Author: frank

Paul knelt before us upon pristine marble tile, weeping apologies, awaiting that swift, two-worded execution. The Mayor kept those murderous words forever handy in the folds of his extra large black apron, dusted powder-white. We knew they were there, in a holster, but he had a way of hiding them so that his victim felt dumb, stunned—like when an uncle pulls a coin from his nephew’s ear and the kid pokes a finger into his innocent mouth, confused, embarrassed. Paul cried, as might such a child, begging Mayor Mound for mercy.

The air was still, saturated with vanilla and chocolate and—because of Tuesday’s special—blueberry. The morning’s early risers stood respectfully, with wide grins unbefitting such a spectacle, grateful to witness firsthand the rumored wrath of the Mayor. Doughnuts could wait.

“I didn’t mean it,” Paul said. “You—you know that, Mr. Mayor.”

“Didn’t mean it? How could”— the Mayor stopped and his head moved on its billowy-necked swivel, searching his audience until he found me. “Skip, tell me exactly what Paul said, please, since he evidently cannot remember.”

“Oh,” I said and cleared my throat twice. My heart turned into a fast-ticking time bomb. “Mr. Mayor, I really don’t—you know, Paul’s my best friend—I don’t… oh, you know, I don’t really remember what he said. Don’t remember! Maybe how, I kind of remember how”—

“I don’t care if Paul is your first-born son! Do you want to be on the chopping block with him?”

“No, Mr. Mayor.”

“Then do me and our loyal, patient customers a favor and tell me what he said so we can all have our doughnuts and get on with our days, damn it!”

“He said, ‘Maybe if you ditched that God-awful wig you wouldn’t have to wear that ridiculous shower cap.’” The words gushed forth as though one. “Or something like that. I’m paraphrasing, really”—

But I wasn’t paraphrasing. That was exactly what Paul said. I know that because I’m the one who told him to say it; or at least, I put the idea in his head. Paul’s wet, puppy-dog eyes reached for me from the electric chair like I had my hand on the switch.

“Sorry, man.” The weak-sauce apology dribbled from my mouth. It was all I could do.

The customers turned their eyes to the floor and fidgeted with their briefcases or purses or canes, as though these items required immediate mending. One elderly man whispered to his wife how gorgeous a shine the tile had. Mayor Mound’s paunchy cheeks went red, and the two squiggly veins in his left temple emerged. He rubbed his swollen paws together, preparing to strangle his once loyal subject.

“Paul,” the Mayor said, and his voice rose to a crescendo, so that his two most beloved words might soar from Central Illinois to the mountains. “You’re fired!”

Paul collapsed to the floor—it’s difficult to find a summer job in Sandwich, Illinois—and the loyal customers of Mound’s Rounds mourned for him for thirteen seconds. Then a man’s order rustled at the register like autumn leaves: “One buttermilk old fashioned and one chocolate sprinkle.”

“Yes,” shouted the Mayor. “Get your doughnuts and have a happy day! In fact, Beth, give that man his chocolate sprinkle for free. For the next hour: buy one, get one. This is my town, and if the people aren’t happy, I’m not happy. That’s why I say, Mound’s Rounds makes the freshest, bestest, most yum-yummy doughnuts in the world, bar none.”

The way he always shouted his slogan—wild-eyed and flinging saliva from his little, red mouth—turned its magic into a threat. But the people believed it and loved it. Then rose the murmur of Tuesday morning euphoria. How sugar and butter made our little world go round! The elderly danced with their canes. The lawyers tipped with big bills. And Mayor Mound took me by the arm and led me away from my best friend, prone upon marble and dead to the world, and into the kitchen.

“Now,” the Mayor said as he fitted his ugly toupee with that stupid hair net. “Paul’s gone, so you will learn how to make my morning doughnuts. You’re very lucky—this is an honor. And if you do well, maybe I’ll let you have one each morning. Maybe. We’ll see. It’s my most special recipe. As I say: six by six. Six doughnuts by six o’clock. You’ll get here at five, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. My toes curled in my shoes. I unwittingly got my best friend fired. Now I was Mound’s bitch. Summers in Sandwich, as a rule, suck, but this one would suck beyond Sandwich.

#

Beyond the doors to Mound’s Rounds that sparkled like heaven’s pearly gates, our town was flat and dull. If tumbleweed was still a thing, I could let one go from the town’s center and it would blow unencumbered to my house three miles away. The railroad tracks that split the town in two breathed life into Sandwich; it gave us the sense there was a coming and going, that we were plugged into something bigger. A train brought with it newness: faces, voices, and ideas. But waiting for the railway’s injection of something unfamiliar grew tiring. I craved adventure.

