Day 76 Writing Short Stories

Whine

The moan echoed through the castle halls. It was the sound of a desperate creature, sending people to hurry and hide in their chosen burrows. It was the sound of a man who knew nothing of the world and life, but had all the complaints in his heart a creature could have.

The king paced around his throne room. His goblin-like face was twisted in great agony. The pitiful sounds he made of his existence and the wrongness of his duties slithered out like screeches of a door that had never seen oil or clarity.

“I won’t,” the king said.

“Why do I have to?” he added.

His advisers covered themselves behind the desks, papers, fans, anything they could get their hands on, not to be the target of the king’s pathetic eyes with the sorrow to match.

The king let out a wail, causing even the castle rats to scurry to their hiding places.

To be clear, it was not a threatening sound—a sound proposing violence. It was a sound that caused one’s heart to ponder existence: how such an inferior creature could hold an entire kingdom hostage, causing even sane men to run after all his whims just because social convention dictated so.

The tyrant’s whimpers again sent shivers down the listeners’ backs and hearts, making them unable to choose the wisest of courses: to kill, to lock, to banish the pathetic creature that had his reign over the lands and their minds with an off-key whine.

The advisers groveled as another sound sent terror to their souls.

“I won’t read the papers. I won’t decide. What has it to do with me?! They just need to do as I tell them to,” the king stated in a moment of some sort of clarity.

“But—” a brave adviser started.

A strong no made its way through the throne room, freezing the souls of the listeners.

But not everyone’s, not the adviser’s daughter. She looked bewildered around the room, at those who hid behind the desks, papers, and fans, at the king, and then to the rats hiding inside their holes.

“But he’s a moron and a loon!” she let out.

The king froze in his spot, stopping his pacing around the throne.

The girl stood her ground as the dark pits of eyes full of agony found hers.

“It’s your duty. You are the king, and you need to consider the kingdom!” she said.

The adults around her drew their papers over their faces, unable to watch.

There was a great whimper—one that usually silenced even the most jaded heart—but it had no effect on the girl. She stomped to the king, snatching the papers needing decisions from her father and pushing them into the king’s hand, forcing him to take steps backward and sit on his throne.

“But I can’t even read,” the king moaned.

“Then I will read and decide,” the girl stated.

The king had victory in his eyes as the girl read. He took off his crown and swirled it in his hands, playing his favorite game of stopping the crown on his favorite jewel, complaining if it hit the wrong one.

—

What I got today was an experimental fantasy tragedy written in omniscient third-person. I was at a loss for what to write, but then I went to my library of images, and I saw the king. I have wanted to write a story about the king for so long. The image reminds me of a person I know and the whimpers they let out to govern those around them. They are not a king, but a mere child, a child capable of great terror and control, and I wanted to write about that, drawing parallels with the absurdity of you know what and whom. It’s a strange world we live in. Sigh. We need more people pointing out that the king has no clothes.

Thank you for reading! Have a day of sanity ❤