the fuzzy edges of my life are
formed by generous sleep
and
hydrocodone
17 January 2012
16 January 2012
Delfort: 5. As Twice You Knew Me
This is the next installment of the adventures of young Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. To start from the beginning, read canto one.
Previous canto: "The Morning After"
Canto Five.
This time, when he awoke, he found his tunic and trousers to be in order. Delfort sat up, stretched, and looked out the window. Clara was gone, but there was a note beside him. He picked it up, examining her voluptuous handwriting without comprehending a single word. All he saw was Clara in every loop, every up-stroke and down.
Finally, words came to him: “My lord, I left you unattended in case someone should enter unannounced. Remember me as twice you knew me. Breathlessly yours, Clara.”
Breathlessly! thought Delfort, as he, too, was short of breath. What a creature!
“Your Highness!” bellowed Sir Reginald as he pounded the door.
The prince bade him enter whilst he gathered his jacket and the rest of his accoutrements, stuffing that wonderful note in the waist of his pants.
“Hope you're feeling better, Highness. Carriage leaves within the hour. The mayor will see us off.”
“Good.” Delfort looked straight at the knight. “Must we really go?”
Reginald chuckled, tugging on his moustache, shaking his head. Then he turned to go.
“Wait. Could you have James find that boy Pot for me?”
Reginald looked at him. “Pot?”
“Er, you know. Jehosa-what. The mayor's son. I want to speak with him.”
Reginald bowed slightly. “As you wish, sire.” Then he exited humming some war tune or drinking song.
The prince stood there and sighed. Not a moment later did Jaclynne appear and lock the door behind her.
“Jaclynne!” whispered the prince. “What are you doing?”
“My lord, I wanted to see you just once more before you departed forever and forgot your humble servant.”
“Please, Jaclynne, I must prepare for my journey.”
She moved towards him quickly and grabbed his face. He was immersed in her kiss, and it suddenly calmed him to his very core. She pulled away.
“You were not very coherent last night afterwards, so I wanted to thank you for that wonderful evening, my lord. I am honoured to have had your company.” She knelt before him and handed him a red tulip.
“Rise, Jaclynne,” the prince sighed. He stared into her eyes, thinking over everything. He decided the best thing to do was embrace her. So he did, and she complied. Then, pulling away, he grasped her shoulders. “You are a fine young woman, Jaclynne. I very much enjoyed your company as well.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She blushed and looked down at the floor.
“But please, Jaclynne, go. I need to get ready for my journey.”
“Very well, my lord. Fare well!” said Jaclynne, pecking him on the cheek, then slipping out into the hall.
“Fare well, my Jaclynne.”
Delfort was alone. He gazed around the bedchamber, taking in every last detail so as to savour these moments repeatedly on the long carriage ride to Bolle-Weaville: the headboard to which they tied him; the window out which they slipped; the plush chair on which the evening began. The tulip hung from his fingers, another prize for his cache. He placed Jaclynne's flower along with Clara's note and the two handkerchiefs in a large but unassuming pouch, which he hung from his belt. These conquests would ride alongside him.
*****
Dust and gravel kicked up around the carriage as it set off from Porte Godfrey with its well-fed and rested passengers aboard. Prince Delfort sat silently, deep within the bench's quilted billows, still rolling over the events of his journey thus far. James hung his head out the window watching the world wend away from him. Sir Reginald snorted and rubbed his prominent belly, still engorged from fabulous feasting. Soon the town was a speck on the distant plains, dwarfed by great hills and mountains leagues away. They followed the river up and down until it split for higher climbs. The forest rose around them, drenching the day in darkness. Here the wisps lived, bouncing from tree to rock, spiriting here and floating there, waiting to ignore an unasked question or provide an unspoken riddle.
For the first time, away from the action of Porte Godfrey, Prince Delfort considered James's point of view, or what he thought was James's point of view, regarding his recent escapades. James was not jealous, thought Delfort; rather, he was virtuous. Somehow the same isolation that led Delfort to wanting forbidden fruit kept James away, satisfied with not knowing, and brooding over Delfort's apparent waywardness. Even now he sat with his arms crossed, since the gloom had destroyed his view of the outdoors, probably in search of something to say or do to change Delfort's errant ways.
After some length, the royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of the gatehouse to a great stone wall which stretched in either direction and was enveloped by the incredibly fecund foliage. Upwards gatehouse towers reached into the clouds; indeed, the clouds seemed vestiges of the towers themselves. James, finally having something new at which to stare, did with great intensity, such that he might have tumbled out the carriage window had he not held on tightly. Delfort was impatient.
“What is the trouble?” the prince snapped, leaning out of the opened carriage door. The guard talking to the carriage driver looked over to the prince.
“We require proof of your princeship prior to proceeding.” The guard smacked his lips in surprise, clearly having not thought through his word choice before speaking.
The driver shrugged. “I told him it should all have been arranged.”
The prince ordered the driver to look in his travelling chest for the seal, which he did not wear normally. (Certainly, around Pilvar-upon-Weedlewhicke, it was unnecessary for him to wear it, and he disliked wearing things on his fingers.) The driver huffed and put down his reins, walking to the rear of his vessel and searching through the royal luggage. After several minutes, there was no sign of the prince's seal, or any sort of identification.
Delfort was surprised. He checked his personal satchel, of which he had memorised the contents, but checked anyway. He inquired of James where it might be, but his guess was as good as the prince's, and Sir Reginald belched and whistled through his moustache in similar accord. The ring was no where to be found.
“Damn. Clara.”
Sir Reginald sat up. “Eh, boy?”
“Er, nothing. The seal must be in Porte Godfrey, or surely it was forgotten at Pilvar.”
The knight was frozen in apparent incomprehension. Slowly the connections were made, and Sir Reginald suddenly seemed to be completely satisfied that the seal might be in Porte Godfrey. No doubt this was due to the further excess of food in which the knight could now indulge. So, as the golden sun hung brilliantly atop the sky and birds chattered mercilessly in the trees above, the carriage turned around.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "Back to Porte Godfrey"...
Previous canto: "The Morning After"
Canto Five.
 |
| Prince Delfort by Kevin F. Story |
Finally, words came to him: “My lord, I left you unattended in case someone should enter unannounced. Remember me as twice you knew me. Breathlessly yours, Clara.”
