This Short Story Weekly post is a conversation in a dining hall. This is a take, subconsciously on such short plays/stories like 12 Angry Men. Granted this is not the proposal over a man's innocence, and the alleged killer potentially pulling the strings, but it shows that some stories don't need anything more than a dinner and good wine to encapsulate the senses.
NOTE: I will not be on Friday, so but I should be back for Monday, and perhaps I'll post over the weekend. Next month, Short Story Weekly will be taking a short hiatus, because I have E3, which keeping with the tradition of the Malacast Editorial, has to take precedence over other serials. The three-hundreth post will be right before the E3 posts, as I've mentioned several times, but I will also be doing several other game-related posts from now until September.
For now, here is this week's short story:
Heir to Confusion
Normally, and quite obviously, you can see that many Short Story Weekly posts are either too short to even be considered short stories, or split up into two larger short stories, encroaching on novella length. Not all of them are aesthetically pleasing, especially to my own standards. Writing short stories every single week is enjoyable, however draining, but not to empty, when it comes to creativity. This particular story is just that: one story, but it will be tied to another story I've been writing, but that story itself is not a standard sequel. This story however, is complete, and since I busted my hump to get ahead once-again, (I was ahead on stories back over the summer, but fell behind right after Christmas, due to the fact I stopped after NaNoWriMo, which will inevitably happen again this year.) So I'm on track for E3. It's i credible how excited I still get to put up blog posts, and the success they have brought, and the amount of pressure,mshich I quite enjoy; that is put on me to raise the bar. Grand,mi don't always have success, but I try weekly to gain a better handle on my writing, and typing on a touchscreen has been both a learning curve, and one that doesn't get any easier as my fingers bang hard glass. I cannot wait to get internet, where I can post daily, and with more success on a riding, albeit, tangible keyboard.
With-that-being-said, I want to thank you, fellow fans of short fiction, and loyal readers, and I hope that you continue to read, as I present to you another short story, in-full, entitled:
The dark hallway snaked down the corridor like black mambas on a subway track. The mansion was massive, momentarily catching his breath in embered gold-plated embroideries, Simon Caraway coughed on luxury, light-headed from opulence. Pine-box-scented candles lined the walls,might ing a path of pre-conceived death, masking the odor of creaking age. The entryway pushed Simon, edging his feet down towards the rigid doorway to the main atrium, connecting to the heirloom-filled dining hall. Frigga, wife of Stewart Apennines glimmered in Simon's eyes, as his hosts came into view, barely illuminated by candlelight.
She wore a bustier similar to one worn by his great-grandmother in early photographs. Simon had come from wealth, and was no stranger to eccentricities, but Frigga, a fog out of time, was the spitting image of his forlorn me ories of those earliest family photos. Simon looked to Stewart, bowed his head, and did the same to the illustrious wife, before all three seated themselves respectfully around the table, which stretched for lightyears.
Jostling in hist seat, Simon tried to find comfort, but with little-to-no information for this soirée, he found himself quite Insecure, as Stewart and Frigga held all the knowledge, which they would use like forks and knives to feast upon Simon's own ignorance. A faceless butler that blended into the tapestry, moved like a sleuth jaguar with gum on its paws,,filling up his chalice of diamond-studded absurdity with the finest wine, and disappeared into the shadows again. Simon hesitated, taking a sip of the drink, which was room-temperature red wine, vinegary with age, but spot-on merlot, perfection squeezed from helpless grapes into ambrosia fit for a god. He chewed, not swallowed the wine, and this put Simon I to a false state of bliss, he knew a wet palette cooled not heads, as Frigga and Stewart did the same. Simon wasn't refined, but knew the rules enough to speak when only spoken to,especially in circumstances such as this, his hosts would break the have to break the silence, and luckily for him, his jittery never ones's would not wait for long. Stewart cleared his throat,mreadying platnium vocal chords forged in centuries of wealth, to speak:
" Dearest Simon," it was cacophonic resin on angelic violin strings, pressing nectar lullabies into his perked ears.
"You have blessed us with your most obscure presence. To think we are cut from a similar cloth, both centuries of refined taste, I can see the satisfaction on you jowls, licking almost like a dog from the taste of that family recipe. Wine flows gingerly down the crevasses of this family's mountain, it wets the foundations of our wealth, lubricating the hallows, so our history never goes dry and vanish to dust. Your history, however-" He continued with fluid resentment, but on the voice of angels, even the most aggressive disparagement warms the heart of the belittled, Simon could only feel his shortcomings were his own. Is takes, not mismanaged genetics. "-has crooked inlets that infuriate and fascinate us. We invited you here tonight to discuss our family ties, and to make perhaps, an alliance of sorts, one that would benefit us greatly, all of us naturally."
