The Tyrant

Washington Square Review, Issue 45

1.

Two boys prevented the tyrant from crossing the infinite river. The boys, square-jawed and rugged, had painted their faces with what, to him, could well have been either calamine lotion or a generous quantity of talcum powder. The boys shoved themselves in his way, their large, bright eyes peering out from white faces. Furious, he tried to push them away, but they were as unyielding as statues. He edged sideways, and they moved to block him. Seeing they were not ready to back down, he became indignant.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he asked, his lips quivering.

The tyrant threatened to punish them, but they seemed to have the luxury of not feeling threatened by him. He spat at them. They dodged the spit of hatred he aimed at their faces and broke into laughter. They ran in circles, danced around to taunt him.

They gathered pebbles along the riverbank and lobbed them into the water. They jeered and circled the gigantic tree by the river, the tree with a trunk wide enough to swallow a house and so tall it reached the sky. Seeing that the little scoundrels were distracted, the tyrant broke into a run, heading toward the water.

Alas, the more he ran, the more the river seemed beyond his reach. When he stopped to catch his breath, he found himself by the great tree. The boys were still playing. They were still fluttering around in pirouettes of joy.

When his shock wore off, anger swelled inside him. Their nonchalance added insult to his injury. The boys looked….