Breathlessly! thought Delfort, as he, too, was short of breath. What a creature!
“Your Highness!” bellowed Sir Reginald as he pounded the door.
The prince bade him enter whilst he gathered his jacket and the rest of his accoutrements, stuffing that wonderful note in the waist of his pants.
“Hope you're feeling better, Highness. Carriage leaves within the hour. The mayor will see us off.”
“Good.” Delfort looked straight at the knight. “Must we really go?”
Reginald chuckled, tugging on his moustache, shaking his head. Then he turned to go.
“Wait. Could you have James find that boy Pot for me?”
Reginald looked at him. “Pot?”
“Er, you know. Jehosa-what. The mayor's son. I want to speak with him.”
Reginald bowed slightly. “As you wish, sire.” Then he exited humming some war tune or drinking song.
The prince stood there and sighed. Not a moment later did Jaclynne appear and lock the door behind her.
“Jaclynne!” whispered the prince. “What are you doing?”
“My lord, I wanted to see you just once more before you departed forever and forgot your humble servant.”
“Please, Jaclynne, I must prepare for my journey.”
She moved towards him quickly and grabbed his face. He was immersed in her kiss, and it suddenly calmed him to his very core. She pulled away.
“You were not very coherent last night afterwards, so I wanted to thank you for that wonderful evening, my lord. I am honoured to have had your company.” She knelt before him and handed him a red tulip.
“Rise, Jaclynne,” the prince sighed. He stared into her eyes, thinking over everything. He decided the best thing to do was embrace her. So he did, and she complied. Then, pulling away, he grasped her shoulders. “You are a fine young woman, Jaclynne. I very much enjoyed your company as well.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She blushed and looked down at the floor.
“But please, Jaclynne, go. I need to get ready for my journey.”
“Very well, my lord. Fare well!” said Jaclynne, pecking him on the cheek, then slipping out into the hall.
“Fare well, my Jaclynne.”
Delfort was alone. He gazed around the bedchamber, taking in every last detail so as to savour these moments repeatedly on the long carriage ride to Bolle-Weaville: the headboard to which they tied him; the window out which they slipped; the plush chair on which the evening began. The tulip hung from his fingers, another prize for his cache. He placed Jaclynne's flower along with Clara's note and the two handkerchiefs in a large but unassuming pouch, which he hung from his belt. These conquests would ride alongside him.
*****
Dust and gravel kicked up around the carriage as it set off from Porte Godfrey with its well-fed and rested passengers aboard. Prince Delfort sat silently, deep within the bench's quilted billows, still rolling over the events of his journey thus far. James hung his head out the window watching the world wend away from him. Sir Reginald snorted and rubbed his prominent belly, still engorged from fabulous feasting. Soon the town was a speck on the distant plains, dwarfed by great hills and mountains leagues away. They followed the river up and down until it split for higher climbs. The forest rose around them, drenching the day in darkness. Here the wisps lived, bouncing from tree to rock, spiriting here and floating there, waiting to ignore an unasked question or provide an unspoken riddle.
For the first time, away from the action of Porte Godfrey, Prince Delfort considered James's point of view, or what he thought was James's point of view, regarding his recent escapades. James was not jealous, thought Delfort; rather, he was virtuous. Somehow the same isolation that led Delfort to wanting forbidden fruit kept James away, satisfied with not knowing, and brooding over Delfort's apparent waywardness. Even now he sat with his arms crossed, since the gloom had destroyed his view of the outdoors, probably in search of something to say or do to change Delfort's errant ways.
After some length, the royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of the gatehouse to a great stone wall which stretched in either direction and was enveloped by the incredibly fecund foliage. Upwards gatehouse towers reached into the clouds; indeed, the clouds seemed vestiges of the towers themselves. James, finally having something new at which to stare, did with great intensity, such that he might have tumbled out the carriage window had he not held on tightly. Delfort was impatient.
“What is the trouble?” the prince snapped, leaning out of the opened carriage door. The guard talking to the carriage driver looked over to the prince.
“We require proof of your princeship prior to proceeding.” The guard smacked his lips in surprise, clearly having not thought through his word choice before speaking.
The driver shrugged. “I told him it should all have been arranged.”
The prince ordered the driver to look in his travelling chest for the seal, which he did not wear normally. (Certainly, around Pilvar-upon-Weedlewhicke, it was unnecessary for him to wear it, and he disliked wearing things on his fingers.) The driver huffed and put down his reins, walking to the rear of his vessel and searching through the royal luggage. After several minutes, there was no sign of the prince's seal, or any sort of identification.
Delfort was surprised. He checked his personal satchel, of which he had memorised the contents, but checked anyway. He inquired of James where it might be, but his guess was as good as the prince's, and Sir Reginald belched and whistled through his moustache in similar accord. The ring was no where to be found.
“Damn. Clara.”
Sir Reginald sat up. “Eh, boy?”
“Er, nothing. The seal must be in Porte Godfrey, or surely it was forgotten at Pilvar.”
The knight was frozen in apparent incomprehension. Slowly the connections were made, and Sir Reginald suddenly seemed to be completely satisfied that the seal might be in Porte Godfrey. No doubt this was due to the further excess of food in which the knight could now indulge. So, as the golden sun hung brilliantly atop the sky and birds chattered mercilessly in the trees above, the carriage turned around.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "Back to Porte Godfrey"...
09 January 2012
Delfort: 4. The Morning After
This is the next installment of the adventures of young Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. To start from the beginning, read canto one.
Previous canto: "The Royal Chambers"
Canto Four.
When Delfort awoke, he was alone. You rogue! he thought, clutching the two handkerchiefs, one green and one blue, that remained tied around his now free hands. Quickly he got up, then fell back down as his head pounded at him. After a moment he slowly rose and threw on his royal dressing gown. On the bedside table was a note (“The cure for what ALES you -Reg.”) and a small flask. Delfort took out the stopper and inhaled. It smelt awful. Pinching his nose (he'd seen someone do that once), he downed its contents. After a coughing fit he felt a hundredfold better.
A familiar, quiet knock sounded from the door.
“Enter, James.”
The door swung open, and James entered quickly, silently closing it behind him.
“What happened, sire? You look a mess,” said James, quickly finding the prince's slippers and presenting them.
