Friday's Flash Fiction - "The King of Spite" 5.20.22

BACK TO THE DOOM AND GLOOM BABY. Happy Friday!

 “The King of Spite” 


With thorns grown past the king’s reach, like bars on a cage, a prison cell of his own making, it cuts his hands with the slightest touch. Again and again, again and again. Blood for the thirsty soil of the land he lost long ago. 

Tattered loyal clothes drapes his presence. A broken memento substitutes his crown. He steps from the throne to see where all of his subjects fled to. The King looks to the land he used to own and find no one’s there anymore. They all perished under the pressure of his stranglehold. 

When he took power, they all cheered. Long live the King, just like the last, right down the lineage. Poison corrupted his mind with feelings of paranoia, distrust, and a thirst for blood. One by one the axe fell onto the heads of the distrusted. Soon there were no subjects. All that remained were the King and his Knights. 

Seven knights roamed the castle just in the slight chance that there was still a subject left to be made an example of. When this was not the case, the Knights, too had to go. Seven turned to six turned to five, four. Four cut down to three with more swings of the sword. Three. Two flailed against one another until there was just one brave knight left. 

“A King is to rule the many,” thought the brave, solitary Knight. “He rules only over me know. For what? With what power? The power I grant him. No more blood shall be shed by my hands, by the King’s.” 

The Knight forced is old master into a cage made of pointed vines in his abandoned castle of brick and foliage. There’s no one to serve here now. The Knight had to leave, but not until the previous plague had been contained, to be forgotten forever.

The King grabs onto the thorned-vines, much like the subjects that fell before him before their lives were snuffed out. The Lake of Blood dried out long ago never to be filled again. But there was a small trickle falling from his palm just to spite the last knight. 

There he was now, no longer King of the Land. Now he was just a King of Spite with open wounds in his hands. Cutting and cutting, bleeding open. Again and again, again and again. Blood for the thirsty soil of the land he lost long ago.


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