Early in the morning, when the air was dark and cool and the overnight Amtrak Zephyr sounded its horn from the sliver of dawn on the horizon, I’d pause a moment at the dingy backdoor to Mound’s Rounds, keys in hand, and wish I was on that train. I imagined falling asleep, head against the window, watching the desolation disappear into a starry night sky, and waking to rolling hills or soaring skyscrapers or, hell, even a river. Give me anything to discover!

Tourism in Sandwich consisted only of enjoying Rounds—we had nothing else. Regardless, the Mayor hated the train. He called it “noise pollution.”

The night after Paul was fired, I sat at the dinner table moving peas on the plate and taking tiny, thoughtful bites of mashed potatoes.

“That Paul is something else, Skip,” Mom said. She didn’t need to declare what “else” he might be. When she placed a “that” before a name, I knew what she meant. The anti-depressants have tamed her though. She isn’t happy, but she’s complacent, maybe compliant. She’s productive again, and has found a peaceful co-existence with this town she was once loath to call home.

“I don’t know,” Dad said with a mouthful of peas. He wasn’t ready to speak—he had to finish chewing—but he wanted us ready. “Mound has got one hand in the town and one hand in his Rounds.” He smiled at himself. “He fired your mother from her modest clerkship for no reason. None whatsoever! I don’t trust him and I don’t like him.”

Dad’s an accountant and wears those white, short-sleeve button-down accountant shirts with the accountant’s calculator pocket. He’s bald and proud. Mound’s toupee irks him to no end. It’s a matter of principle, he often says.

“But you eat his doughnuts everyday, Dad,” I said.

“Oh, well, sure…”

Then that toxic silence, filled with contradiction and passive aggression, snickered at me. I let go the fork and it rattled on the ceramic plate.

“Well Paul won’t respond to my texts,” I said. “He needs this money to help his mom. He’s not even going to college in the fall, you know. He’s got nothing.”

“He should have thought about that before saying”—

“He was joking around, Mom,” I said. “Mound should act like a grown man and shrug it off. Come on, clearly the toupee sucks. How can he not see that?”

“Skip’s exactly right,” Dad said, precisely as I had baited him to say. “Mound should ditch the birds nest and give up the mayoral post and stick to his Rounds.”

Yeah, I thought, whatever.

I left my parents to wallow in their strangeness. A dying sun painted my room in blood citrus and I threw myself to the bed, checking my phone for the thousandth time. Sitting in your yard, Paul had replied to my numerous text messages. I nearly tumbled down the stairs, spilling into the front lawn. There I found Paul, sitting in the grass, knees to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, watching the sun bury itself in an empty plain.

“Paul,” I said. “Please know how badly I want to take it back, man. Like I said in the text: you were the bigger man. You fell on the sword and saved me, saved my job—you know I need this money…”

I sat next to him. A tear fell from his blank eyes and the sun set it afire.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t belong here anyway, man. Everyone is in love with something I don’t see. This town, it’s killing me.”

“Us,” I said sharply. “It’s killing me, too. I hate it here. You’re not alone.”

He looked at me, thank God, and smiled. “You’re leaving in August. I’m stuck. That job was my only ticket out. Mom needs just a little more money, and then I can save some cash for myself. Figure I need a thousand bucks to live for a couple months on the road with my bike and tent. I can make it. I can make it out. But Mound is a crotchety old man. He takes his grudges to the grave. I’m screwed, man.”

The sun was gone then. Cattails waved happily amid a purple weedy patch across the road. Lighter fluid swirled in the wavy air and bestowed me with a dizzying idea. I grabbed Paul’s shoulder and grinned.

“I got it. I’m gonna make Mound a little less crotchety.”

#

I didn’t listen for the train the next morning. Goosebumps washed over my body inside the chill of morning fog, and I hurried into Mound’s kitchen and flipped on the lights to prepare the old man’s “six by six.” I didn’t see much difference in his personal recipe from our Signature Round: an old fashioned doughnut through and through. A bit more butter, yes, and an extra pinch of nutmeg. The orange essence, he said, made it his own. I don’t care for essences.

But that day, I decided, he would indeed have his own special recipe. From my pocket I lifted a small sandwich bag with a bit of powder packed in the corner: a ground-up dose of Mom’s anti-depressant. From the depths of the fryer emerged six of the happiest Rounds in town. In a week or so, when the sugary smile had been smeared across his face, I’d drop a delicate reminder that Paul was with him from the beginning. Loyal. Hardworking. A simple guy with a big dream that only Mound could make true, like the Wizard of Oz. I needed only a few days for this wizardry to take root.