Delfort sat on the bed, accepting the slippers. “I'm not certain, James, but this is what I think.” He informed James of everything that happened, starting with his talk with Sir Reginald, breezing through his encounter with Pot, and finally relishing in his exploits with (or his being exploited by) Clara and Jaclynne, “who will die happy knowing her first time ever was with the future King of Darscinnia.”
James was both amazed and disgusted. “You mean the future King of a united Darscinnia and Inglende,” he corrected.
The prince ignored this. “I wish you had been there, James. You could have shared.”
James stood up. “Sire, we leave at noon after a private brunch with the mayor and his family. It would probably be best if we put this all behind us and continue our journey to meet your bride-to-be.”
Delfort observed the coolness James now presented. He had never seen James like this. They were always open to each other, but now James closed the metaphorical door. Delfort found his feet and slowly introduced them to the floor.
“Quite right, James. I shall never speak of it again.”
*****
Prince Delfort descended the stairs and stood outside the door to the banquet hall. James and Sir Reginald followed closely behind, and when they, too, reached the door, the ceremonial guards opened it, banging their pikes loudly on the stone floor.
“His Majesty the Crown Prince of Darscinnia; and his entourage, Sir Reginald of Cangreene,” announced one of the guards.
The other guard looked at James. “Son, you can eat with the other servants in the storehouse.”
“He eats with me,” the prince commanded.
The guard sighed; he tried, after all. “Very well, my lord.”
The prince and his party proceeded to the banqueting table, where Mayor von Blochstorgg and others stood waiting.
“Good morrow, Your most Royal Excellency!” the mayor snivelled. He introduced a rotund, fleshy woman as his wife, Maria. She smiled wider than even her fatted face would allow. The mayor's personal advisor towered above her, an eagle-looking man with not a hair on his shiny scalp, just some wispy white ones around the edges. “The good doctor Lester Bickentawl.”
The prince noted with alarm the other guests.
“This is my only child, my son Jehosaphat.”
Pot smiled. “We've met. Your Highness.”
“And this is Dr Bickentawl's only daughter, the fair maiden Jaclynne.”
James shot the prince a look as Jaclynne curtseyed. Her hair was brushed out straight so that it flowed all around her adorable frame, a frame she had disclosed to the prince when the moon was high. It now wore a maroon gown which seemed to endlessly wrap around itself. She glowed still from her unforgettable evening.
“My dear cousin Clarabelle sends her warmest regards, my lord,” Jaclynne said, winking subtly. “She only wishes she could be here to see your handsome face.”
“Indeed,” snorted Dr Bickentawl as he adjusted his spectacles, “my niece was meant to join us, but woke up rather ill, according to my sister. Jitters about meeting a prince, if you ask me.” He chuckled and muttered something that sounded like “children” under his breath.
Prince Delfort was given the seat at the head of the somewhat short table, with the mayor seated at the other end (indeed, the arse, thought the prince). James and Reginald flanked him on the right, while (to his dismay) Jaclynne and Pot took up the left. Throughout the meal the mayor did most of the talking, boring the table with recounts of his time at a boarding school in Barnium-over-Wynn, eliciting yawns from the table with recitations of mediocre poetry he wrote at lyceum in Notlob Falls, and finally filling the table with genuine ennui by retelling of his absolutely ordinary boyhood in Porte Godfrey and environs. Sir Reginald did what he always did: he ate prolifically. James felt rather unhungry, especially sitting across from Jaclynne, who throughout the meal grinned unnervingly at him, at the prince, at everyone. The prince ate slowly in contemplative silence, seemingly stoic. Pot was in his own world, a state he probably enjoyed most of the time.
Delfort was a bit torn as he slowly ate the victuals before him. His experience last night was exciting, perhaps the best thing that had happened to him so far in his young life. Yet he could tell James disapproved. Was he jealous? or merely looking out for his old master and companion? Perhaps the prince could indulge and leave his attendant unawares. He glanced at Jaclynne. She smiled at him and blushed, turning to her plate and passing some bits of food around it. She was good, Delfort thought, but Clara was better, more lovely, more exciting. Delfort wondered if there were more young ladies like them in the kingdom, and if he could manage to sample them all.
A small slippered foot found that of Delfort. His eyes met hers and he blushed this time and moved his foot away. That magic punch, Delfort continued mentally, and that sweet smoke were the only reasons for the events of last night. Now he looked at Pot, who was staring into his silver goblet and picking bits from his teeth. Maybe Pot would grant him a small favour, something the prince could take with him on his journey. Otherwise there would be no way for Delfort to even talk to the fair maidens of this or the next land.
Delfort then looked back at Jaclynne. Maybe he could try again, he thought, without the influence of other things.
“Enjoying the food?” Delfort inquired stupidly.
Jaclynne looked up from her plate, at which she had resigned to staring. She smiled. “Yes, my lord, but not as much as I enjoyed your feast last night.”
“Indeed.” Delfort felt foolish. He stood up. Others tried to stand, but he stayed them with a hand, excusing himself, and leaving the banquet hall.
Delfort nodded to the guards and ascended the steps. He felt better now that he wasn't in that sweltering hall. (Perhaps he was the only one sweltering.) He found his chamber and slipped inside, locking shut the door. He sighed and turned into the room. Clara was standing before him. He froze.
“My lord!” she blushed, surprised at his entrance. “Is brunch already over?”
Delfort thawed slowly. “No, no. I needed some, er, air.”
Clara turned her surprise to a smile. She walked to him. She was wearing a heavy grey cloak, under which it appeared she wore only a sage slip.
“Is there anything I can do, my lord?” She was quite close. Her hand found his jacket buttons and followed them top to bottom.
“I thought you were ill.”
Clara stopped. “I was. Then I felt better. I realised I left my purse here last night, so I came back to get it, but I did not wish to disturb my handsome lord.” She touched his cheek, which blushed.
“Did you... did you find it?”
“I did, my lord.” She smiled. “But I found you, too. And you must leave today.”
“Yes, I must—”
“My lord.” Clara undid her cloak and let it fall to the floor. Her sheer slip billowed slightly with some breeze in the room. She grasped his hand, her eyes saying, “May I?” and led the prince away from the door. Delfort relaxed and let it all happen.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "As Twice You Knew Me"...