"Tell me more, I'm quite intrigued, but it could be the wine coalescing in my skull, I feel wishy washy."
"I assure you, Simon, that is not the wine, it's the ebb and flow of opportunity knocking about in that rattled brain of yours,mine is just a vessel to clarity." Frigga chimed in, toasting herself, swishing around the fluid, then sipping it with patient control, and statuette steadiness. Her posturing was art, perfected mechanics in motion. Another spectre servant swooped in with the velocity of a starving vulture, filling the goblets to the brim with more godly nectar, influencing the spirits, a realm where disagreement was impossible.
"Well, I'd be a fool to not here your proposal, so long as this decanter keeps filling my chalice, I owe you no less than my full-attention." Simon positioned his hand to the heavens, as it came back down to earth with the weight of liquid gold, swashing with perfection, drowning an already drenched mandible.
"Splendid! We were afraid you would find this rather intrusive of your personal business, or financial assets. We have delved deeply into your family's history,mand we have a common ancestor. Naturally success breeds well with success, and we both know our respected histories are championed with winners." Stewart spoke with precision, wiping red dribble from his punch drunk lips, collecting his composure, continuing his history lesson.
"My earliest ancestral line wasn't as refined as you would imagine. My greatest of great grandfathers wasn't the atypical n'ver-do-well, the sort of man who, if you will excuse my vulgarity, didn't quite shake it off when he took a piss. However,he was the conduit forwarding our family legacy towards it's rightful, luxur destiny. He cascaded good from the rivers, pined rocks from streams, and embraced the oil boom, creating the modern world we enjoy today. Every-so-often I'm recalled of this simpler time, a man of distrust,embracing whores and liquor, eccentricities that far-exceed my own. I could not envy that sort of lifestyle, but I know with such attitudes; came great rewards."
"Sounds like a man who had his priorities intact, I say that of course sardonically, but surely there's a purpose behind this ancestral presentation? We are all people of purpose and refined taste, not some libertine malarkey of a deceased past. You had mentioned a common bond, is there any point to which you will fill the void of knowledge on the subject of how are family ties collide?"
"As poignant as you are to reach the endgame, dear Simon, I'd much rather tell my story as it comes, not perturbed with a call for spoilers. Allow me to continue my tale, and your queries will be satisfied." Stewart exclaimed, rather testily in a harsh, rigid tone.
"Now, my family, as rich as one can be, yours as well, have a commonality: we both came from ruthless backgrounds, from horrid genes, but both had potential to shine like diamond-encrusted platinum. They both came into power at a chosen time in history, a predestined rapture of power and greed, where the rest are lifted into absurd mediocrity, we wre left unabated with ramshackled ores turned into benevolent luster. We are of a species more refined than man, we come from success. My dear Simon, we drink nectar of the gods to quench our thirst, and feast upon mythic beasts to satisfy our bellies."
"Enough with the rhetoric, it grows stale, Stewart. I don't mean to dishonor my jots and hostess,mbut I grow weary with chatter, and pious with wine. Can we forego the foreplay of words and get to the climax of information?"
Simon bubbled up from his umpteenth glass, as another bottle was popped, poured until his chalice run over, he slurping his pruning palm, not wasting a bit of refined merlot.
"Perhaps forward, honest speech would suffice our benevolent guest, dear Stewart. I too grow weary of the semantics, my loins will grow bare before you reach our mutually forgone conclusion. The point my reptious husband means to proliferate is that we are distant cousins, but close enough to be enkindled as blood." Frigga toasted the air, and gulped with pleasantries the last of that round, bringing down an ever-filling cup as fresh as the first.
The atmospheres began to grow chilly in the dining hall, as doors from the on kitchen swung open with hordes of help bringing forth rams of lore, horns like cornucopia, alluding to the viscera of the butchering, a connection to the kill that lead to the feast. Beasts of burden laid out in trays of silver, enough to subdue packs of lycanthrope, the smell enough to draw a forest of carnivores, such exquisite proteins, garnished with fresh-plucked flora, surely from the Garden of Eden.
Ravenous hunger disused any more talk until stomachs were piled up from the exotic smorgasbord. The rich eat like they'll live forever, plates are discarded untouched, serving trays are more signs of power, than presentation to starving masses. So after moments of nitpicking, wine flowed again, and drunkeness was assured. Simon had not yet reached his limits, but he slurred with bubbly bliss, amassing the fact that he was related to his hosts, whom he'd known for quite some time. Wealth befriends wealth out of circumstance, not personal taste. These revealed cousins were not his cup of tea, but being his senior, were more parental than kinship.
