They Call her Princess
First, let me say that I decided to post Friday Spotlight earlier in the week. I’ve always had issues in terms of delaying gratification, and when I read Gabrielle Bisset’s guest post on The Hazards of Writing in Public, I simply could not fight my urge to post it right away (this is my story and I’m sticking to it, as they say).
Since I posted Friday Spotlight on Tuesday that leaves me free to post some of my own writing. Yay!
Wakefield Mahon holds a weekly, Motivation Monday contest over on his blog. He offers up a prompt, and those who choose to enter must use his prompt as the first sentence and in their stories and then complete the story in 500 words or less. This week’s prompt was They call her princess. So I wrote a little flash fiction piece, totaling about 415 words.
Unfortunately I lost.
But screw it, I kinda like the little story so I’m posting it here for your reading pleasure.
They Call Her Princess
“They call her Princess.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
He waves his pudgy, tobacco stained fingers towards the general direction of anonymous, buck toothed yokels scattered throughout the room. As he does this a long ash falls from his cigarette, landing on his massive belly. I watch the ash tumble down his grease stained wife beater to land on his lap, where it rests, adequately camouflaged within the like coloured fabric.
“Why do they call her that?” I ask. My gaze pulls back towards the topic of our conversation. She is unnaturally blonde, probably in her thirties. Sad blue eyes are framed with a smattering of crinkles. I find them attractive, almost inviting. Staring, I will her to look at me. I want to see if I can make her smile. If she feels my attention, she ignores it, staring instead into her near empty rock glass. I briefly consider buying her a refill but the fat man beside me distracts me from my thoughts.
“They call her sister Goddess,” he says, instead of answering my question. “You should get a load of her. She’s got tits out to here,” he makes the appropriate gesture. Or inappropriate, depending. It occurs to me that he also has “tits out to here”.
“Does she have any other sisters?”
“Yep.” He crushes his cigarette into a filthy ashtray and immediately lights another. “Four of ‘em, not including Mistress. All by different daddies.”
Why wouldn’t they include Mistress? Instead I ask, “What are their names?”
“Huntress, Temptress, Songstress and Buttress.”
“Buttress?” I say, not bothering to hide the amusement in my voice. “Has a sizeable ass, does she?”
His bushy eyebrows pinch together, causing the optical illusion of a unibrow. “Don’t be crass,” says the man. Then he belches and pounds on his sternum a few times. Another belch escapes him and a stench hangs between us like a dead carcass in a butcher’s shop. He seems satisfied with this emission and unclenches his fist. “Buttress is no joke. She’s an angel of a woman. Works her ass off tending to her dyin’ step daddy and supporting Princess’s way through community college.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. My apology is genuine, and I silently chastise myself for allowing the steaming pile of a man beside me to become my moral superior. I decide to blame my slip of character on the unusual setting I have found myself in.
“’Sides,” said the man. “Her mamma is the real joke…they call her Mattress.”