know why God or Buddha or whoever put that thought in my head, but he did it for a reason. He wanted me to open a reptile enclosure that was also the inside of a dying horse. He wanted me to train seals and for those seals’ teeth to have the face of my high school math teacher. These are the kinds of things that are supposed to inspire us to action.” I look at her, really look at her. I try to make good vibes radiate from my body and force them to penetrate her hard exterior. “Is any of what I’m saying getting through to you? Don’t you have any dreams?” The lights are nearly upon us now. Sampriti says nothing for a long moment. Then she shakes her head. “Sometimes… I have dreams where all the veins fall out of my arms. I am standing in the office and suddenly they’re hanging like tinsel in the space between my armpits and wrists. I know I need to move around so I can do my job but I know, in the dream, that if I move too quickly, one of the veins will pop and I’ll bleed out everywhere. I’ll bleed until all the blood in my body has pooled out over the linoleum floor and I’m nothing but a dried, empty husk on the ground.” The police cars are at the gate to the launch site, nearly upon us now. I walk forward, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Wow…” I say in a quiet voice. “That’s pretty hosed up.” “I know. I know,” says Sam. “I think it’s stress or—.” “No, Sam, don’t you see… Your genuinely hosed-up nightmare is the path that you’re meant to follow. Just like I’m supposed to take a literal barrel of monkeys who are also somehow my parents into space, so too are you too are meant to follow your dream about bleeding out in a horrifying and graphic fashion.” I say. “Maybe it can be the inspiration for a medical company.” “I don’t…” She looks at the rocket, still ready for launch. “gently caress. Okay.” “Okay?” I say, still not believing it. “Jesus loving Christ, get in the rocket before Texas Animal Control gets here and I change my mind.” I give her one last squeeze of the shoulder and then run off toward the rocket. Minutes later, as the rocket and its assortment of animals ascend into the mesosphere, I am mauled to death by Sandra Bullock and several agitated bears.
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Aug 3, 2022 01:59
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Also I am in for Omega Prompt #2. Spin the wheel and give me a flash rule, please and thank you.
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Aug 3, 2022 02:00
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Omega Prompt #2 FLASH RULE: You must include romance in your story SPIN RULE: -300 word reduction (1,000 total) The Last Moment 983 words This is a story I tell myself. I am in a city. It could be any city because I’m in one of those unplaceable pre-fab office buildings, the kind of co-working space meant to appeal to middle-class, urban millennials. It’s all ferns and beveled edges with neon signs displaying vaguely inoffensive, motivational messages. “RESPECT the HUSTLE” is written across an accent wall separating two conference rooms. “RISE & GRIND” shines a few feet away near a complimentary coffee machine and keg, the latter of which is monitored by a single blinking camera. But I’m not here for those things. I’m here to have fun. I’m here to play. I’m here because it’s the last day before Daniel leaves the city and stops hosting his lovely little tabletop RPG Meetup group. I want him to know how much I’ve appreciated him over the last two years, not the effortless confidence he exudes, the feeling I get when I see him. I am here for one last session with the group and not for anything else. At least this is the story I tell myself to justify my silence. I surround myself with other people, laughing and reminiscing between small sessions of play. I want to make sure that I am seen having a good time, that I am celebrating. As the time ticks forward and pint after pint of frothy beer vanishes from my cup, I want to be confident and comfortable. I want the moment to be right. And then it comes. For a few minutes between sessions of play, Daniel’s standing next to a wooden carving of an eye. He’s trying to check his plane tickets on his phone. He doesn’t see me at first, too focused on his screen. I push my way through other conversations toward him. I deposit my frothy pint of beer on a counter so he won’t notice my nervousness. “Hey,” I say in a mechanical voice that does not sound like my own. Daniel looks up and gives me a radiant smile, one that seems meant for me and me alone. “Oh, hey, Alex. I was just…” He gestures at the screen as if it explains everything. “How are you doing?” “Good! I’m just glad to be here. I’m glad to be…” I want to say, with you, but instead trail off. Wasn’t there a time in my life when I was good at public speaking? When