~ x-post of my Writing Battle short fiction stories; here is the second, a 1000-word story using another existing character, this time from one of my Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. Grimjest is a non-playing character that amused me enough to warrant his own set of stories, from bloody origins to rip-roaring prime, he has a few now; I detail his full narrative arc in my horror short story collection Anthologee.
“Grimjest’s Debut” is a comedic dark fantasy tale with a fantastique punchline. Below you will find my intro & trio of parameters — Genre: DRAMA | Character: HIPPIE | Object: Ribbon // 1,000 words or less.
Dylan’s intro: This story is one of several I have written in the last year inspired by a former D&D non-playing character. “Grimjest’s Debut” represents one imperative scene in his life, marking a passage between a dark past and an even darker future. Hope you enjoy!
Grimjest’s Debut
Manny was someone who long ago recognized the sublime virtue of a second chance.
He waited in line for patronage from King Edward III. In front of him was a young housewife who smelled of trout and beans. Behind him stood an old man on three legs, wobbling knees and stenching of death. Whatever they had come to ask for paled in comparison to Manny. Seven more peasants to go. Manny could hardly wait.
A line of townsfolk snaked around the castle’s main hall. Argentum had again become a temporary thoroughfare for the wishes and dreams of the commonfolk. It was March first, Patronage Day. It was on this day that every subject was allowed to ask the King for a request, if they so desired. If it was within the King’s power to do, and he deemed the act morally just, then the ask may be granted. Some commonly granted examples include increased butter provisions, more affordable arena tickets, and freedom from soldiering. Many other, more daring requests went unrequited, and some, of course, even resulted in the death of the asker.
Manny wore puffed pantaloons the color of the sun and an ocean blue shirt crisped like velvet at the cusps. He’d saved this outfit for such a special occasion. He wore a crimson ribbon around his neck like a scarf, letting it flutter behind him.
Three more to go. The people were asking for simpler and smaller things these days. Times in the kingdom were getting rough, Manny knew that. He’d known that for years. History cycled through the same abuses, the very same nightmares borne again and again. War. Plague. Starvation. Floods and fires. God was always working in mysterious ways to assassinate his mortals. The people who lived on were the ones that got to rule the future. The rules were set. Survival was the game.
Manny wore a tricorn hat multicolored red, blue, and yellow. Underneath it, he wore a mask. It was half-smiling, half-frowning, an artifact from his season acting in a traveling theater troupe. That was in the days before the purges of the alchemists, when knowledge was freely transferred and artists were granted a kingly stature at the cafe. Back then, Manny had known something like happiness.
If the two-faced mask was a reflection of Manny’s current state of mind as he approached his owed patronage, the red ribbon crossing his neck marked him as a son of fortune. In the lands of Argentum, the red lashing of the human form was as sacred as images come. Compared to the others in line, who wore little more than greys and sacks and coats, Manny gave the guardsmen something flamboyant to gawk at. They lined the pillars and Manny could feel their eyes and chuckles expensing his form. He welcomed the accumulations upon his tab.
To complete his jester’s uniform, Manny wore curved, high-heeled boots colored white and loud with metallic jangles.
The mother before him received some royal promise and she fled with tears in her eyes.
Manny looked into the eyes of King Ed. He bowed before the throne.
“What say you, jester?” King Edward III said. Blonde and bearded, piercing blue eyes and the build of a raider. He looked Manny up and down. “Do you have some number to perform for me?”
“As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I do,” Manny said. He took two jangling steps toward the throne. Manny removed his mask, revealing his face to the King and his two guards. Manny pulled the ribbon off his neck and down his head rolled upon his arm. Manny grasped his brown locks of hair and held his skull aloft like a lantern.
The King and his guards gasped. The line of commoners riled, taking steps backward and forward.
Manny’s severed head spoke, “How is that for a trick?” He began to laugh, both his mouth and his belly acting remotely and yet in unison.
“What devilry is this!” the King shouted.
His two guards drew their swords and stepped in front of the throne in prepared defensive maneuvering.
Manny backed up, clutching his head like a shield.
“Oh, do not misunderstand me,” Manny said. “I mean no harm. I am here to entreat the King to make me his royal jester.”
The King turned to each of his two guards. Then he turned back to the smiling fool.
“I know your face, fiend. You are Manifold,” the King said, “one of the leaders of the Conspiracy of the Rose. I watched them cut off your head this morning.”
“Yes, that happened,” Manny said.
“Are you truly some daemon?” the King asked.
Manny put his head back on his shoulders, wrapping the ribbon back around once, twice, thrice to secure it.
“I yam what I yam,” Manny said. He looked around voraciously. “Speaking of which, do you have anything going in the kitchen? I’d like to eat soon. I get dehydrated and hungry after decapitation.”
The King slammed a fist on his throne. “Quit your nonsense and speak it plain. Who are you?”
“I admit Manifold is a false name,” Manny said, placing the mask back on his face. “You may call me Grimjest. Your new jester!” He spun in place, stamped his heels, and spread his stance, palms up in the practiced pose.
King said nothing, he turned to glance at his two guards again. They shrugged.
“Think about all the fun you could have with me, guys,” Manny said. “I am immortal. Unable to die, violently or otherwise. Haven’t you felt the punchline yet?”
“Guards,” the King commanded, “cut off his legs.”
The guards advanced, grinning.
“Well, you don’t have to start there,” Manny said, wearing a sheepish smile. He clicked his heels with as much gusto and precision as he could muster. “I can’t dance without those!”
“You wish to be my jester?” the King asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Here is your first performance, Grimjest. Survive. Prove your immortality. Make me laugh!” ~
Thresholds of Transformation 