the peasant and the king

below is a story i wrote for creative writing class around october 2014. it was for a contest called "reflections," in the literature category. the theme was, "the world would be a better place, if..." i chose "the world would be a better place, if people appreciated what they had." it won second place.

enjoy!

-f

            Everyone loved Harvest Day. The adults loved it because they had a tiny sliver of time to themselves. The entire village waited for it eagerly because it meant bonfires and dancing and happiness and, best of all, a full belly to go to sleep on. Harvest Day was a time of happiness and excitement, but for the children it was so much more. It was story day.

            Every year, the children would watch the pale yellow moon breach the horizon as the sky turned from cerulean to violet to brilliant, blazing orange and finally inky black, their faces bright with shining anticipation. A crowd of kids would form around the huge bonfire at the center of the village. Cedric, the oldest man around at a whopping seventy, would spin them a tale of any kind. The enthralled children would think this even better than the feast that led up to storytime.

            But this year the harvest had not gone so well. The potatoes were dry and shriveled, the carrots limp, the turnips yellowed and flaky. The villagers could only sell a few items, for the majority of their crops were spoiled. The so-called “harvest feast” ended up just being meager portions of barely eatable food.

            After the meal was over, the children half-heartedly walked to where Cedric would tell his story. The moon was larger than usual, dominating the deep blue sky. They all sat down on the dully-colored dirt studded with dusty and uneven stones no bigger than a fingernail.

            Cedric was standing nearby, his white whiskers rustling in the crisp, cold wind that signaled the oncoming winter. The man walked over to where the children sat and prodded the fire with a long stick before throwing it in. The licking flames swallowed the branch almost instantly. The kids turned to Cedric with somber faces. Someone’s stomach growled lowly, like a dog does while it chases rabbits in its sleep. He smiled halfheartedly in an attempt to lighten the collective mood.

            “So who would like to hear a story?” he said, clasping his hands together. The faces brightened slightly and a few heads even nodded. Yet still the children were all veiled thinly in the dull grimace of hunger. A gust of cold wind made the fire stagger slightly.

            Cedric drew his shawl around his bony shoulders and smiled again. “What should the story be about? Any thoughts?”

            The children mumbled quietly. One voice rose above the others. “A king, tell us a story about a king,” said the owner of the voice, a small boy with a shock of red hair named Alfred.

            The others nodded. “Yes, a king,” they said to each other. “A king, a king.”

            “Then a king it shall be,” said Cedric. A story about a king. He had to make it good, too. The children needed something to keep their minds off of hunger. The older man cleared his throat gently.

            “Once upon a time, in a faraway land…”

            The children all turned to him in anticipation.

            “…there lived a king. This king was very, very rich. Be that so, he always got every single thing that he wanted. The most delicious food, the best hounds for hunting, and the finest entertainment in the whole land. He hosted grand balls for all of the dukes, nobles, and neighboring rulers, and had stables full of the finest and most beautiful horses. He had oil paintings of himself occupying striking and very royal poses in every room, created by the finest artists of the time. The king was wealthy and powerful and had anything and everything he could dream of, yet he still wanted more.