"So we are related, our clans have known one-another years, it's a foregone conclusion that we might as well have been family, so I can concur the celebration here, cheers are in-order."
Simon raised his the infinite glass, and nodded it stiffly towards his hosts. Frigga eyed her glass, a porcelain stick with curves that came from top-notch surgeons. Dutchess prior to wife, she wore red as jubilantly as birds wear pristine feathers, hands equally talon-like to grasp and claw at any who would try and depose her. Stewart was as doll-like in features, as sexually appealing, the two would look like stars colliding in the bedroom, Simon respected beauty, revered it even with a professional eye.
Having wealth allowed Simon to eye beautiful things, and his hosts were beautiful things. They eyed him, perhaps with lesser appeal, as Simon was far from mannequin-grade, his mind was his animal magnetism, his heart was large enough to enfold the love of any would-be suitor.
"I must confess, when I discovered this tidbit, looking back Into my family's ancestry, I was not satisfied. I had not been happy with the outcome, for we are similar, yet our genealogy seems so...obtuse, but I accepted that we are kin, family must come before anything else; it takes precedence to all else, because it dictates all else."
"Agreed, I must say that this information bodes poorly for me, in the instance of course, where do our paths cross?" Simon was drunk, but he lost his interest in the topic already, his concerns lied more on getting back to his manor, to his bed where he can sleep until the hangover began. The wine was doubled up insulfides, and no homage remedy would suppress the migraine that would come the morrow.
Stewart could see that they were losing their guest's interest, and concluded with the desired information, and restitution all parties desired, as though a major secret was shared from the small party to the entire room.
"Your great-great-great uncle had we'd our great-great aunt, and so the connection was made. This brings both exciting, and well, troubling news, but we have accepted that there is a tie that binds. My friend, with this new information, we want to combine families, so the wealth we share separately will grow insurmountable together. Our families have ruled sepreeare roosts for so long, we now want to officially combine the strengths together in capital harmony. Think of two houses of Tork coming together to obtain the consequential throne, and rule a kingdom of pristine riches."
"I see, you want to grow our wealth in some incestuous hedge fund, so we have an even grater GDP. Interesting,mbut to what end!. I'm far richer than most would ever imagine, and the old axiom is always true: one can never have enough wealth,mbut one can be duly satisfied with the wealth one has...I'm quite satisfied." Simon gurgled, as he put his hand up to the ghostly servant, calling off anymore wine.
"Perhaps you do not yet see the possibilities that we have over the time from which we've learned of our common ancestry. Which has been closing in on a fortnight. My wife and I, we've been wrapped up in the hypothetical outcomes of such notions of combining, outbidding, even underhanded methods of hostile takeovers. Still, family comes first, and honesty bodes the tide of family scuffles." Stewart laid the foundations of so many anomalies that would've asserted his wealth over Simon's but Simon had always laid waste to piggy backers, and thievery. He had a nice chunk of monies, he planned on playing them all close to the chest. However, he was never without a warranted fear of those who we're inveibtlably out to "get him."
He was always encased with his own monies, but never necessarily growing them, a fort filled with gold was sufficient in his lifetime. He had been growing into an old stag, never thinking of marriage, let-alone children. Even he was more the observer than the participant. God had seen to bless him with gold beyond the imagination, but in the way of coitus, he had little need, nor the managble tools to make much out of the act of such pleasures. He admired those that could hump like art, second-nature fornicators, but he was satisfied with visual stimuli, but even that was in-passing.
Still, even a man is by nature a man, prior to the knowledge of their familial ties, his eyes couldn't deny Frigga's bodice so befittingly hugging transplanted curves, or her naturally petite frame. She would only be related by marriage, but in upper class society, and moral ambiguity, that might as well made her his sister. Still, man will be man.
Now Stewart was an enigma to him, an enigma to himself, it seemed, though the man was thirty years his senior, Simon would swear that the man was a frailer age than himself, perhaps money well-spent, or rather those good genes colliding in high-quality meiosis. Whatever the case, Simon held little Interest in any of these palor talk, as dessert was rolled out on carts made of something magical, fresh scents of sugary substances were enough to nauseated the sense. Bright greens, solid yellows, cakes and baked goods of Europe and beyond. Each was similarly rich, and embellished with fondants and icing that were most divine.
