| |
| |
| |
 |
| a
short, short story collection |
| |
|
|
The
Failed Decree
by Jason Graff
The thought of a world breathing
without him tortured the king. Instinctively he felt
it existed just beyond the royal plane of thought, unable to
be seen. Even if the blandishments of all the peasants in all
the land were laid at his sovereign sandals, it would have brought
him no true satisfaction. For those of the hills and farmlands
meant no more to him than the horses his majesty kept in the
barn or the young girls locked away in the high tower. It was
precisely because that which was invisible remained beyond his
power that the king feared it.
He realized that in neither the darkness of deepest night nor
the blinding white of the noon sun would royal eyes chance upon
it. Not if the king rode the kingdom’s heartiest steed
until it broke and then drove that horse’s colt even harder
would he have been able to challenge it. Even the shrewdest
series of military maneuvers would not have brought it under
his reign. So the king made a decree, attempting to outlaw that
over which he held no providence. 
“All that live in the unknown world are hereby placed
under the immediate jurisdiction of the king and his ministers,”
it declared after the legal babble and royal hyperbole had been
spent. “And are no longer allowed to remain unseen for
the known world will be all that exists.”
The decree worked for a time. The king was mollified and could
spend his days hunting, riding horseback and raping the young
girls kept on queue in the high tower. The vexing thoughts about
an unknown world had dissipated and he thanked his god for the
peace. At the next high council meeting, the king told the ministers
that problems of ethereal threats to the kingdom’s security
had been solved. The royal subcouncil formed to draw up the
decree was to be disbanded and their work burned. That night
the king had all the ministers of that subcouncil assassinated
for fear that their knowledge of the unknown world might be
used against him.
The next day, the king awoke to find himself invisible. The
peasants showed no fear at his appearance, the high ministers
failed to salute him. The king encountered only murky dream
shapes. The world had become a barren desert of silhouettes
and opaque figures speaking a language he could not divine.
The king yelled himself hoarse and thrashed against the blackened
air. But no one replied and nothing resisted the king’s
blows.
How long must I remain here trapped?
the king wondered. Panic beset him, in the ink blot of shapes
and images he began to hallucinate. He railed against the invisible
hands, which he believed were closing about his waist. You
cannot hurt me. Even when I feared you, I did not believe in
you. Not even an echo was returned. The vastness that lay
in all directions swallowed all sound as well. Exiled to the
abyss, the king’s torture was renewed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jason Graff is working
on a novel in his tiny Boston apartment. His
wife and his cat assist him with proofreading and punctuation.
What is the Fiction 500? How can you submit your own story?
Click here.
|
|
|
|
|
