The Three Gifts

by Kat Beyer

Once upon a time, there was a sick king nobody could fix. His officials put a reward online: $1 million, a Ford F250 pickup, and dinner with his daughter.

A ways out of town lived three brothers, all probably handsome.

“We ought to try for this reward,” said the eldest. “We can’t afford Mom’s medicine.”

That very day they climbed into their beat-up Pinto. It broke down just outside the royal city. They rested their feet at a diner, where the eldest brother spent his last dollar on a tip for the waitress, whose son was doing his homework at the next table.

When they got to the palace, the guard told them they would have to fill out forms 1040-SC, F-250, and of course the usual SSA-3369-BK, before they could come in.

“But the king may be dying,” said the second brother. He kept on until she went for the Platoon Captain, who went for the Undersecretary for Paraguay, who went for the Quality Assurance Manager, and so on, ‘til a young woman came down.

“I’m the Chief Security Officer,” she said. “What’s up?”

“We’ve come to heal the king,” said the second brother.

She looked at him hard, then said, “Follow me.”

When they got to the royal bedchamber, she said, “Now what?”

The youngest brother spoke up. “We hadn’t thought that far. But we did read a lot in the Pinto. We have some ideas.”

“You’ve got gall,” said the Chief.

“Doesn’t he?” Said the second brother.

The Chief walked up to the bed and put her hand on the king’s forehead. He opened one eye, then the other.

“You have healed the king,” she said to them. “You see, he is the kingdom. And he was sick for lack of what you have.

… I was the waitress you gave your last dollar to,” she told the eldest. “You bring compassion.

“… I was the guard whose forms you wouldn’t fill out,” she told the second brother. “You bring persistence.

“… and of course, I was the Chief Security Officer you told you were making this up,” she told the youngest. “You bring guts.

“But I want to take you to dinner, Second Brother.”

The second brother went out with her. The eldest dated the Undersecretary, and the youngest got the pickup. Their mom and the king got better, and all is well in the kingdom.

Brothers of the Ravenous Regret

by Trent Walters

Four score and seven years ago, four and twenty black birds brought forth a cawing to our backyard’s Chinese elms. The birds supplanted the colored leaves that had fallen and left the trees barren. Some of the birds drooped by their legs, upside down like primates–almost as if the birds had been tied to the limbs with a bit of twine. They–both birds and trees–were so frightful in appearance that we remained indoors. No matter, the incessant caws pierced our house’s thin bay windows.

The twins, side by side on seats that Father had built for them, did not open their mouths to speak or eat for days. The living-room grandfather clock donged the hour, which they–as we later learned–did not count. The twins moved only to shift in their seats, sigh, or perform what looked like a secret handshake.

We worried over this and coffee around the kitchen table while Aunt Effie baked some of her famous monkey bread. But even this failed to entice them. We had to console her because Aunt Effie blamed herself–as we, more often than not, were all wont to do.

On the third day of fasting, we keyed up a doctor–the latest model, which included a built-in fMRI. While it examined the twins, we got out the shotgun and fired at the roosting black birds to get them to move on. The birds merely swirled into the sky and settled back down into the elms. A few merely swung back and forth, dangling by their legs.

When we returned, the doctor had left a fMRI-recording of our twins’ thoughts: “Our existence is little more than to devour, oxidize, drowse and defecate. Why bother?”

We tried to reason with our brothers, but they could not yet understand English.