30/06/2009
[061] Princess Valerie
The old man sat with disdain upon his throne. It had been over five decades since he ascended to King of his people. Those five years were filled with nothing but peace and prosperity not only for his people but for the neighbouring kingdoms as well. Truly, his reign would be one that was remembered for all times.
It was only now, however that Valerie felt a shift in the balance of peace. Having been of thirty years of age when he was appointed as ruler, he was now in his eighties. The changes for the people were of no consequence. They never saw the King, her father, every day and couldn’t understand the minute differences that he went through every season.
A wrinkle here aches and pains there, it happened slowly but by the time winter was here they constantly plagued and harassed the old man. Even his body, the once powerfully built frame, now looked like that of a starved lion, tawny, stretched muscle and sinew displayed evidently beneath the skin.
It was not only his body, but his mind too that was beginning to suffer the ravages of time. What once were carefully laid out plans and negotiations had turned into harsh hoarse barks that demanded things to be done his way otherwise the kingdom would suffer painfully for it. Even though it may have been the worse option, no one dared to disagree with such a mighty ruler lest he turn his anger upon them.
‘Father, I’m here with your wine,’ she said, approaching the royal dais.
‘Good, good,’ the old man took the silver goblet and took a large mouthful. Placing it on the arm rest next to him, he looked down at his daughter.
‘You look so much like your mother,’ he mumbled.
‘Thank you, father. You should rest, you look tired.’
‘I am tired. But I must remain alive for my-’
There was the clatter of noise as the cup was knocked to the floor in the King’s twisted throes of agony.
‘Guards, guards!’ screamed Valerie. ‘My father is dying!’
She hugged the old man close, holding him still as the poison took hold on his fail body.
29/06/2009
[060] Roberto Garcia
Roberto Garcia had been the world’s finest matador. As he entered the ring the crowd, filled with men, women and children from all over the globe, would stand on their feet and cheer. Their applause and stamping rippled around the area like a constant barrage of contained thunder. Roses and other flowers were hurled from the stands as he graciously moved to the centre of the grand stage, bowing deeply to those that would come and see him.
It was the same every night and neither Roberto nor the crowd would ever tire of his stylish displays of bravery and courage. For, he would not simply tame one bull, he would tame several. Dancing between them as they charged, leaping with grace as they hurtled forward bearing their horns, his red cape floating lightly on the charged atmosphere.
After a particularly spectacular pirouette however, his foot caught in the sand. Roberto stumbled. What followed was a blur. One of the bulls noticed the trip and changed course, ignoring the red cape and bolting towards him. Roberto could only raise his arms to protect himself. Less than a second later, the crowd was silenced by the sounds of splattered blood and splintered bone.
Wardens managed to shoot the bulls, pulling them off and away from the star, but the damage was done. Both arms had been shattered.
A cloak of despair settled on the crowd and they were silent as the man they revered so much was led from the arena on a stretcher. The fun, hope and enjoyment he brought with him had vanished almost instantly.
But it was not the end. Roberto, never one to face such a defeat, came back. Having had his arms replaced by machine parts, he steps back into the ring; ready, once more to walk into the thunder.
