short stories

The Confession

“There’s something I have to get off my chest.”

“What now?” She’d heard all his bullshit before – at least she assumed it was bullshit. Nothing he said when he was feeling guilty ever made sense.

“I think you should sit down.”

“Are you at least going to take your coat off?” He was still wet, dripping on the floor.

“I have to go back out.”

“Okay then, hurry up. I don’t have time for this today.”

“I’ve been seeing another woman.”

“Oh, that old thing again?” She didn’t believe him this time any more than she had the last three times he had confessed this same sin against their marriage.

“I’m leaving with her now. She’s out in the car.”

She tapped her foot. “Can you pick up milk while you’re out?”

A single tear fell from his cheek. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Actually, I was at the store just yesterday and I forgot.”

He stared at her, agape. “Do you even care?”

“Of course I do! I can’t have coffee without milk!”

He turned and stepped back out into the pouring rain, checking for his wallet.

Beauty’s Calling

Prince Blorigan heard of Beauty through one of his own servants. A cousin of a friend who knew a girl who had been to visit Beauty told the tale of a teenaged boy locked in a tower catered to by only women. It was a sin against humanity if ever Blorigan had heard of one. And so, curious, he plotted to see for himself.

Blorigan, with the aid of trusted woman in his household, went about dressing himself up as a young girl to gain entrance to Grim’s castle. Once inside it was simple. Gush over never having seen Beauty up close (as though anyone had seen him from afar) and tell of a cousin who had had the pleasure of Beauty’s company and it was only a matter of moments before Blorigan was in the presence of the beautiful young man.

The Prince had with him a fan which he held up to his face as he tittered with the six other girls who had been invited to sit with Beauty that afternoon. He hadn’t expected to find himself quite so enamoured of the young man. He was, indeed, very beautiful. Blorigan was quite nervous. For it was told that after court with Beauty was held, he would go around the room and kiss each of the girls on the lips, deciding which, if any, would have a place in his chambers to help him dress in the morning and undress at night. None of the girls lasted long, unless they happened to be in Beauty’s employ when one of the older women left, unable to give away a son of Beauty’s father, Grim.

As Beauty moved around the room, bending before each of the girls to give them each a chaste kiss on the lips and then straighten and smile, Blorigan began to tremble. Should he be outed by Beauty (who would surely be surprised to feel the roughness of his closely shaven skin) the consequences of his deception would be dire. He began to wonder what had gotten into him, thinking he could get away with it, let alone being well received by Beauty. So it was with nervous bravery that Blorigan lowered his fan and accepted Beauty’s kiss. Beauty, startled, pulled away just enough to stare at Blorigan’s lips before kissing him again. He didn’t smile. Without glancing away from Blorigan he ordered the rest out of the room.

“But Beauty!” exclaimed the lady who always accompanied the girls. “This is highly unusual.”

“Leave us!” Beauty commanded.

Blorigan heard the shuffling of feet and the soft thunk of the wooden door closing against its frame. Without a word Beauty reached under the Prince’s skirt and felt there a hardness.

“You’re like me,” Beauty whispered.

Prince Blorigan nodded, speechless.

“You must stay, and teach me,” Beauty breathed against the Prince’s lips. “Are you,” Beauty swallowed, “are you the only other one?”

“No, the world is filled with men as well as with women…”

Beauty cut off his words with another deeper kiss.

“Stay with me,” Beauty repeated with a groan.

“I can’t,” Blorigan said. “I have a kingdom to help my father rule. I am a Prince and must marry soon.”

“You will marry a woman?” Beauty asked, unbelieving as he pressed himself against the Prince.

“We will teach each other perhaps, before I go.”

“And you will return?” Beauty demanded, dropping to his knees for a better look.

“As often as I can,” Blorigan sighed, his head tipping back and his eyes closing.

Beauty’s Education

Life in the castle was an endless cycle of excitement and monotony. For days on end Beauty was locked up in his chambers with his tutor, a nubile young woman of brains who carried her children with her (or lead them around depending on their size) where ever she went. All of the children were daughters – it was well known in the kingdom that Beauty’s father, Grim, would only have members of the gentler sex in his household, with the exception of Beauty himself. Whenever a male child was born it was given away – an agreed-upon expectation of the women who were privileged to be in Grim’s servitude and allowed into his bedchamber.

Beauty was hidden away from the world, an eyesore to his father but the glory of the domestic help who cared for him, for they knew he was destined for greatness. (They would whisper among themselves that perhaps Beauty would be even greater than his father!)

And so the women of the grand estate had a vested interest in Beauty’s education and his upbringing. They urged him to be like his father, though he had not his father’s direct influence. Therefore the consensus was that Beauty should be as they wished his father to be.

While monotony reigned over Beauty’s days, he would take in the vision of his teacher’s breasts as she nursed her daughters, unable to avoid licking his lips at the sight of her wet nipples. By night he would be alone, a slave to his dreams. Even as he grew into the age of double digits the scenery remained unchanged. Excitement had finally come when he gained the age at which he was allowed visitors; girls in training from other castles who would become his father’s servants. Only then was he allowed to touch. Only then did his education begin in earnest.

Beauty’s Beginning

Beauty

Beauty was born without a mother. That is to say his mother died in childbirth, leaving him in the peculiar care of his father and his father’s servants. Since Beauty’s father was a soldier, he was often absent from the family estate. Beauty, therefore, spent all of his waking and sleeping moments with the women who cleaned, cooked, and cared for the castle in which he lived.

So uninterested was Beauty’s father in him that he even went as far as to allow the housemaid-turned-nursemaid (she gave birth to a daughter at the same time Beauty was born and was able to nurse him at her breast) to name the poor boy. Having used what she thought was the best name available on her own daughter (some said she was the spawn of the gentleman for whom the woman worked), and she couldn’t very well call the boy Adrianna two (or too, the woman knew not the distinction) she simply called him what he was.

From the time Beauty was a babe he learned the ways of women. They taught him to clean and to cook and to care for them when they were tired at the end of the day. Time and time again his father would return home from battle only to find his son rubbing the feet of a char woman. The more it happened the less his father expected of him.

And so Beauty went without the benefit of a role model. His father was the only man Beauty knew of, for his father surrounded himself only with women unless he was off to war. From his father Beauty learned only that if he was ignored, there would surely be a woman to take care of him.

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.

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.