Previous canto: "The Royal Chambers"
Canto Four.
|
| Prince Delfort by Kevin F. Story |
A familiar, quiet knock sounded from the door.
“Enter, James.”
The door swung open, and James entered quickly, silently closing it behind him.
“What happened, sire? You look a mess,” said James, quickly finding the prince's slippers and presenting them.
Delfort sat on the bed, accepting the slippers. “I'm not certain, James, but this is what I think.” He informed James of everything that happened, starting with his talk with Sir Reginald, breezing through his encounter with Pot, and finally relishing in his exploits with (or his being exploited by) Clara and Jaclynne, “who will die happy knowing her first time ever was with the future King of Darscinnia.”
James was both amazed and disgusted. “You mean the future King of a united Darscinnia and Inglende,” he corrected.
The prince ignored this. “I wish you had been there, James. You could have shared.”
James stood up. “Sire, we leave at noon after a private brunch with the mayor and his family. It would probably be best if we put this all behind us and continue our journey to meet your bride-to-be.”
Delfort observed the coolness James now presented. He had never seen James like this. They were always open to each other, but now James closed the metaphorical door. Delfort found his feet and slowly introduced them to the floor.
“Quite right, James. I shall never speak of it again.”
*****
Prince Delfort descended the stairs and stood outside the door to the banquet hall. James and Sir Reginald followed closely behind, and when they, too, reached the door, the ceremonial guards opened it, banging their pikes loudly on the stone floor.
“His Majesty the Crown Prince of Darscinnia; and his entourage, Sir Reginald of Cangreene,” announced one of the guards.
The other guard looked at James. “Son, you can eat with the other servants in the storehouse.”
“He eats with me,” the prince commanded.
The guard sighed; he tried, after all. “Very well, my lord.”
The prince and his party proceeded to the banqueting table, where Mayor von Blochstorgg and others stood waiting.
“Good morrow, Your most Royal Excellency!” the mayor snivelled. He introduced a rotund, fleshy woman as his wife, Maria. She smiled wider than even her fatted face would allow. The mayor's personal advisor towered above her, an eagle-looking man with not a hair on his shiny scalp, just some wispy white ones around the edges. “The good doctor Lester Bickentawl.”
The prince noted with alarm the other guests.
“This is my only child, my son Jehosaphat.”
Pot smiled. “We've met. Your Highness.”
“And this is Dr Bickentawl's only daughter, the fair maiden Jaclynne.”
James shot the prince a look as Jaclynne curtseyed. Her hair was brushed out straight so that it flowed all around her adorable frame, a frame she had disclosed to the prince when the moon was high. It now wore a maroon gown which seemed to endlessly wrap around itself. She glowed still from her unforgettable evening.
“My dear cousin Clarabelle sends her warmest regards, my lord,” Jaclynne said, winking subtly. “She only wishes she could be here to see your handsome face.”
“Indeed,” snorted Dr Bickentawl as he adjusted his spectacles, “my niece was meant to join us, but woke up rather ill, according to my sister. Jitters about meeting a prince, if you ask me.” He chuckled and muttered something that sounded like “children” under his breath.
Prince Delfort was given the seat at the head of the somewhat short table, with the mayor seated at the other end (indeed, the arse, thought the prince). James and Reginald flanked him on the right, while (to his dismay) Jaclynne and Pot took up the left. Throughout the meal the mayor did most of the talking, boring the table with recounts of his time at a boarding school in Barnium-over-Wynn, eliciting yawns from the table with recitations of mediocre poetry he wrote at lyceum in Notlob Falls, and finally filling the table with genuine ennui by retelling of his absolutely ordinary boyhood in Porte Godfrey and environs. Sir Reginald did what he always did: he ate prolifically. James felt rather unhungry, especially sitting across from Jaclynne, who throughout the meal grinned unnervingly at him, at the prince, at everyone. The prince ate slowly in contemplative silence, seemingly stoic. Pot was in his own world, a state he probably enjoyed most of the time.
Delfort was a bit torn as he slowly ate the victuals before him. His experience last night was exciting, perhaps the best thing that had happened to him so far in his young life. Yet he could tell James disapproved. Was he jealous? or merely looking out for his old master and companion? Perhaps the prince could indulge and leave his attendant unawares. He glanced at Jaclynne. She smiled at him and blushed, turning to her plate and passing some bits of food around it. She was good, Delfort thought, but Clara was better, more lovely, more exciting. Delfort wondered if there were more young ladies like them in the kingdom, and if he could manage to sample them all.
A small slippered foot found that of Delfort. His eyes met hers and he blushed this time and moved his foot away. That magic punch, Delfort continued mentally, and that sweet smoke were the only reasons for the events of last night. Now he looked at Pot, who was staring into his silver goblet and picking bits from his teeth. Maybe Pot would grant him a small favour, something the prince could take with him on his journey. Otherwise there would be no way for Delfort to even talk to the fair maidens of this or the next land.
Delfort then looked back at Jaclynne. Maybe he could try again, he thought, without the influence of other things.
“Enjoying the food?” Delfort inquired stupidly.
Jaclynne looked up from her plate, at which she had resigned to staring. She smiled. “Yes, my lord, but not as much as I enjoyed your feast last night.”
“Indeed.” Delfort felt foolish. He stood up. Others tried to stand, but he stayed them with a hand, excusing himself, and leaving the banquet hall.
Delfort nodded to the guards and ascended the steps. He felt better now that he wasn't in that sweltering hall. (Perhaps he was the only one sweltering.) He found his chamber and slipped inside, locking shut the door. He sighed and turned into the room. Clara was standing before him. He froze.
“My lord!” she blushed, surprised at his entrance. “Is brunch already over?”
Delfort thawed slowly. “No, no. I needed some, er, air.”
Clara turned her surprise to a smile. She walked to him. She was wearing a heavy grey cloak, under which it appeared she wore only a sage slip.
“Is there anything I can do, my lord?” She was quite close. Her hand found his jacket buttons and followed them top to bottom.
“I thought you were ill.”
Clara stopped. “I was. Then I felt better. I realised I left my purse here last night, so I came back to get it, but I did not wish to disturb my handsome lord.” She touched his cheek, which blushed.
“Did you... did you find it?”
