King's Chronicles
Written February 2012 by Grace Sabella
Rain fell so hard it overflowed the gutters and gushed from the roof of Four Winds as I heaved open the oak door. Inside, however, was calm and tranquil. The power outage hadn't disrupted business at all--candles flickered on the table tops and along the bar, and the band played acoustically.
I slid into a booth and pulled my newly-acquired travel journal from my pocket. The paper still had that distinctive "new" smell I love so much. I cracked it open and began to chronicle my discoveries from my day off, namely the majestic private waterfall I'd happened upon while hiking not far from the beach. When the sunlight hit it just right, rainbows appeared in the mist, and the water gleamed with a million tiny crystals floating on the surface. After clipping a Polaroid next to my entry, I began to ponder on a name when two men sat at the booth behind me. Neither spoke at first, but they began to converse once their drinks arrived. "How is your scotch?" the first man asked. "Excellent, but you didn't drag me through this weather just to pay my tab--not that I'd complain if you did." "No." He was quiet for a bit, then I heard him sigh. "Your biographies are tasteful if not entirely accurate, and I'd like to procure your services." "Ah." The second man chuckled. "I'm not a biographer; I'm a ghost writer, but I'll gladly exchange your name on a book for my name on a check." "What is that, exactly?" "My fees are negotiable." "I'm prepared to pay whatever you ask. However, I doubt your bank would agree that you are Mr. Smith." "In that case, Patrick McDow is at your service." "Where I'm from, Mr. McDow, it's tradition for a man in my position to chronicle his life for the library. Unfortunately, my condition will not allow me to do so of my own accord." He set down his glass, and I noticed it clamored from unsteady hands. "I see," McDow said more soberly than before. "What's your position, exactly?" "King." McDow didn't know how to respond to that, but I imagined he took a gulp of scotch. "I'm assuming my work will be part of a royal library then." "Don't flatter yourself. No one will ever read it." "Why not?" The man claiming himself king took a deep breath and said, "I was once proud and full of passion. Many people loved my courage and followed my command. Now . . . well, I'm just the weary shell of that man. I've been slowly dying for years, and everyone's too busy to notice I'll be gone . . ." He sighed again. "But the chronicles must be written." "Absolutely." McDow chuckled, trying to sound light-hearted, but his lack of enthusiasm wasn't well concealed. I imagined the king could see it on his face, but he'd resigned himself to his fate before he'd taken a seat. "Shall we get started?" I listened a while longer as the king recounted the triumphs and trials of his life, and it briefly crossed my mind that they would make a better song than book. But it was getting late and I had to make the trek home before returning to my "real life" duties in the morning. I left wondering what else the king had to tell and how the ghost writer might spin it. Perhaps I'd ask Max on my next visit. |
Inspired by "Closet Chronicles" by Kansas
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