I could actually compose a sentence that wasn’t some dumb cliche? “You know, just… remembering things.” He laughs and slides the phone into his pocket. “Oh good, I was worried it would be a little awkward with everything going on. Everything has been so crazy lately with the move, I wasn’t sure if people would want to hold one last game session or not.” He looks over my shoulder as if looking for someone but they’ve already been banished from the scene. “But it’s been good seeing people. Say goodbyes. You know…” “Yeah,” I say my mouth is dry. “Listen…” He looks right at me. I see him in every moment of the last two years simultaneously. I see him laughing with me about his dumb figurines. I see him improvising a fantasy scene. I see him on the rooftop of a summer party and in the park and at a million other places where I could have done something. “What’s up?” He says. “I…” I pause. “I just wanted to let you know…” The room and all its interchangeable millennial kitsch disappears. “I really like you. I’ve always really liked you. I was just scared, I don’t know, of saying anything.” The words rush out. “I’ve never been confident enough with myself and I—. I don’t know if this all changes anything but I wanted you to know before it was too late. Otherwise, I’d just spend the next few months feeling bad and hating myself and…” There’s tears in my eyes and I can feel them running down my cheeks. I feel so stupid, so disgusted by every missed opportunity, but Daniel doesn’t say anything. He’s quiet for a long time. He looks at me with an impossible expression on his face. “Oh, Alex, it’s far too late. I’m not going to change my plans because of a confession uttered last minute. People don’t work like that. And besides…” He says in a voice of infinite compassion. “You never told me anything at that party.” There is no room any more. There is nothing. All is silent. “I never said anything at the party,” I say in a low, dead voice. “I let us go back to a room. We finished our game and then I left.” “That’s right.” “I gave you one last wave before I stepped onto the elevator and then I rode the subway back to my apartment alone. I never saw you again.” “Just another smiling face on Instagram.” His voice is just a wisp now. “More an idea than a person. A memory. An ideal.” “And this is just a story I tell myself. Interchangeable thoughts.” All is blackness now, constant and uninterrupted. It pools around me and erodes me at the edges. An overwhelming emptiness. “Can we pretend, though? For a second.” There’s a kind of vocal shrug. “If it helps.” “It does.” I say and the scene reconstitutes itself in my memory. I’m in a city. It could be any city because it’s one of those kitschy pre-fab office buildings with pink accent walls and strange neon signs. I am there again and so is Daniel with his radiant smile. And it is my last opportunity to say something, to fix everything, to be more than a self-hating wreck. If I can just say something at the last moment, the whole world will tilt back on its axis. Everything will be okay. This is a story I tell myself.
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Aug 4, 2022 01:17
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In for Omega The Third. Spin that wheel.
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Aug 4, 2022 01:17
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Omega Prompt #3 Wheel Spin: Circle Game No flash rule Repair Job 249 words You learn a lotta ‘bout people by what they got in the fridge. Some people, you know, got nothing but PBR and stale pizza that overload the insulator. Others got fancy vegetables that you don’t even see in grocery stores that mess up the evaporator. There’s all sorts. They all got problems but, as a handyman, I’m only supposed to focus on the mechanical ones that take a toolbox to fix. But every so often, I run into a Margaret Heller. “Well, there’s your problem,” I say after an hour kneeling on the linoleum in a drab kitchen. “Your compressor’s clogged with unused wonder.” Margaret, who’s been tryin’ to covertly tidy the place and make it seem respectable, stops. “What?” I lift myself. “Yeah, this kinda thing happens a lot in New York. People move with all these plans and then they don’t do nothin’. Clogs the appliances.” She opens her mouth and then shuts it again as if I don’t see a distinct lack of knick-knacks and memorabilia. There’s no aquarium tickets. No polaroids of Coney Island. There’s not even a goddamn “I ❤️ NY” magnet. I pick up my toolbox. “My advice? Do something nice for yourself. Watch some fireworks. See a Broadway show. Do something. So long as you’re stuck in here,” I gesture at the apartment, “poo poo’s gonna be clogged in there.” She says nothing but she don’t need to. As I leave, she’s already looking for her coat. The compressor gives a small hum.