“I did, my lord.” She smiled. “But I found you, too. And you must leave today.”
“Yes, I must—”
“My lord.” Clara undid her cloak and let it fall to the floor. Her sheer slip billowed slightly with some breeze in the room. She grasped his hand, her eyes saying, “May I?” and led the prince away from the door. Delfort relaxed and let it all happen.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "As Twice You Knew Me"...
03 January 2012
Happy New Year, PST
There is no day like December 31st
to remind one of the man-made construct that is time and, by proxy,
its brothers and sisters, the time zones. This is especially true for
people who fly across them on December 31st. This is even
more especially true for people on certain Pacific isles, whose 2011,
as you may be aware, only had 364 days, since they only a few days
before traded tomorrow for yesterday in order to be more like
Australia today. Go figure.
On this particular December 31st,
after a jaunt of ten days on the island of my birth, my wife and I
boarded a plane headed for our latest home, in Los Angeles County.
The flight from New York to Los Angeles is made sweeter by the fact
that, even though it's a six hour flight, you land only three hours
after you started; also, if it's December, L.A. is about thirty
degrees warmer than New York. The only downside I can see is there
isn't a decent pizza in L.A. to hang your hat on, which is fine,
since I don't need the extra calories, and, anyway, the hat would get
soggy.
The evening's activities would include
fixing a quick dinner of whatever wasn't rotten or moldy at home (a
success, as some tortellini and a loaf of bread was stashed in the
freezer) followed by calling around to my friend Christian's place
for the festivities. Not only is December 31st New Year's
Eve; it's also Christian's birthday.
Christian and I went to college
together on Long Island, where we shared a house in Greenlawn that
our classmates termed “The Gentleman's Lodge.” A filmmaker with
big aspirations (and huge talent), he moved to L.A. a year ago for
what I figure are pretty obvious reasons.
That is how we found ourselves at a bar
on Ventura Boulevard on New Year's Eve.
We were excited to be celebrating the
New Year in a new place. I, for one, had spent New Year's in several
places in the northeast. The “quiet evening at home” is usually
my favorite, though sometimes (rarely) I threw parties. In Boston,
they shoot off fireworks over the Charles River while the Boston Pops
plays The Year 1812, Festival Overture in E-flat major,
complete with 19th century cannon-fire. (The best place to
stand other than right on the Esplanade is on the Massachusetts
Avenue bridge.) At a friend's house in Connecticut, we brought in the
New Year by grilling dogs, playing pinochle, and jamming until we
couldn't see the keys anymore, and even then we kept going a bit.
Nowhere, of course, is more iconic for
New Year's celebrants than Times Square, New York City, where you
have to arrive in the afternoon to be allowed into the Square,
checked for bombs and other nuisances, then led to a nice spot in the
pen where you'll be spending the rest of the day. No bathrooms, no
pretzel stands, no water. Let's just say I don't need to do that
again.
So, like I said, we were excited to be
in L.A. for New Year's. We figured there would be something
different. We whispered to each other wondering where they would do
the fireworks: over the Hollywood sign? or at Disneyland? or maybe
over Santa Monica Pier?
We had to swim through bodies to get to
the bar, where we could see the televisions. This place was beyond
packed. A fire marshall would have had a field day. It took until the
ten-minute warning just to flag down a bartender.
The televisions in the bar were tuned
to the classic New Year's show, in... Times Square. The broadcast had
the gall to put “LIVE” in a box in the corner, followed by, in
smaller type, “ET.” Eastern time. Everything we were watching had
happened three hours ago. In New York. Where we just were.
Where were the Southland fireworks? the
local displays of celebration? Is New York's party so good that the
West Coast has to rebroadcast it? No one can top it?
My wife leaned into me, “I guess New
York is the center of the
universe.”
When
the appointed time came, we counted down, clinked glasses, shouted,
kissed, all according to this odd tradition we humans have come up
with. At a minute past midnight on January 1st,
we pushed our way out of the bar and onto Ventura, where the freshest
air L.A. has to offer was just waiting to be inhaled. But something
wasn't right, I thought as we walked back to Christian's apartment.
It didn't feel like
the New Year happened. Sure we watched some television, did some
shouting and kissing and so on, but it still felt like we just
watched someone else's New Year happen on the television. The New
Year we would have had if we were in New York. Here we were in
Pacific Time, clinging to the hope of a slightly different New Year,
and all we got was the same old Eastern Time change-over we'd been
fed since babes. Been there, done that, as they say.
And
time marches on.
02 January 2012
Delfort: 3. The Royal Chambers
Now that Christmas, Hannukah, New Year's et al. are over, it's time to get back to the continuing tale of Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. Read from the beginning here.
Previous canto: "The Feast"
Canto Three.
She took a deep breath and sighed a huge sigh when it was all over, whichever one it was. The prince was sprawled out on his royal mattress absolutely astounded over what had transpired. His head felt even lighter than before, yet he could not bring himself to lift it. Never before had he felt this way, for, indeed, never before had all this happened in his life.
Clara and Jaclynne whispered to each other excitedly somewhere in the room, but Delfort neither cared nor listened. He revelled in his own world, in his head, reliving the moments where those two wonderful young things showed him what being a prince was all about. How had he gone so long without knowing, stuck in a dank palace for so many years without the gentle touch of a young lass? without so much as a glimpse of female beauty? The closest he ever came to simply seeing a girl was a single tapestry in the great hall of Pilvar-upon-Weedlewhicke, where a knight was giving some fair maiden a rose, or taking a rose from her, depending on your point of view. He remembered staring at that tapestry through many feasts in the great hall, just wishing a real maiden would make herself known to him.
Hands on his face and body brought Delfort back to reality. Opening his eyes, the lovely visages of those two wonderful sirens hovered there above him.
Clara spoke. “Enjoyable, my lord?”
Delfort tried to speak but could not.
Jaclynne glanced at Clara with a gleaming smile.
Delfort looked at both of them. He wanted to hold them both in his arms and tell them how much he appreciated everything they had done for him—to him. He tried to get just a feel of one of them, but he could not. He could not move his hands. They seemed to be stuck. Or tied.
“Mmm mmnf,” said Delfort, his mouth full of fabric.