Actually, I needed only two.

“Skip!” Mound shouted and I launched a cup of flour in the air. I turned on my heels and found the Mayor, bald as can be, gleaming. “You have the magic touch, my boy! My morning six have never been so delectable, so flavorful, so—so damn yum-yummy! Yesterday was the best day of my life, maybe. The world was my oyster. Skip, you damn genius, you must share your secret. More butter? Cinnamon? I’m sure you’ve added cinnamon. You must confess it!”

“Oh,” I said. “You—yes! Cinnamon! You guessed it. You certainly know your doughnuts, Mr. Mayor.”

“Indeed,” Mound said. “Now, I want to replace our Signature with your recipe and your namesake: Skip’s Round! Ah, how it rolls off the tongue?”

“But, Mr. Mayor,” I protested. He’d have none of it.

I began instructing the other bakers the very next day on the secrets of Skip’s Rounds—without the drugs, of course. They were unenthused. This is nothing special, they said. Shut up and make them, I said.

Adamant I was to continue making Mound’s six by six… with the drugs, of course. This the old man did not understand.

“Give me the first six off the top of the first batch out of the fryer,” he said. “It’s the same recipe after all.”

“I’m going to experiment yet again. Give you something even better.”

He salivated at this.

A gloom-filled sky awaited me the following morning. I paused at the old metal door that led to Mound’s kitchen, craving the comforting sound of the train. Eyes closed, I breathed in the chatter of morning birds, and waited for a distant promise that did not come.

I opened my eyes and saw three garbage bags awaiting pick-up, baring the scars of a raccoon’s curiosity. Rounds of another sort, little and white, had oozed from one bag and now lay, innocuous, upon a crumbly, gravel drive. I took one into the kitchen with me and set it beside one of mom’s. The two white rounds stared back at me, beady little eyes, judging me, judging Mound.

The Mayor had craved cheerful subjects, and we had craved his doughnuts: a vicious Round.

When six o’clock came, I had no Rounds for the Mayor. He was not too upset; he simply sprung into action, goading the bakers to prepare the day’s doughnuts. I stood at the counter without apron—without batter or powder upon my hands—and waited for dawn, for the first bewitched customers craving contentment. Cheerlessly they came. The elderly tapped impatiently with their canes. The lawyer minded his watch.

Mayor Mound ran about with his handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from his hairless head, weeping apologies.

“Mound,” a solemn looking woman said from the entrance, and then took him by the arm and ushered him into a corner, speaking in soft, blistering beats.

“That Mound just ain’t what he used to be,” an old man whispered to his wife.

I stepped outside, into the gray-filled day, and where I had once found a line of doughnut-fueled loyalty, I found only a denim-clad halfwit affixing the hook-and-chain of his tow truck to the axis of Mound’s Cadillac, thereby freeing, for the first time in years, the only handicap spot on the block.

My reckless recipe had lifted the covers from the town and revealed it for what it was: tired and sad. I closed my eyes and heard the piercing, quiet hum of disheartened country folk, the collective soft sigh of melancholy that comes every morning but once before the day takes us by the hand and steers us true. I felt then what Mom had felt before the cure. I smelled the sugary carnage of Mound’s great malice.

And then on the horizon, as the sun broke free from the illusory mountain range of clouds, I heard at last the triumphant sound of the train’s horn.

##

“A gorgeous day,” she says through lips as plump as her steak.

Her friend, or maybe daughter (it’s hard to tell), noses through a salad, and between them, the bottle of white chills in stainless steel. Their small tabletop, draped in white linen, sat secure behind a short iron fence beautified with flowers, and protected them from the stumbling drunk with a tattered sweater and grimy black beard. He picks up a discarded bag of sour cream and onion chips sitting below the tire of the Rolls Royce. Perhaps my eyes deceive me, but I am quite certain I saw the lovely Flying Lady scowl at him from her perch atop the shiny ivory hood.

There are no chips in the bag, so he tosses it and moves on, past the old lady barking at a borrowed driver, past two million dollars of aluminum and carbon fiber.

I move quickly to dodge the young, brown-skinned valet as he runs for his life to fetch a man’s car.

