Kings

If you could have 50 pounds of anything other than money, what would you want?

Elizabeth couldn't afford his whole body so she put in a bid for 50 pounds of him. The instructions for entering the auction said any or all parts not to exceed 50 pounds. Her budget allowed for exactly the starting bid amount. She entered her offer anonymously as instructed. The notification of her win came precisely as the deadline passed. 

His picture showed a rather tall and lean body type with nice legs and arms, a smooth muscular torso and quite a head of lush hair. The information provided said the brain inside his skull contained a considerable amount of information. The notification of her win informed her that, because of her early bid, she had first choice.

The whole body weighed 200 pounds. Just for fun and because he was made in Britain, Elizabeth decided to convert his weight into stones; one pound equals seven hundredths of a stone or one stone equals 14 pounds. She came up with the answer that 200 pounds equaled 14 stone and 50 pounds of him equaled 3.5 stone. Either way she'd won approximately one quarter of him. 

She wanted a new partner for some time as her last one wore out from constant use; earlier models did not have the durability and stability of the newer ones. They tended toward volatility. Her last partner, who had the name of Richard III, came apart one night during lovemaking as he rode her crying out, “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”  

That incident occurred over eight months ago. His guarantee had just run out and she had no recourse. Still, she had gotten great value and much pleasure from Richard III and thus was not bitter at having to replace him. “‘Tis better to have loved once and lost than never to have loved at all,” she thought fancying Lord Tennyson’s famous words.

Based on her research, which ever parts she picked would ultimately grow whatever was not there. The cutting edge rejuvenation process took 10-14 days to complete. Head, shoulders and arms might be nice. That way she could talk to him as he grew; getting to know him; listening to his lovely British lilt. But, instead, “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” ran through her head and she chose his substantial bottom half. 

She named him Henry VII. Out with the Plantagenets and in with the Tudors she thought. It took much less than the full two weeks for Henry VII to grow his lovely arms, chest and head. In fact, to her utter delight, he became fully functional in only hours. And, just like Richard III, Henry VII’s hair grew in as light, fine ginger. This result gave her immense pleasure for she too was a ginger. “There never was a saint with red hair,” she thought remembering an old Russian proverb she’d heard many times from her grandmother.

One night, as she and Henry VII lay quietly in bed, she reading and he signing and sealing documents in his most Tudor of ways, she heard a knock at her door. “I’ll get it,” she said to Henry VII. “You look terribly busy.” He gave her a regal nod in return for her favor. 

She opened the door and Richard III charged past her in full chain mail regalia. “Henry Tudor resides here and I shan’t have it,” he cried.

“Wait. What?” Elizabeth called to his back. “I recycled you.”

“Out! Out! Out with you Henry Tudor,” he cried at the closed bedroom door. “Roust yourself. We shall meet again and I shall topple you. This room shall become our Bosworth Field!” He raised his broad sword above his head.

Henry emerged from the bedroom without a speck of clothing upon his body. Richard swung his sword and off came Henry’s head. But, even before it rolled into the corner of the room, Henry grew another one. Richard tried again, with the same result. He put down his sword. Both men looked at Elizabeth.

“We all need a cup of tea,” she said. “Sit down on the couch. I’m sure we can work this situation out to everyone’s satisfaction.” 

Especially mine, she thought as she headed into the kitchen chuckling with great glee as she pranced past a framed, cross-stitched sampler she’d made that said,  “It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity.  Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels.” ©kcasady2014  

Keyboard

She walked into the room. All seemed as it should, nothing changed, everything in its place. She dusted the books, moved on to the keyboard, accidently pushing a key. G she thought. He always started his pieces on a G. Just his thing she said out loud to nobody in particular. She put down her dust rag and, sitting at the keyboard, plunked out the first few notes of his last song, the unfinished one. The one they played at his funeral. The song whose words she could not hear when he wrote them. ©kcasady2014

 

Hound

My dear madam:

I often look up from my work and out the window

And through the early morning haze of golden fairy dust

See you glide by my hideaway from whence I view the quiet green road below

My sylvan refuge shields me from all wandering eyes but yours

The big hound catches my attention

as she prowls along the lane 

A tall blond with long legs

Somewhat resemblant of her companion 

Elegant and free

Bold in her nuzzling 

Shy with her glances

I see you briefly look toward my window

But your focus is the hound

A magical rapport as you move in unison

Matched in repartee 

Spellbound as if intoxicated by an elfin elixir

And you walk on

But I note a tiny glimpse over your shoulder at me

I nod but you've no notion of my small acknowledgement 

Lost perhaps in the light reflection of greenery against the pane

©kcasady2014

Lantern

He held the lantern above his head. Its glow spread golden, cutting through the darkness; fraying its edge; lighting up his writhing Lovely. He called them all his Lovelies. One by one, he fell in love; one by one, they turned away. One by one, he charmed them; one by one, they never stayed. But this last Lovely warmed to his courtliness; joined him at his side. She possessed him and broke the rules. No longer love struck, he bound her, gagged her and drove a blade through her heart, fancying himself her killer. ©kcasady2014