Clara kissed Jaclynne's cheek. “You can go first, Jaclynne, since it's your first time and all. Oh, look! He's ready.”
Even though he was tied down and gagged, Delfort smiled and let it all happen. It's good to be the prince, he thought.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "The Morning After"...
Previous canto: "The Feast"
Canto Three.
|
| Prince Delfort by Kevin F. Story |
Clara and Jaclynne whispered to each other excitedly somewhere in the room, but Delfort neither cared nor listened. He revelled in his own world, in his head, reliving the moments where those two wonderful young things showed him what being a prince was all about. How had he gone so long without knowing, stuck in a dank palace for so many years without the gentle touch of a young lass? without so much as a glimpse of female beauty? The closest he ever came to simply seeing a girl was a single tapestry in the great hall of Pilvar-upon-Weedlewhicke, where a knight was giving some fair maiden a rose, or taking a rose from her, depending on your point of view. He remembered staring at that tapestry through many feasts in the great hall, just wishing a real maiden would make herself known to him.
Hands on his face and body brought Delfort back to reality. Opening his eyes, the lovely visages of those two wonderful sirens hovered there above him.
Clara spoke. “Enjoyable, my lord?”
Delfort tried to speak but could not.
Jaclynne glanced at Clara with a gleaming smile.
Delfort looked at both of them. He wanted to hold them both in his arms and tell them how much he appreciated everything they had done for him—to him. He tried to get just a feel of one of them, but he could not. He could not move his hands. They seemed to be stuck. Or tied.
“Mmm mmnf,” said Delfort, his mouth full of fabric.
Clara kissed Jaclynne's cheek. “You can go first, Jaclynne, since it's your first time and all. Oh, look! He's ready.”
Even though he was tied down and gagged, Delfort smiled and let it all happen. It's good to be the prince, he thought.
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "The Morning After"...
19 December 2011
Delfort: 2. The Feast
This is "canto" two of a series concerning the journey of young Delfort, Prince of Darscinnia. For canto one, click here.
Canto Two.
The music of the night was the sound of people laughing, dishes clanging, and liquor pouring. It was safe to say that Mayor von Blochstorgg had spared no expense in preparing the prince’s repast. The port’s most prominent people gathered here for the prince’s party, accompanied by some of the finest faces in his father’s fiefdom. And it was Delfort’s first time seeing them in great numbers and all in one place.
A couple of captivating young ladies carried themselves up to the prince; pale beauties in silky gowns with tightly laced bodices to accentuate their femininity, as if to say, “’Tis good to be sixteen.” But, before words were waged, their faces blushed, giggles gushed, and they were gone. While Delfort was far from cursed with ugly countenance, he did seem outwardly awkward against the nightlife of Porte Godfrey.
Reginald sat off to one side, in one mitt a massive mug of mead and the other more than one man’s measure of mutton. Neither flagon nor fowl, booze nor beef were safe with Sir Reginald environs, and one could see the barrels of sack tremble at his approach.
The prince by this time had made his way over to where the knight was ceremoniously stuffing himself, and sat next to the man.
“So, are you enjoying yourself?” Reginald inquired amidst mouthfuls of mutton and mead. Bits of meat began to become infused with the knight’s moustache and sticky dribbles of drink.
“Well,” Delfort began, attempting to put his plight into parlance. “I’m not very good with… er… the ladies.”
Reginald slowed his devouring to a dull roar. “The ladies, eh?” Finally the knight’s focus put the food aside and faltered onto the females at the fête. “Pretty, aren’t they?” he remarked with a somewhat unnerving grin, picking his teeth with a shard of sheep bone.
The prince could only nod his assent.
Reginald relaxed in his chair as he finished the rest of his mutton in a single bite. “Well,” he offered thoughtfully, “have you tried talking to them?”
“Not as much, no,” replied Delfort.
“That would be the first step, lad.”
With that, Reginald took a long swig of mead, swished it around, swallowed with a disgustingly audible gulp, and turned around to have a look-see. Two such young ladies walked into his trap.
“Pardon me, ladies. Have you met my friend? He is the prince, you know.”
The ladies in question stopped to look at the young man before them. One was about Delfort's height, thin and freckly with beautiful green eyes that reflected torchlight magnificently. She wore glittering green and gold yarn in her garnet braids. The other, though shorter, was even more stunning, with dark, mysterious eyes that begged to be asked something intimately secret. Her onyx hair fell all the way to her tiny waist, below which round hips patiently waited. Some strands of that silky hair had escaped the pack to find themselves draped over her shoulders, framing what could only be described, in Reginald's inebriated estimation, as the palest, finest bosom in the land, certainly fit for a prince. These girls did what they did best—they giggled.
Reginald leaned into Delfort, whispering, “They’re all yours now.” With a slap on the prince's back he stood and sauntered off in search of something else with which to further stuff himself.
Delfort was alone. He could feel it. Fear and nausea began to set in. He heard the ladies giggling off in the distance, but turned to see them right before him, plain as day. He had no clue as to what to do or say next. He became frozen, working out every possibility, every scenario in his head, otherwise vacant to the world. The girls continued giggling, making Delfort more nervous as his mind settled on the only clear plan.
He stood and walked away, leaving the girls behind. He needed to find Reginald. He needed air. He needed—
“Hey. Watch where you’re going,” a gruff voice shouted.
Delfort noticed he wasn’t moving anymore. Rather, he was standing before a young man into whom he had apparently just walked.
Suddenly, Delfort remembered he was a prince.
“No, you watch where you’re going,” Delfort retorted cleverly.
The young man stared back. “You’re the prince, aren’t you?”
Delfort nodded haughtily.
The young man’s countenance changed. “Well, then, come. Sit at my table,” he said putting his arm around the prince and leading him onward. “I am called Pot.”
“Delfort.”
“Yes. I know,” laughed Pot, sitting the prince down and taking a seat himself. Delfort found himself at the far edge of the party and could easily see everyone else revelling in his visit.
Pot picked up his pipe and puffed upon it. Delfort supposed he was about his own age, though Pot was taller and had a sun-baked look to him. Pot also seemed very worldly. He knew his stuff. He did not seem particularly handsome to Delfort, but then, how was he to know?
“So, are you enjoying yourself, Highness?” asked this young man Pot as he lifted a cup to his lips.