A young-ish woman laments to her server, in no uncertain terms, that the tuna tartar will simply not do. She doesn’t want it remade, however, she only demands a steak as plump as her lips. (She, too, has supersized lips.) Her husband, or maybe father (it’s hard to tell), sits coolly, polishing his deep thoughts, or more likely, admiring his Rolls.

“It’s too warm,” cries a woman from a sunny spot amid flowers and shrimp and wine. She digs into her enormous, branded brown leather bag for something. It will take her awhile, and I’m not waiting for the big reveal.

Clipity-clop. Clipity-clop. A middle-aged diva totters on her heels from Porsche to podium, where a judgmental young woman with purple eyes awaits to oblige her.

The two tables on the fringe sit empty, filled with possibility.

It’s quieter here, but I smell steak ahead.

Ernie had mastered the trick that had him balance a ball on his nose while standing on his hind legs. Without fail, the crowd roared and the children laughed. Elbows jabbed neighbors and eyebrows formed arcs and people said things like, “Can you believe that?”

“No,” came the response invariably. “I can’t believe that.”

Then one day, the Ringmaster sat Ernie down. The Ringmaster’s big lips formed a sad, colorless rainbow and he stared somewhere beyond Ernie’s left shoulder.

“The trick,” the Ringmaster began. “The one with the ball—it’s just not working anymore.”

“What do you mean? I’ve worked at that for ten years. It’s flawless!”

“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s just, well, we’ve got a new plan for the bear segment. We’d like to shoot one out of a cannon, and—”

“Okay,” Ernie interjected. “You can shoot me out of a cannon. Yeah. Wow, that’s actually a great idea. I mean, you’re insured, right?”

“Oh, insured, of course. But Ernie, I’m just not so sure you’re right for the cannon bit. You’re a little pudgy in the midsection. We need a more slender bear.”

“You know I’ve been on that P90x program, right? Come on! It’s only been like 18 days. Give it time!”

“It’s more than that, Ernie. We’ve kind of envisioned—see that uniform?—we’ve kind of envisioned a bear that matches that attire a little better.”

“Oh, I see, this has to do with the color of my fur!”

“Ernie, would you stop? Look, you’re just not the right fit. We’re going to have to let you go. We’re offering a separation package. I think you’ll see it’s more than just peanuts. I mean, it’s peanuts, sure, but a lot of ‘em.”

“You know what? Fine. I’ll go. And you know what? I’m betting I’ll find a better gig than this. I’ll perform for thousands—no, millions—and you’ll come crawling back to me.”

A single day of mourning, that’s all he allowed himself. He sat under a tree and ate a ridiculous quantity of berries. He knew he’d regret it, and he did. He skipped P90x that evening, too. It was leg day anyway, and he despised leg day equally as much as he despised arm day, back day, etc.

He awoke the next morning with only a slight (but expected) stomach ache. Regardless, he leapt up, clapped his paws together and set off on the trail with only a short stack of resumes in tow. (He wouldn’t need many, for obvious reasons.) He had decided against having a recruiter review his resume. After all, it contained only a single bullet point that read: “Balanced ball on nose to the delight of thousands!” He deliberated use of the exclamation mark, and decided in favor to add the desired exhilaration.

The first tent he happened upon was bright blue with big, bold lettering that read something, he wasn’t quite sure—hey, “literacy” wasn’t on his resume. He strode in, snout held high, and found the ringmaster, as evidenced by the obnoxious hat the portly gentleman wore. With resume outstretched, Ernie said grandly: “Sir, I give you the act you’ve long waited for.”

And as the ringmaster looked over the resume, Ernie saw two bears in the background rolling cigars. Then, an elephant waddled over and took up a freshly rolled cigar with its trunk. A monkey then lit the cigar, careful to impart an even burn. Once properly lit, the elephant delivered the cigar to its mouth by use of its dexterous trunk, and smoked the thing quite elegantly. Needless to say, the ringmaster laughed heartily at Ernie’s resume, and the monkey scurried beside him and with a quick flick of its opposable thumb, ignited the lighter and set the resume aflame.

“Well, I’ll be,” Ernie muttered. “But what makes this so special that it’s worth watching?”

“They’re engaged in the unexpected, of course!” the ringmaster said.

Ernie, having departed the tent not a little baffled, pondered this peculiar scene. If that is what they want, he thought, then that is what I shall give them. He offered a few peanuts to a scholarly squirrel and asked that a bullet be added to his resume to suggest his ability to roll cigars. With that, he returned to the trail. At last, he came upon another tent of a great many colors. He sauntered in and directly toward the ringmaster.

“Sir, prepare yourself to be awed!”