Parcel

You watch as he puts the parcel down. Why there you think? It belongs on the table, not on the chair. You wonder why he does things that way. It's not right you think, putting packages on chairs. Just a bit off you think, just a bit incorrect. You want to make a remark, say something like chairs are for sitting not storage but he just looks right through you with his juicy greenish-blue, heterochromous eyes and he has you even before you open your mouth to utter a word. My darling is all he says and you melt a teeny bit as you fall under the spell of his Knightsbridge Cockney momentarily overlooking the package sitting quite improperly on the chair; forgetting that you wanted to chide him about his indiscretion. By the time you catch your breath and gather yourself he scoops you into his long arms and you find your head resting against his sonorous chest. Lub dub, lub dub you hear and the smell Attimo Pour Homme draws you away from your thoughts of the parcel listing on the edge of the chair. You want to pull away and point out that the contents of any bag should be sorted and put away immediately but he strokes your hair and plants kisses between the strands. Your scalp tingles with each touch of his lips and your mind drifts a bit as you feel his pecs beneath his soft white shirt. You remember running your hands over his smooth almost hairless upper torso and hearing him say my darling in his Knightsbridge Cockney as his aura melted into your skin holding you as a divine hostage. You catch yourself as you spot the parcel out of the corner of your eye and you start to say that it will fall from the chair and everything will spill out onto the floor but he tilts your head back and seals the words in your throat with a kiss. He parts your lips to make way for his gentle probing tongue. A vision of the bag strays through your mind's eye as your tongue unwittingly melds to his in glorious harmony. His manfulness unfolds and you feel it grow against your belly climbing towards your breasts. Your arms and hands grasp his lovely bum instead of reaching for the falling parcel pulling yourself into his essence. My darling he says as he waltzes you off to the bedroom and the bag tumbles spilling its contents all over the floor. ©kcasady2014

Tarot

And from his urn he dreamed…and he remembered the land burning and the foxes foraging for food among the dead…sifting through unburied corpses… nuzzling into torn dead pockets…sometimes finding a morsel or two… picking up wanton broken swords…transforming them into playthings…flinging them into the air…listening to the clank of rusted metal breaking against rock-strewn turf…dusting human carcasses with shimmering metallic rubble…and the foxes laughed peculiar laughs and haunted the necropolis fields with stony songs.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he saw his children dancing naked…enthralled with the golden coins pouring from his hands…winnowing through his fingers…bouncing from their chests...he heard their joyous shrieks as they played…tossing doubloons into the air…catching them by the fistful…watching as their hair turned pale blond and their bodies to frail white bones lying in repose…golden discs protruding from their eyes…while  the foxes crooned atonal lullabies to the dead babes and suckled each other in sorrow.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he recalled meeting her under the Sign of the Rose…they knew their story before it even began…he the lordly ninth Knight of Staffs and she the perpetual and august Queen of Justice…their coupling preordained…their love braided into a single compelling vitality…they blazed with passion…their inferno lit the sky and the earth…soaring through the heavens giving the people hope…pulling them from doldrums and sorrow…inspiring dreams and illusions…the people hurtled forth from tragedy and death…glowing with hope…illuminating the future…and the foxes called out to each other with garish voices and pranced through lush fields and glittering cities.

And from his urn he dreamed…and he felt the perpetual and imperious Queen of Justice devour him and regurgitate him into the ninth urn…he the dapper ninth Knight of Staffs thrust with great ceremony into her maw…the moistness and warmth of which he’d never experienced…he wrapped himself around her tongue…desperate never to leave… but like the eight other Knights he too melted… his essence spat and left to rot in a clay ossuary…the people once again returned to darkness…and the foxes howled  tawdry anticipation of despondency and dereliction.

 

And from his urn he dreamed…and he heard the battle cries of the world’s end…monstrous soldiers cloaked in darkness…roaming through desolation…plunging broad swords deep into earth’s barren loam…cutting its wretched mantle through to its empty core…splitting the planet into halves…riding them deep into the universe…crying victory into the utter silence of nothingness…and the ecstatic foxes rode with their masters and bayed joy. ©kcasady2014

 

Haiku