“Well, er, I suppose,” replied the prince, eying the meagre loaf of bread and cups of liquor before him on the table.
“Go on. Have a cup.” Pot passed the prince a potable.
“Oh, no. I shouldn’t.”
“Come on. It’s your party, Highness,” persisted Pot.
After a moment, Delfort drank. Warm, spicy liquid entered his throat. He choked a bit.
Pot laughed. “Potent, eh?”
Delfort looked over his new acquaintance as the fiery water settled in his system, turning his cheeks crimson and burning his chest. He could not stop a smile from spreading across his face, and from somewhere above his eyebrows his voice said, “Yes.”
“Pot's punch, I call it. A bit sharp, this batch. Here. This mellows it out.” Pot pointed his pipe at the prince, who peered perplexedly at it. “Go on, Highness. My treat.”
Without warning, Delfort's hand grasped Pot's offering and raised it to Delfort's lips. The smoke's sweet smell disarmed the prince further, and he took a short puff. He coughed. His eyes floated around in his head a bit, then suddenly everything centred. He felt calm.
“Thanks,” Delfort squeaked, passing back the pipe. He cleared his throat and took another swig of Pot's punch, the wonderful brew coating his mind, telling it everything was going to be all right and why doesn't it just take a break for the next hour or so.
“I'm hungry,” Delfort asserted. Pot broke a piece of bread and handed it to the prince, which he finished in a few quick bites. Then he emptied the rest of his cup, which Pot promptly refilled. From somewhere behind him, his ears heard a familiar sound. He turned around.
“Ladies.”
The girls with garnet and onyx hair met his gaze and giggled over to him. The prince found them more stunning than before. He noticed the lighter-haired one's cute emerald dress and how it hung from her shoulders straight down to white sandalled feet. He noticed the other's blue and white number, complete with a dark leather cinch that nearly doubled her womanliness. Pot leaned into Delfort.
“I feel like a walk. Tread carefully yourself, Highness.”
Delfort was alone. But this time, he was in control.
“Have you beauties ever met a prince before?”
They looked at each other and giggled. The redhead blushed.
The brunette spoke first. “Our pleasure is to serve you, Your Highness,” she said curtseying slightly. They both giggled and blushed and looked at each other, then back at the prince.
Delfort held out his cup. “Care for a taste? It's good.”
The ladies looked at each other some more, then both moved closer to the prince.
“I'm Clara,” said the brunette. She put her hands on his as she sipped, then moved to wipe her young lips. Then she blushed and smiled.
“Jaclynne, my lord,” said the redhead. She took the cup from him and took the tiniest sip, passing it back quickly. She coughed a bit and giggled. Delfort took a sip himself and set the cup down.
“Are you ladies from around here?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said.
Then Clara, clearly the leader of the two, added, “Jaclynne and I were wondering if you could show us the royal chambers in the mayor's mansion. It's the only place in town we have never been, and we would be quite grateful.”
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "The Royal Chambers"...
Canto Two.
|
| Prince Delfort by Kevin F. Story |
A couple of captivating young ladies carried themselves up to the prince; pale beauties in silky gowns with tightly laced bodices to accentuate their femininity, as if to say, “’Tis good to be sixteen.” But, before words were waged, their faces blushed, giggles gushed, and they were gone. While Delfort was far from cursed with ugly countenance, he did seem outwardly awkward against the nightlife of Porte Godfrey.
Reginald sat off to one side, in one mitt a massive mug of mead and the other more than one man’s measure of mutton. Neither flagon nor fowl, booze nor beef were safe with Sir Reginald environs, and one could see the barrels of sack tremble at his approach.
The prince by this time had made his way over to where the knight was ceremoniously stuffing himself, and sat next to the man.
“So, are you enjoying yourself?” Reginald inquired amidst mouthfuls of mutton and mead. Bits of meat began to become infused with the knight’s moustache and sticky dribbles of drink.
“Well,” Delfort began, attempting to put his plight into parlance. “I’m not very good with… er… the ladies.”
Reginald slowed his devouring to a dull roar. “The ladies, eh?” Finally the knight’s focus put the food aside and faltered onto the females at the fête. “Pretty, aren’t they?” he remarked with a somewhat unnerving grin, picking his teeth with a shard of sheep bone.
The prince could only nod his assent.
Reginald relaxed in his chair as he finished the rest of his mutton in a single bite. “Well,” he offered thoughtfully, “have you tried talking to them?”
“Not as much, no,” replied Delfort.
“That would be the first step, lad.”
With that, Reginald took a long swig of mead, swished it around, swallowed with a disgustingly audible gulp, and turned around to have a look-see. Two such young ladies walked into his trap.
“Pardon me, ladies. Have you met my friend? He is the prince, you know.”
The ladies in question stopped to look at the young man before them. One was about Delfort's height, thin and freckly with beautiful green eyes that reflected torchlight magnificently. She wore glittering green and gold yarn in her garnet braids. The other, though shorter, was even more stunning, with dark, mysterious eyes that begged to be asked something intimately secret. Her onyx hair fell all the way to her tiny waist, below which round hips patiently waited. Some strands of that silky hair had escaped the pack to find themselves draped over her shoulders, framing what could only be described, in Reginald's inebriated estimation, as the palest, finest bosom in the land, certainly fit for a prince. These girls did what they did best—they giggled.
Reginald leaned into Delfort, whispering, “They’re all yours now.” With a slap on the prince's back he stood and sauntered off in search of something else with which to further stuff himself.
Delfort was alone. He could feel it. Fear and nausea began to set in. He heard the ladies giggling off in the distance, but turned to see them right before him, plain as day. He had no clue as to what to do or say next. He became frozen, working out every possibility, every scenario in his head, otherwise vacant to the world. The girls continued giggling, making Delfort more nervous as his mind settled on the only clear plan.
He stood and walked away, leaving the girls behind. He needed to find Reginald. He needed air. He needed—
“Hey. Watch where you’re going,” a gruff voice shouted.
Delfort noticed he wasn’t moving anymore. Rather, he was standing before a young man into whom he had apparently just walked.
Suddenly, Delfort remembered he was a prince.
“No, you watch where you’re going,” Delfort retorted cleverly.
The young man stared back. “You’re the prince, aren’t you?”
Delfort nodded haughtily.