I don’t need to tell you that Ernie was quite perplexed to find, in the background, a bespectacled bear supervising the work of various species. The intent of this work was to construct a machine of magnificent proportions. The function of said machine, however, was a mystery.

“Now what makes this entertaining?”

“These animals are pushing the limits of productivity! This is far more fascinating than your balancing ball and cigar rolling tricks.”

It took Ernie some time to find that blasted squirrel, but when he did, he offered all remaining peanuts in exchange for some creativity.

“Make it sound good,” Ernie told the squirrel. “Something about building machines.”

The trail went deep into the town and long into the night. When the sun had nearly gone, he came upon a tent that lit the purple sky. Bulbs flashed and music played. This, Ernie thought, was the stuff of dreams. And so he went in whistling, thinking fondly of the third-time’s-a-charm adage. He at first could not locate the ringmaster. He peeked here and scoured there. Then he went into a small, well-hidden room and found the man with the objectionable hat.

“Sir, I proudly—”

And he stopped. For here the man under the hat was no man at all, but was himself a bear. Ernie let fly his anger.

“Now, you cannot convince me that this is what we bears are meant to do: wear awful hats and run circuses! Please, tell me how this is a thing to behold?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the bearish ringmaster replied with a very proper British accent. “I’m no longer a bear at all.”

Ernie could take no more. He stormed out at once, and flung his remaining resumes into a lake. Even if he could find the squirrel, he had no more peanuts with which to barter. And even if he had the peanuts, he would be unable to fool anyone to see him as a ringmaster—he simply hadn’t the absurd hat to prove it.

Into the woods he went, far away from the bright lights and loud colors—away from the whirring machines and smoking cigars. He curled under a tree, and the long, cold night shook him nearly to death.

“Get up,” came a fluttery voice. “They’re watching.”

The sun sat high and cast a glow around the graceful figure. Ernie squinted and saw that it was a bear. He leapt to his hind legs.

“They’re watching? Where’s my ball?”

“You’re ball?”

“Yeah, my ball! I need a ball for the trick, you know!”

“You don’t need a ball. They just want to watch us do what bears do: bumble around all day.”

They stood on a trail at a distance that Ernie could not see their features. There were some tall people and some short people and some people in little carts. They seemed happy enough, but he couldn’t tell.

“They’re not laughing though,” Ernie said to his new friend.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Ernie said with a smile. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“I’m Carla, by the way.”

Ernie fell in love with Carla, of course. He told her about his adventures and she told him where all the good berries were. He often reminisced about the old Ringmaster when droves of people came out to see him and Carla. The visitors didn’t number in the millions as Ernie had suggested, but there were still quite a lot. And they didn’t expect him to balance a ball or roll cigars or supervise an operation. They came to see him do what came naturally: He and Carla, sitting in the grass together, eating berries, and having a conversation in perfectly intelligible English.

Elizabeth had nearly finished closing procedure when she heard a faint shout as it echoed through the hallways.

The clock above the brochure rack read 5:33 or so. On Sundays, the Chicago History Museum doors were locked at five o’clock. Three times before, she had encountered guests afterhours. One time it was a teenage couple, perhaps ten years younger than Elizabeth, that had hoped to spend the night in the museum and do indecent things in the Abraham Lincoln exhibit, which is where Elizabeth had found them — partly clothed. Before security arrived to escort the couple from the premises, Elizabeth gave them an earful.

“Here this man was killed for his beliefs,” she had shouted passionately. “For pioneering freedom and equality for all, he paid the ultimate price. And you defile his memory by rubbing Victoria’s Secret Pink panties — oh, a thong, even better—all over a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation?”

When she told the story to new front-desk associates—and she always did when training them on closing procedure—she wore her proudest look. She had to; because when Al, the security guard that had been on duty that evening, told the story, he exaggerated the perpetrators reactions, saying that they “pointed at Beth’s face” and “laughed their asses off” and so on. Elizabeth remembered some disrespect, sure, but not to the extent Al portrayed it, and so she remained resolute in her story and counted it as a proud moment indeed.

She walked toward the shout, and though she ambled slightly, she arrived at the Great Chicago Fire exhibit.

“Hello?” she asked into the darkness, and then felt silly. She reasoned with herself that it was the proper thing to say, and felt satisfied with her logic.

“You there,” came a tiny voice. “Look here. I’m over here, I say.”