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Aug 5, 2022 01:50
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In for prompt #4. Gimme a wizard Gimme a flash Gimme a spin
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Aug 5, 2022 01:50
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won't be there due to some scheduling conflicts but you can give me a special spin of the wheel tonight if you'd like
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Aug 5, 2022 19:35
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A minor inconvenience becomes the catalyst for something major You can draw power from blood. Blood given with the owner's consent is stronger, but blood taken by force is, sadly, more plentiful. Also, you're not a vampire JSYK. Dramatic Reading Do No Harm 1175 words They worked well together, Jean-Louis and his mother Brigitte. At least that’s what he told himself. It was the secret to their success as healers. Jean-Louis drove his mother town to town, posted flyers, and fielded clients. She brought the blood magic—potent and terrible. When normal means failed, when the young doctors shook their heads and told weeping families that there was nothing more to be done, they turned to them. With a competent but no-nonsense demeanor, Brigette would push her way into a dying patient’s home, make Jean-Louis unpack her bag, and then unleash her ancient magicks. The subjects of her incantations would find themselves restored, made whole. Lesions would vanish, cancers recede. The elderly would find themselves flush with new life while the maimed would find their injuries repaired. Jean-Louis had seen enough of these cases to know his mother’s power over matters of life and death. He just wished she had more care for the clients themselves, to see them for the desperate people they were. Sometimes the cost of her spells was too much. Jean-Louis and his mother stood in the living room of a small ranch home. At one time, it had been a cozy, unassuming room—a place where people would gather to watch sports or open birthday presents or entertain guests on their way to new places. Now, its furniture and many trinkets had been pushed to one side of the room to accommodate an enormous hospital bed. In it was a small, diminished woman with graying hair and heavy lidded eyes. She seemed unaware of anything around her except for her son Roger, the man who had hired them. The woman interlinked her hand with his. Every few seconds she massaged her thumb into the space between his thumb and forefinger—the ghost of a gesture. But this was invisible to Brigitte. She patted down her dress and addressed Roger in a cool, clipped voice. “I want to confirm, for the forces present, that you consent to this procedure. You understand that the actions which we undertake today carry with them certain, lasting negative side effects.” Side effects. It was very clinical. Very professional. Roger stared for a long time at his mother in the bed. He had been so desperate when he came to Jean-Pierre. He was barely coherent. After his mother had decided to forgo further treatment and returned home, Roger had ignored his mother’s wishes and begged for their help. Not that Brigitte knew that. The witch had never seen a point in learning the relationships of their clients or the details of their lives. She thought there were too many risks in getting attached. Brigitte cleared her throat again, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. “Do I have your consent to proceed?” The woman continued kneading with her shriveled thumb. Jean-Pierre’s mother looked at her watch, aware that every minute of stalling would mean another minute lost with another patient. Each delay would lead to an ever-increasing series of complications down the line. She needed to move on. There were lives to save. “If you say nothing, I am going to assume you fully consent to this procedure,” she said to the man. Then, without turning her head, she spoke to me. “Jean, remove the knife from my bag.” He hesitated. The entire procedure was predicated on securing the full and complete participation of a client. Whatever forces or spirits Jean-Louis’s mother awakened expected to be welcomed into the room. They needed to be wanted, desired. That was the deal. It was small but—. “Jean-Pierre.” Like cattle hit with an electric prod, Jean-Pierre jumped into action. Jean-Pierre pushed through neat, organized compartments filled with powders, bandages, and client files to the bottom of the bag. From it, he produced a long, wicked blade with runes across the handle. Before he could think, his mother had taken it from his hand. “You have invited us into your home, have entered into an implicit agreement by bringing us here,” she said in a firm, professional voice. It was unclear if she was attempting to reassure the man or convince the forces around us. Already, their presence could be felt. The room’s electric lights dimmed and framed photographs rattled on the walls. “You sought out the services of my apprentice and I. You have expressed no objection to our practices.” It was as if someone had opened a window. Gusts of wind rattled the hospital bed. “You consent?” It was more a statement than a question. The woman’s eyes fluttered and, for a moment, her hand clawed deep into the man’s as if trying to draw him back, as if to say no. He looked down and took a step backwards. Then his mother jammed the man’s arm free and buried the knife into his arm. The light bulbs exploded overhead showering them all in glass. The living room television turned on with a roar of sparks as picture frames fell and shattered. Amid the carnage, Brigette stood tall, her mouth muttering some ancient sprayer, her wicked blade still embedded deep into the man’s flesh. From the gash, deep red tendrils rose. From each tendril branched another tendril until there, in the room, was a glistening red tree. “Mom.” Jean-Pierre felt small. The tree, drop by drop, was continuing to grow from the man’s arm. It was larger than a houseplant now, its branches heavy with leaves. In all his time training under his mother, he had never seen her spells go quite so far quite so fast. An errant root reached out and plunged itself into the woman who gave a deep gasp of breath. “Mom.” He repeated. With an awful wet noise, his mother removed the blade. Still, the incantation would not stop. He was staring now at the man whose flush skin had turned an unnatural pale. Color vanished from his lips and he gave a long, guttural moan. The woman in the bed, meanwhile, had begun to stir. Her eyes opened and she stared in wide-eyed horror at the bleached, exsanguinated figure before her. She let loose a terrible scream as the tree grew tall enough to shade them all. This was not what they wanted. This was not a cost worth bearing. Jean-Pierre scrambled forward and grabbed the blade from his mother’s hands. Before she could do or say anything, he brought the blade down hard on the root connecting Roger to the woman in the bed. The tree trembled. Jean-Pierre brought the blade down again and then, at last, the connection severed. In an instant, the tree began to wilt and recede back into Roger’s arm. Then, as color returned to his face, Roger collapsed to the floor. After bandaging their one-time client, Jean-Pierre and his mother found themselves leaving the small, squat home and returning to their car. Neither said a word, but both knew something had shifted between them. As they traveled from one city to the next, Brigitte took out his client files and began to read.
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Aug 8, 2022 03:27
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In. Flash.