"what a lovely spread, assortments from all the old countries, truly our finest feast yet, but of course! We are welcoming fresh blood into the household, hopefully our ties will bind tightly, and we can agree upon a proper stratagem for the future. Isn't that splendid, Frigga, to have family once again? Perhaps so the potter-patter of elite genes roaming the halls yet again?"
Stewart smirked, and Frigga eyed wildly like felines mating in a ball of catnip.
Simon stopped midway in his bite of Turkish Delight, and looked around in a much more nervous tick.
"Do you mean to be expecting, Frigga? Is this for what the true festivities are to celebrate? I'm rather shocked, neither of you seem to do much sensually than just stare into each other's gaze. Quite frankly, I'm rather shocked you've laid together enough times to conceive, no offense, more surprise."
They both stared at each other with confusion, more-so than I began to develop, and then they both smiled again at me, now I was atop the pulpit, center stage in their gaze, and shocked by thei consensus that followed.
"Oh dear sweet distant cousin, we have not dared to try and create new life. Our family, although genetically superior, well, had some fallacy behind our designed marriage. You see, Stewart and I, well, let's just say we are merely figureheads in a fruitless marriage, we have love, and we do not have hapless romps in the boudoir, it is merely aesthetics for us to be married."
Simon was becoming displeased by the topic, he wasn't a Rhodes Scholar, but he certainly was of the more intellectually sound, and critical thinking sort...this was not going to be a conversation that needed well.
"So am I to believe that perhaps there is something...exquisite about your circumstances...something, dare-I-say...unnatural?" Stewart felt zippered in his response, as frantic as a chipmunk in his pace.
"Perception has always been the strong point of your family, but there is quite a bit more to it, I'm afraid. You see, Father and Mother, both proud, but both adjunct as heirs to the fortune, were clasped in a struggle: marry rich and powerful to abide the line for grandfather and grandmother, or live poorly with nought one ounce of gold or print of stock. They were deformed in many ways, years of interbreeding through the line: cousins with cousins, nephews with aunts, even great grand fathers with their youngest great-granddaughters. Modern marvels, and strong lineages allowed for such monstrous disasters. You see, my mother and father....were siblings. Frigga and I are born of the same womb. We too, are brother and sister. We also know of the travesties that come from laying with one's own kin. That is why we are nearing barren states, where we will not have the opportunity for the next generation.
"Granted, we are disgusted as you must be with the circumstances. Still, there is a motion for many to come attack us with a full might, and I simply cannot see our dwindling assets be turned over to a state that would have it go towards more senseless abandoned projects. You, dear cousin, are truthfully our last hope. We've calculated the genealogy, you are far-removed from Frigga to copulate, and if a child is bared, then our lineage will move on, and perhaps that child will find happiness that we could never ascertain in life. Frigga is aging, and you are the best-case scenario, you hold a great deal of the qualities that can carry this family across another generation. So will you follow suit? I know you find her sexually gratifying, it's apparent in your sneaks at her beasts, and how you study her prominent features. Will you lay with Frigga? Will you help us bare a child?" I know you're young, thirty years my junior, and nearly twenty years Frigga's, but I assure you she is still young and prominent in her body, as well as her techniques. This is not from personal experience I implore! She is fertile, and although you are young, there will be not one hardened task asked of you, we will raise the child as our own, and you will be exonerated from any and all resposnibilies."
Simon was appalled. Not at their circumstance, that was out of their hands, in-that respect, he almost pitied his newfound family, but to then be asked to carry on some atrocious cycle, all for the benefit of the next generation, well...some things should die out then. He was to propose an alternative suggestion, that was for a surrogate mother of sorts for Stewart, or even a well-endowed, loaded entrepreneur to impreganwte Frigga, but it was clear they had some sick ulterior motive for him to lay with his distant relative. Simon was admittedly attracted to Frigga, because she fit the then mold of what men must find attractive to be perceived in Western culture as men, but animalistic tendencies aside....Simon was now thinking without reason, conflicting inside himself even though he knew what was right from wrong.
"That doesn't seem fair to the child to think of you as a mother and father, when one that would be false, and two, you are still siblings, would that not distraught the child to realize that their mother and father were brother and sister? I see only terrible things to come from out this deal."
"We both understand your concern, but we aren't imbeciles, despite our unfortunate genetic make-up. We will make sure the child is raised unbeknown the truth of their wretched history. We feel that the family owes itself one last chance at some sort of normalcy, and we will not hold the child up to the ridiculous standards we were,mand unfortunately too old now to realize how arrogant our parents were. We break the chains asunder from our despicable past." Frigga assured Simon, standing up, and coming to his side, not even shying away from grasping in a firm, yet sensual grip his groin.