The young man’s countenance changed. “Well, then, come. Sit at my table,” he said putting his arm around the prince and leading him onward. “I am called Pot.”
“Delfort.”
“Yes. I know,” laughed Pot, sitting the prince down and taking a seat himself. Delfort found himself at the far edge of the party and could easily see everyone else revelling in his visit.
Pot picked up his pipe and puffed upon it. Delfort supposed he was about his own age, though Pot was taller and had a sun-baked look to him. Pot also seemed very worldly. He knew his stuff. He did not seem particularly handsome to Delfort, but then, how was he to know?
“So, are you enjoying yourself, Highness?” asked this young man Pot as he lifted a cup to his lips.
“Well, er, I suppose,” replied the prince, eying the meagre loaf of bread and cups of liquor before him on the table.
“Go on. Have a cup.” Pot passed the prince a potable.
“Oh, no. I shouldn’t.”
“Come on. It’s your party, Highness,” persisted Pot.
After a moment, Delfort drank. Warm, spicy liquid entered his throat. He choked a bit.
Pot laughed. “Potent, eh?”
Delfort looked over his new acquaintance as the fiery water settled in his system, turning his cheeks crimson and burning his chest. He could not stop a smile from spreading across his face, and from somewhere above his eyebrows his voice said, “Yes.”
“Pot's punch, I call it. A bit sharp, this batch. Here. This mellows it out.” Pot pointed his pipe at the prince, who peered perplexedly at it. “Go on, Highness. My treat.”
Without warning, Delfort's hand grasped Pot's offering and raised it to Delfort's lips. The smoke's sweet smell disarmed the prince further, and he took a short puff. He coughed. His eyes floated around in his head a bit, then suddenly everything centred. He felt calm.
“Thanks,” Delfort squeaked, passing back the pipe. He cleared his throat and took another swig of Pot's punch, the wonderful brew coating his mind, telling it everything was going to be all right and why doesn't it just take a break for the next hour or so.
“I'm hungry,” Delfort asserted. Pot broke a piece of bread and handed it to the prince, which he finished in a few quick bites. Then he emptied the rest of his cup, which Pot promptly refilled. From somewhere behind him, his ears heard a familiar sound. He turned around.
“Ladies.”
The girls with garnet and onyx hair met his gaze and giggled over to him. The prince found them more stunning than before. He noticed the lighter-haired one's cute emerald dress and how it hung from her shoulders straight down to white sandalled feet. He noticed the other's blue and white number, complete with a dark leather cinch that nearly doubled her womanliness. Pot leaned into Delfort.
“I feel like a walk. Tread carefully yourself, Highness.”
Delfort was alone. But this time, he was in control.
“Have you beauties ever met a prince before?”
They looked at each other and giggled. The redhead blushed.
The brunette spoke first. “Our pleasure is to serve you, Your Highness,” she said curtseying slightly. They both giggled and blushed and looked at each other, then back at the prince.
Delfort held out his cup. “Care for a taste? It's good.”
The ladies looked at each other some more, then both moved closer to the prince.
“I'm Clara,” said the brunette. She put her hands on his as she sipped, then moved to wipe her young lips. Then she blushed and smiled.
“Jaclynne, my lord,” said the redhead. She took the cup from him and took the tiniest sip, passing it back quickly. She coughed a bit and giggled. Delfort took a sip himself and set the cup down.
“Are you ladies from around here?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said.
Then Clara, clearly the leader of the two, added, “Jaclynne and I were wondering if you could show us the royal chambers in the mayor's mansion. It's the only place in town we have never been, and we would be quite grateful.”
*****
Prince Delfort's journey continues next time in "The Royal Chambers"...
16 December 2011
The Search
Abruptly he stood and stared blankly at his desk. He grabbed his coat and filled its pockets with a pen and paper, a canteen of water, his pipe, and various other things he deemed important. He pulled his hat on with a tug. Then, he wandered off in search of Nature.
He'd heard of Nature before, from his father, perhaps, or his great uncle. But he'd never seen Nature. Sure, he'd seen bits of it on T.V. or heard tapes of Nature relaxing people, but never had he been in Nature.
He had a hard time of it at first. It seemed to him that, as he got closer to Nature, one thing or another would remind him of the human world. Once he sat on a log by a pond, determined he'd finally found it, when a teen on a dirt bike tore over his head and down the trail, hysterical laughing in his wake. In another spot, he watched geese play in a pond, and became very sure he'd got it right this time, when one of the gaggle walked up to him with a candy bar wrapper in its mouth. Disgusted, he wandered on.
His feet ached as he walked, as his heart ached with anticipation of something elusive. Finding a fallen fir, he rested, sipping greatly from his canteen. He had beaten his own path here, more determined than ever to lose society. Looking around, he realized where he was: a clearing amidst a forest of fir. Each tree befriended him. He asked them, silently, how they had come to grow here, how many children each had, and why several of their brethren had fallen to form this clearing. Then, answering his own question, he noticed the stumps around him were clean-cut, and the ax lying on the tree beside him confirmed his suspicions. Taking another swig from his canteen, he wandered on.
He'd heard of Nature before, from his father, perhaps, or his great uncle. But he'd never seen Nature. Sure, he'd seen bits of it on T.V. or heard tapes of Nature relaxing people, but never had he been in Nature.
He had a hard time of it at first. It seemed to him that, as he got closer to Nature, one thing or another would remind him of the human world. Once he sat on a log by a pond, determined he'd finally found it, when a teen on a dirt bike tore over his head and down the trail, hysterical laughing in his wake. In another spot, he watched geese play in a pond, and became very sure he'd got it right this time, when one of the gaggle walked up to him with a candy bar wrapper in its mouth. Disgusted, he wandered on.
His feet ached as he walked, as his heart ached with anticipation of something elusive. Finding a fallen fir, he rested, sipping greatly from his canteen. He had beaten his own path here, more determined than ever to lose society. Looking around, he realized where he was: a clearing amidst a forest of fir. Each tree befriended him. He asked them, silently, how they had come to grow here, how many children each had, and why several of their brethren had fallen to form this clearing. Then, answering his own question, he noticed the stumps around him were clean-cut, and the ax lying on the tree beside him confirmed his suspicions. Taking another swig from his canteen, he wandered on.
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