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Nov 12, 2022 05:00
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let me in to make sure I write something
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Nov 26, 2022 04:21
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The Court of King Andreas 1,000 words The young king was named Andreas, a name which meant “warrior” in the language of his ancestors. He had been reminded of this fact many times—too many in fact. In the ten and two years since his birth, the king’s court had been aflutter with stories of his character. The priests murmured about his docile character, an unsuitable trait for a valiant defender of the Church holding lands only recently brought into Christendom. The lords and ladies, dressed in their silk and fineries taken in conquest, gave one another bemused expressions as they watched their ink-speckled sovereign waddle from the palace library to the throne. Even the tall, gleaming tapestries of his departed father and mother seemed to glower down from their walls. The sapphires woven into their eyes glinted with disgust as the boy wallowed in tales of places untethered from feudal obligation, of adventures and wonders far beyond the castle and its newly built walls. He often wondered what it would be like to escape his place, but he had obligations to uphold. His rule had been ordained by God. No matter what his court whispered, no matter how much they wished him gone, he could not abandon his kingdom, not while it still stood. And so, one day, while seated atop his throne, the boy-king called out. “My loyal council, I am neither blind nor deaf. I know I have done little to prove myself as good or noble, to be worthy of this throne claimed by my warrior parents years ago.” The boy looked down, hoping to hold back the tears behind his eyes. “Please, tell me how I might help this kingdom’s people. Tell me how I might make the sun rise over a country that is happy and prosperous.” There was a pause. There was a muttering. There were the sounds of a dozen nobles conspiring a way to rid themselves of a soft ruler, to ready the path for further conquest and glory without sullying their hands. “My gracious lord, how noble of you to express such concerns.” From the crowd emerged the Bishop, the oldest member of the king’s court, a master manipulator of both the church and crown. Years prior, his forked tongue had produced the crusade responsible for the kingdom. “Have you considered a quest?” The boy-king’s eyes gleamed. “A quest?” “Yes, a quest, a grand exploit to prove your worth in the eyes of God and men. An adventure like in your books… Why, perhaps you could reclaim a holy artifact, a relic. One of great importance. Perhaps…” The bishop paused and stroked his beard as if to imitate the wise men of old. “The Crown of St. Grobian?” “I’ve never heard of such a relic! Not in my books or stories!” Said the boy, enthralled. The Bishop smiled and spoke in a voice like poisoned honey. “I am not surprised, my liege, for the Crown of St. Grobian is one of the more secret relics of our faith, a wondrous cap that gives its holder power over people far and wide.” The courtiers nodded as the bishop spoke. “Alas, it is held in a hidden place by enemies to our faith, in some nameless town outside the castle walls. If you could venture out and claim it, perhaps in disguise, unknown to any spies…” The courtiers exchanged glances. Surely, a boy traveling into hostile, foreign lands without protection would be—. “But how would I return once I claimed the relic?” “Why, my gracious liege, we’ll leave a secret door unlocked for you. Once you have found the relic and returned victorious, all you need to do is spirit yourself through it.” No more was needed. No more was said. The boy-king readied himself for a grand expedition beyond the palace gates. The courtiers stripped him of his oversized crown and his oversized robes and dressed him in the garb of a peasant heretic. Then, with painted smiles, they ushered him through a secret gate into the lands beyond. The door shut quietly behind him. Andreas stood there for a moment and admired the expanse of the countryside before him. Then he set off into the unknown. The court watched gleefully as his silhouette shrank in the distance before, eventually, it disappeared. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. The court sent a mournful letter notifying the king’s surviving family of his disappearance and readied themselves for his successor’s coronation and the many feasts and celebrations that would follow. Taxes would need to be raised, of course. More exotic goods would need to be extracted from the peasants. The court would have its due. And after that? Some claim that the boy-king was set upon by marauders soon after his departure. Unaware of his station, the bandits killed the boy and plundered his corpse, only then discovering some secret note he had hidden away describing his sorry tale. Others claim that the boy-king remained committed to his foolish mission, traveling from town to town through the conquered lands. He rescued maidens, saved the innocent, and slew great beasts—all in hopes that stories of his heroic displays might one day lead him to a crown that did not exist. Still others believe that the boy-king fell in with a group of traveling mercenaries who disabused him of all notions of heroism, chivalry, and magical relics. Without his books and the protection of the castle walls, the kind boy became a cruel, bitter man eager for revenge. Whatever the case, the court’s rule came to an end one calm summer night when a stranger and his supporters creaked open the castle’s secret door, left unlocked many years ago for the boy-king. The intruders crept through the darkness and made quick work of the guards and their nobles. They stripped the rooms of their jewels, tapestries, and fineries and scattered them over the gates. When the sun rose the next morning, the kingdom was no more. The country was happy and prosperous.
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Nov 28, 2022 04:09
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In for Punked Out. Assign me a punk.
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Dec 3, 2022 03:46
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