Short Fiction

Beauty my Beauty

Beauty tore down all the sheets that hung around the room. It was Beauty’s darling Step-mother who requested they be hung in the first place. Beauty didn’t think anything of it at the time, the sheets needed to dry. But five years later, when they had begun to fade in the sun, Beauty knew it was time for them to be taken down. Flowery sheets weren’t Beauty’s idea of beauty. He liked plain white ones.

“Oh Beauty!” It was Step-mother calling. She waltzed into his room as though she belonged there.

“Step-mother, I told you before that I don’t like you coming into my room without knocking first,” Beauty whined.

“Oh nonsense!” Step-mother cried. “Now where are the sheets I asked you to hang up?”

“That was so long ago, I took them down,” Beauty confessed.

“Alright then, get on your knees. Where is the whip?”

“Step-mother,” Beauty sighed. “I’m four and twenty years old. Aren’t we a little past this?”

“Well who else am I going to beat now that your father is gone?” Step-mother exclaimed.

“Alright then,” Beauty conceded. “But just this once.”

Beauty took the barbed whip from the wardrobe and handed it to Step-mother. He fell to his knees before her, his long brown hair hiding his face as he removed his shirt. Step-mother hissed when she saw the scars on his back.

“Who did this to you?” Step-mother questioned.

“You did, Step-mother. Last week. And the week before. And every week for the last five years,” Beauty counted.

“Liar!” Step-mother screeched and the whip came down upon Beauty’s back.

Beauty felt the sting of the whip cutting into his flesh, removing the few scabs from the last time. Within three lashes the blood was flowing freely.

“Oh!” Step-mother gasped. She stepped back and Beauty looked up at her, a grin on his face.

“What happened?” Step-mother asked.

“Nothing at all Step-mother,” Beauty chided.

“Then hang up the sheets!” Step-mother demanded, dropping the whip and leaving the room.

“Right away Step-mother,” Beauty submitted.

As soon as the door to Beauty’s bedroom closed he lay upon his white sheets and graced them with roses and adonis.

The Moral of the Jester’s Clothes

The Jester’s clothes fit snugly to his body. He felt this accutely as he tried not to look at the Emperor, for if he looked too long he would surely be beheaded.

He felt the pull of his collar against his throat and the tightness of his pants against his crotch. He longed to tug at the fabric. He thought that if he could just drop the balls he was juggling he could bend down to pick them up… but that again would be a risk to his neck, or perhaps his own balls.

Backwards he walked at the head of the parade. The crowd lining the streets cheered, free to gawk.

The Jester wished he could shed his clothes, but to do so would draw the attention of the Emperor to his own state.

Then the unthinkable happened.

“But he’s not wearing anything!” yelled a snotty brat from somewhere in the crowd.

The Jester dropped his balls, one of them bouncing in the direction of the Emperor. Afraid that the mighty leader would trip over it the Jester stooped to retrieve it. As he stood up the bells on his hat came into contact with the Emperor’s belly, making him giggle. The Jester laughed, thinking that he had pleased the Emperor, but the armed guards disagreed.

The Jester was executed on the spot.

The moral of the story:

Never come to a party overdressed.

Doll

Heaving and hurling and churning out the dolls. They come along on conveyor belts shivering as they bump across the rollers, naked and staring like tiny women’s corpses. All around is grease and filth, the air you breathe is black with soot but the dolls are pristine, flesh coloured with a dull gleam that insults your eyes.

“Maxwell!” yells your diminutive boss from across the plant. “Your wife is here to see you!”

You haven’t seen Yolanda in three days. She up and left while you were at work, no note, no idea of why she’d gone except the argument you’d had the night before. If you had to guess, she left to figure things out.

You step away from the conveyor belt, nodding to Denise, the jolly Aunt Jamima who’ll take up the slack of your going. You scratch your head as you hurry towards the office. There’s a crowd of men standing around, peering in the window from the plant.

Squeezing past them, the grind and wheeze of the machines now behind you, you enter the grimy office. Uncovered file boxes filled with smudged papers line the walls.

You knew she’d be naked before you stepped through the door. Her white flesh shines in the dull light of the florescents. The boss is passed out bleeding on the floor as Yolanda munches on his dick.

“Yolanda!” you scream at her. “What are you doing?”

“Wah?” she asks you, looking up from her bloody meal. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“That’s not shrimp, Yolanda and this isn’t Australia!”

Even after three days the woman is as confused as ever.

A Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind whipped at the oaks – the leaves slashing through the air like shiny daggers as they fell all around. There was no use staying in the car; we would be there all night. My father pointed out that there was a light on upstairs in the house across the street from where the car broke down. Odd, the lights in the rest of the neighbourhood were out. It must have been a candle.

My father told me to stay in the car and lock the doors. I watched him run across the street, slouched to protect himself from the rain and the leaves. It wasn’t until some time had passed and the light in the window went out that I could stand it no longer. I had to get out of the car to see if I could find him.

Immediately upon turning toward the wrought iron gates that opened to the entrance of the gigantic old house I was slapped in the face by a maple leaf. I swiped it off my face noting that it was strange when there were no maples that I could see. The rain was cold. It soaked me to the skin before I could make it to the front door. I was poised to grasp the gargoyle knocker when the door swung open, revealing a large empty foyer.

“Dad?” I called to the interior of the house.

“Right here,” my father said as though it was a Sunday morning and he was sitting in his favourite chair at the kitchen table drinking tea.

I stepped in to the stale dark air of the grand old house and spied my dad sitting on a bench beside a doorway that led to more darkness.

“The lady has gone to find a phone,” he explained, patting the bench beside him.

I pushed the door closed and went to sit. Through the curtains on the door I could see the lightning though the thunder was muffled. My father began to whistle the song that had been playing in the car when it died. I sang the lyrics along with him in my head.

I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand new key…

Then the cat came in. It was a sleek black and brown tabby. It sat in front of us and my father spoke to it.

“Yes, okay,” he said. Just that.

The cat stood and went back into the room beside the bench.

“She said she’s still looking for the phone,” my father informed me.

“Who did?” I asked.

“The lady,” he said, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. “She’s very tall, isn’t she?” he confided then in a stage whisper.

It was a moment before I could come up with something to say. I decided on the obvious.

“That was a cat,” I said.

My dad laughed. “Oh that, yes. She explained to me that we were giants here. That’s why when I talked to her I looked down instead of up. But she’s still very tall for someone of her kind.”

I was terrified.

“I think we’d better go,” I said, grabbing his hand and standing.

“Okay,” he agreed.

When we opened the door, outside the sun was shining.

****

Question him as I did, my father could never recall that night. We had gone to the house next door to use their phone. Oddly, when we came back out after sharing a cup of tea with the woman who lived there, there was an empty lot where the old house should have been. A sleek black and gray tabby meowed from the vacant lot, under a maple tree.