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At the court of the drinking king
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Voting closed: May 07, 2010, 03:38:41 PM

Author Topic: voting for entries for "flash fiction contest No 17"  (Read 1336 times)

Offline robc

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voting for entries for "flash fiction contest No 17"
« on: April 27, 2010, 03:38:41 PM »
At the Court of the Drinking King

Cole took a large gulp of brandy and peered through rheum encrusted eyes at the small boy in front of him. The boy’s blue suit was rumpled and bits of hay still stuck out from under the lapels.
“Animal neglect is a serious crime,” said Cole, his voice hoarse and rumbling. Cole glared at the child who lowered his eyes in meek acceptance.
 Cole reached to the side of his throne for the glass pipe there. His eyes glinted and a dreadful eagerness came over him as he went through the ritual of placing the rock and lifting the pipe to his lips. The first match head flew off and stuck to Cole's greasy robe, scorching yet another tiny hole. Cole tried again. This time the match worked and the rasping inhalation was followed by a coughing fit which sprayed fluid around the throne room.  The king finished his spasm by letting fly a colossal window rattler of a fart and wiping his sleeve across his nose.
Cole absentmindedly dug his fingernails into his armpit as he pondered what to do with the boy. He could feel the yearnings of the three deviants behind him. They were fiddlers, all right. But not of any musical variety. But Cole wanted something for himself out of this. He glared at the boy.
“There‘ve been reports of religious fundamentalist  poultry attacking elderly residents in the upper part of the palace. Your punishment is to catch and cook this bird. I fancy roast goose for dinner.”


Jack was a strange child, given to daydreams and fancies. But he was an acceptable worker, when motivated. Jill could provide that motivation. Sure, she was pretty and charming. But that was of no interest to Jack. Instead, Jill provided him with dope.

Yes, in the land of Moogle, everyone shared the tasks that had to be done. At the lower levels, common folks like Jack performed most of the hard work. Dope was made available by the overlords to keep the workers complacent and happy.

On this day, the duty roster required Jack and Jill to fetch water for the communal pool. He was still abed when Jill arrived.

“Get up, lazy boy. We have fetching to do,” as she handed him a morning doobie.

“Hmmm,” he advised, inhaling deeply. “Let’s get it on.”

As they trod the worn path to the top of the hill, Jack asked Jill, “Why do we go up to fetch water? Water seeks the lowest possible level.”

“We should not question the ancient ways, Jack. Have a hit from this bong.”

As Jack started forward again, his foot missed the step and he began to fall backward. He clutched at Jill’s hand but, in his intoxicated state, missed. He fell many hundreds of feet, and she fell behind him, trying to save him.

When he rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill, his head was cracked. Jill was injured, but not fatally.

She thought, looking at his gray matter oozing out, “Nothing is revealed.”

Offline robc

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Re: voting for entries for "flash fiction contest No 17"
« Reply #1 on: May 08, 2010, 05:03:21 PM »
Many thanks to all who voted and all who took part  THANKYOU