King Silva had problems.  The first problem was the Queen had now been deceased for 15 years. His second problem involved his only child, Princess Katarina.  She would be of age in three weeks and had not a single suitor to woo her.  His final problem indirectly involved the Princess.  Without an heir from her, his Kingdom would last only as long as the two remained alive.  Upon their deaths, the land would turn to ruin under a series of inevitable civil wars.  It was his duty to ensure an heir, but the Princess was of a frail state and no one believed she would live much longer, let alone find a Prince, marry him, and give him a son.  If the Princess could, the King would only need to arrange a marriage to one of the second or third sons of a friendly king, thus insuring the State continuity.

King Silva consulted the royal physicians and kept close watch on his daughter’s health and the degenerative nature of her illness.  By the time of the Harvest Dance, the King and the Princess hosted the royals of all nations to participate in the celebration.  While not expecting a proposal of marriage, the Princess found sufficient strength to attend and mingle with the eligible bachelors.  By the next morning, all agreed on the success of the celebration.

Two months later, the royal physicians announced the motherly nature of the Princess. Both doctor and lawyer began a race against time to bolster the health of the Princess and to identify the father of the child.  And while a certain inheritance of a hearty Kingdom weighed in the balance, the unknown suitor failed to identify themselves as the rightful claimant to the title of Father of the Heir.  

Scandal always follows intrigue and the King averted neither.  The press wanted information. The adjacent Kings (and their Princes) demanded information.  Even King Silva became stymied by the lack of additional topics of conversation throughout the Kingdom.

With each passing day, the birthdate drew closer.  With each passing day, the health of the Princess fell. Exactly nine months after the Harvest Dance, the Princess’s health took a turn for the worse as she underwent labor and a heart attack simultaneously.  Only an immediate C-section saved the male heir. No such treatment could save the Princess.  At the cost of one heir, the Kingdom now had a new healthy heir.  Such was the price for regal continuity.

But what of the new Prince?  Who was his father?  Was it a royal at the Harvest Dance or a commoner from a village?  If the former, King Silva had his salvation.  If the later, plowshares to swords.

On his deathbed, King Silva permitted a DNA test on the new heir.  Scientists proved he was of true royal blood.  The Prince received his mother’s DNA from his mother.  He also received his father’s DNA from his mother’s father.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 30 years. He lives in 1974, has been married for 27 years, and collects occupations (the current tally is 100). His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.

Before she arrived, there were cars — so many cars! — switched out often, like diapers, the owner so seldom seen, they might have moved themselves. 

Amir had lived for more than a year on his own.  We watched his carport from our kitchen window, wondering who he was, why he seldom spoke to anyone.  We never found out what he did with all those cars, but we shamefully provided our own explanation.  A single guy from Afghanistan, solitary habits, and vehicles coming and going.  We were friendly but kept our distance.

Then one day, a female emerged from the carport.  A Muslim man with a kept woman?  Not likely.  It was his new wife, of course, brought over from the home country.  She arrived when we weren’t looking, the car between cars, so beautiful she stopped traffic.

Adeela brought with her the wish to drive a car.  She wished so hard you could imagine little wheels sprouting beneath her, spinning as she folded the laundry, rolling her over to us with trays of food she cooked herself.  Food we felt guilty accepting, kindness undeserved.  She would point to each item as we learned restaurant Farsi:   Korme Kofta.  Chalow.  Mashawa.

When the day came to take the test, she dressed for the occasion.  Black hair shining on an uncovered head.  Face made up boldly.  Jewelry flashing like high beams.  She returned so quickly I wondered if the agent at the DMV had passed her automatically.

Now she runs the wheels off that thing.  Drives it around the neighborhood like a Hot Wheels pedal car.  Runs it so fast I imagine her speeding to Kabul overnight, flaunting her new freedoms then gunning it home, leaving a shimmering exhaust of spices and silk in her wake.

Michele Rappoport is living the small life in Arizona and Colorado. She travels in an RV, creates tiny art, writes poetry and other short pieces, and has a certification in small-animal massage. She wishes she were taller, but she is 5’3” and shrinking.

I opened another bottle and sat down at the keys.

I nod. I have started now.

I am in a single room on the third floor. Magnolia walls. Magnolia carpet. A small bathroom. A single bed. A desk. And this chair.

From the hallway, I hear female laughter and the passing click-clack-click-clack of their stiletto heels. Up on the fifth floor, the ‘Social Bar Club’ must have now closed for the night. It must have. I cannot hear that dwarf’s voice on the microphone.

I am being serious. He was there when I was at the club earlier. Sat in my own booth. Two small green leather sofas. I played dice with a lady named Lucky. That’s right. A very bad name. I didn’t stand a chance. I was up against a pro. And I was drunk inside of thirty minutes. Cracking up at the savage state of me, Lucky slapped her hand on my upper thigh.

“Look at you, brother,” she laughed, “You’d think you’d never played dice before. Always losing. Very bad. Always lying. Terrible.” She laughed, “I can see why you are sitting here on your own.”

“Really?” I nodded –  raising an eyebrow in her direction – unsure of how much Lucky knew about my situation. “What do you mean by that?”

Lucky stroked me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, brother. It’s alright. Me and the other girls, we all know you from the TV. And we all know that this is all very unfair on you…”

She looked at me but I am not there now.

Cut to my dim lit single room.

The sound of a drunken argument in the room above me.

The woman is furious. She doesn’t like where her husband’s been. And she hates the state he’s in. It’s happening too often. She wants him to shower. But he tells her – in no uncertain terms – that he doesn’t want to. He is a dragon. He is a – something-or-other – I don’t know every word – And he is also something else – but I cannot find the word for that either.

“Fuck off…”

I pick up my cigarettes and shake my head. The argument grows louder.

Yes. That’s right. I could go out. But it is 3 AM. And I don’t feel like eating any barbecue. Not with the cameras on me. Not now I have become an unwanted celebrity. Can’t forget that “brother”.

No. I can’t forget yesterday morning. It will not leave my thoughts. 

6 AM. The fuckers.

Nearly smashed up half the empty bottles lying on the floor. Not that they cared, of course. The local media with their big ass cameras and their bloody smart phones. Shoving them in my face and throwing questions at me. The moment I was stupid enough to open the door to my room.

“Brother, when you met her, did you know she was married?”

“Brother, do you have any comment?”

No. I do not. I have three packets of cigarettes. An ashtray. Two litres of cheap vodka. And in the drawer beneath the keys, I now have a one-way ticket to the country next door. I don’t know how I’m going to use it though. Her husband is a high-ranked member of the local military. So it would be safer to assume that he has contacts at the airport.

That’s why an explanation is not important now.

Plans and decisions need to be made. And that is why – blah blah blah – I cannot concentrate on anything. And that is why I keep on giving out excuses.

My apologies.

I didn’t even tell you about the dwarf and his gold-lamé suit.

I’m sorry.

Maybe next time.

Right now – I hear shouting in the corridor

J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas. Website: acoatforamonkey.wordpress.com