"I promise to make you feel wonderful, Simon. I promise you that the nights we lay together, will be enjoyable and practical. Allow me to mount you for this month, and I promise you that it will be worth the effort."
Simon was no longer shocked by the pull on his prick, he looked at Frigga's hopeful eyes, and as that this was not about lust, it was about preserving her bloodline. The stories of her being a Dutchess, obviously false now, and although the accent was relatively closer to the American one she boasted now, it was clear-as-day poignant that everything about her was false. Built from the ground up, she might as well not have been biologically linked to Stewart.
Simon repressed the urge to become aroused, but it's difficult when that is what his body was feeling. He decided that this was a course of action he was duped into taking, but something strangely conventional about all of this seemed just. As absurd, as diabolical as it all seemed, he saw deep within the eyes of his hosts, that they were in belief that this was the righteous, most just thing they could do for their family. After all, gold is nothing without an heir to wield it, and the three of them. Not gaining fountains of youth in the riptide of life.
Simon agreed, half-heartedly at first, although the first several times he laid with Frigga, a goddess indeed, it became abundantly clear that his member was quite thankful for the lapse in what could only be perceived as misplaced judgment. Frigga expertly loved him in the most fashionable of ways, allowing him to finish like a prominent warrior, hoping the heir to the Caraway and Apennies fortunes respectively would take in conception, each and every time they laid together. It was a Holy Alliance in the face of unholy circumstances, and with a feel of Frigga about him, and his senses aligned, Simon felt coddled against her englarging breast, growing with anticipation and the heat of lovemaking.
A month went by, for Simon it felt like forever, as by the end, he was spent, and not so-much enjoying his sexual romps, but mechanically producing sperm like a farm animal. The magic was gone by the end of the second week, and deteriorated to nothing more than clasped bodies rumbling together to expel a desired income from muscus-lined membranes, and organic salty fluids. It was as romantic as transmission fluid. Yet, it had worked, Frigga was pregnant, for she missed her period, as expect, and the Ned's justified the very means to all of Simon's exertion. He never expected to be a father, nor expected he'd ever want anything out of life but to read Faulkner and dine on lobsters sporadically throughout the season. He was proud, but was bid adieu as quickly as he was summoned. Though they knew it was all pretend, even Stewart seemed jealous that Simon laid with Frigga. He supposed that if you've played the part long enough, it's easy to become enthralled in the character you were designed to be...Simon felt no animosity towards this, fate had played a cruel joke on them both...cruelty, after all, the burly beast of wealth's nature.
Ten months later produced tidings of great joy, but not of immaculate conceptions, but of programmed, interior-driven maelstroms that brought Simon and Frigga together. The two had not coped with their decision for so long, Simon had went back to working ten hours a week, fishing most other days on his yacht, and reading through Faulkner now ten times. As I Lay Dying was as enriching to his grievances now as it was when he first procured the book as a young scholar. He was interrupted with the news of the birth, but was asked not to come, so no attachment could even subconsciously be made, let Nature sit this one out, thought Stewart in-regards to the child. It was a surprise to Simon, pleasent? That was iffy, to find that Frigga had birthed not one child, but a pair of fraternal twins. Perhaps Simon had mentally pushed too hard, but he felt his heart beat excitedly, jovial in this news, no matter the circumstances...their family would continue on, their now-combined wealth would usher in a new generation. From the house destined to smell of death, new life had sprung. Out of coffin-scented candles, a pair of siblings faced to marry out of insane parents, came hope. Hope in the form of a little girl named Janey, and a rambuncuous snot of a boy named Jaffe.
Thank you for reading the Malacast Editorial this week, and always. I appreciate the people who stop by for a good read, and I am quite fond of this one, even though it's mildly suggestive. I don't feint on the idea that sex should be excluded from stories, so-long as it plays a purposeful role, which means if the characters whores themselves, it's crucial to the plot line. This will be tied to an upcoming story as well, but not necessarily a classic sequel. Call it a sequel if you must, but consider it more a branching off, and that will be out later on in May, although I may just issue it in June instead, seeing as I've also blogs that are designed for Monday Blogs coming up. I hope this story was liked, not because it's any better/worse than my other stories, but because I found it unique, and seeing as it's a plotted out story that twists and turns, it's also a one-act (mostly, I didn't really go into details of characters entering or exiting the bedroom, but it mostly takes place around a table.) that relies heavily on dialogue. If flounders a bit,mi see that, but I wrote it in one sitting, and am excited to traverse off the beaten path with the next storylink.
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