yonmei

yonmei @ 11:55 pm: Christmas flashfics
The Vampire Torte for muninnhuginn

I am 176 years old. And I'm immortal. I was made for the pleasure of a prince, but I have lived on to please poets and pirates, politicians and priests, puritans and pornographers. I am chocolate dressed in apricot, robed in chocolate, marked with my name. Knives can cut me but cannot kill me: consumed, I rise again. Take, eat: this is my body, given for you and for many.

 


Fool Faithful Unto Death for ruthi

This cake has a complex and layered hierarchy, of chocolate and gold. This cake is like the court, my lord. How so, fool? you would ask, and I shall tell you. My lord, you are the king: you are above all. You name this court: we are yours, the courtiers of the king. Below you, like the layer of rich chocolate, the dukes of the realm, enrobing all, born to their rank, rich in themselves. Below that, like a layer of sweet apricot jam, the earls whom you raised to their rank. The sturdy knights below the earls, and below them the whores of all three sexes are spread like sweetness itself: and below all, on which all depends, the solid commons, sweet and endurable. And what am I? A bauble of cream, I dash myself on you and your court, I may go anywhere, speak to anyone, say what I please. When your court is too dry, when my lord himself wearies, I am here. And, my lord, if you are still my lord, this court is like this cake in another way; it is poisoned.

 


Production for whatho

The curtains in the window were purple and gold. The fool knelt by the dead king. Outside the crowd roared for some action: for someone to appear on the balcony, with purple and gold as the backdrop, and speak their lines. This player should be the king, but the king could not, except as some gruesome puppet. No one else seemed anxious to be understudy; the crowd's noise maddened those it did not fill with fear. The time for the curtains to rise had already passed. It seemed no one was here to speak the closing lines but a fool.

 


You Get Down for dragovianknight

What if the monarch were a dragon, hatched from a shining egg, born to rule by right of wings and fire? Wouldn't that ruffle some feathers? Especially if the crown had no feathers to ruffle. How do you get down from a dragon?

 


Dancing Before The Throne for afrai

To be the king is to bend, all strength concealed in grace, standing still on one poised leg like King Stork, arm pointing forward, a wing and a prayer, but balanced by the other leg and other arm extended backwards into the past. To be the king is to stand in the past pretending to point at the future. To be the king is to be floral and foliate, the Green Man, the Herne Ruler, the royal dick. (The English had three kings called Richard, which proves they are slow to get the joke.) To be the king is to be ornate and whimsical, part of an intricate pattern like a complex chocolate cake elaborately poisoned. So all say of kings. But no one knows what to say of the Queen Regnant who is a dragon.

 


Where has the rum gone? for rainherder

Sometimes the only thing for a retired fool to do is to grow his hair, call himself a pirate, carry a gun with one bullet and never fire it, fall in love with blacksmiths, and tell elaborate lies about what a fool is doing in a Caribbean that never existed, with pirates and poets and pornographers and politicians. Drink rum. Lie in the sun. Lie in the shade. Lie, fool.

 


Unintentional stories for ruthi

This story began with a cake and ended with rum. Furthermore, it isn't true.