Elizabeth peered into one of the dioramas of that fateful night and saw shifting a small form. She had never doubted her senses before, and she had no pre-existing condition that might give way to delirium. But there she saw, after wiping her eyes once and blinking twice, a tiny, self-conscious cow just outside O’Leary’s barn.

“Girl, are you okay?” she asked in a thick, Irish accent. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

She scanned the exhibit to certify her privacy before conversing with the tiny man.

“Or just a talking cow? A one-ounce, miniature talking cow.”

“Call me Barb,” the cow said cheerfully.

“Okay.”

“I didn’t do it, you know.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Start the fire. I didn’t knock over the lantern.”

“Okay.”

“Will you just change the placard to reflect that?”

“Excuse me?”

“That sign beside you is rather vague. It suggests that perhaps I did kick the lantern over.”

Elizabeth scanned the sign and confirmed the cow was correct. She was deeply disturbed by the unfolding events, but a bit sympathetic to the cow; that is, until Barb became argumentative and distasteful:

“Anyone with a bit of reason knows it was that asshole with the peg-leg, and please, pardon my French,” the cow said scornfully.

“Daniel Sullivan?” she asked, and a quarrelsome heat filled her cheeks.

“That’s him. He was the cruel kind, and quite duplicitous. He couldn’t wait to get his grubby hands on my udders. Hungry for my delicious milk, he was. One sip and I’d dare say you’d be thieving it as well, which is why I won’t be sharing a sip with you, young girl!”

“Hello?” Elizabeth shouted toward the exhibit’s entrance. She thought she had heard a sound; or rather, she wished she had heard a sound. She desperately hoped for the thump of security guard boots. If Al were to come around, he’d snap her out of this.

“Who are you talking to? Pegleg Sullivan?”

And at this half-humor, the cow laughed generously. She had quite a delicate laugh, not what one might expect of a cow.

“So will you change it?”

“Change what?” Elizabeth asked rather annoyed.

“The placard. It’s misleading, you know.”

“You know,” Elizabeth fired back. “I”m beginning to think you did kick the lantern, and poor Pegleg is your scapegoat.”

“Were I seeking a scapegoat, I’d simply blame Will — an actual goat. He was stabled alongside me!”

And the cow laughed generously.

“Who’s your witness?” Elizabeth asked and pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose and crossed her arms.

“Why, there was no one there but Pegleg and I. I’m the only witness!”

“A cow? Who is going to believe a cow? You’re a barnyard animal. You are not a credible witness. You are unable to swear under oath. You plead the fifth by default. You produce milk, not testimony. You are an expert in lactation, not forensics. Also, you’re virtually nonexistent. You weigh a single ounce on a good day. In fact, I’m all but convinced of Pegleg’s innocence now. I’m pretty sure you kicked the lantern down. You know you killed 300 people, right? A cow, responsible for the deaths of hundreds, trying to persuade me to promote her story, to change history. A cow named Barb—that’s not very Irish. Well, I’m done. I’m not buying it and I’m done.”

With that, and before the cow might counter, Elizabeth marched away. She managed three pleasing, self-important strides before she stopped. The exhibit—very quiet, very still—refused to release her. Long, legendary fingers gripped her wrist and pulled her back, and when she looked into the diorama, Barb was gone. There was no trace of magic or hallucinations or even a miniature cow for that matter. After one miserable moment, Elizabeth attacked the placard that told the O’Leary story that Barb detested so. She tugged it this way and that; gripped the top and lifted her feet, pulling down with all her weight; grunted and shrieked and cursed it.

She stepped back, and then saw something looming in the shadows. A tall, mysterious figure, towering with authority, peering with curiosity. When Elizabeth turned, and after the blood drained from her face and her hands went cold and clammy, she spoke with quiet, shaky voice.

“How long have you been here?”

“The whole time,” Al said.

Brown grass crunched beneath his feet as they rounded a dying tree. Preoccupied and oblivious, Sol stopped when the tree’s long, winding branch poked his hairless head. He set down an old, leather bag beside him and ran his hand over the tree’s bark. Pieces broke free and fell into his hand where he ground them with sturdy fingers to produce ash. He set down his other leather bag, more worn and weathered than the first, and resting upon one knee, he rummaged through its contents.

“Are you mad? The Queen’s summons is most urgent.”

Sol lifted an ampoule from his bag and held it eye level so that the sun shone through the sliver of viscous, yellow-brown liquid within.

“Not even a full drop,” Sol muttered. “Will this spell death once more?”

Sol then glared at the towering, brutish escorts.

“The Lymur sap’s healing powers are well documented, but the few such trees that remain are nigh unto death and yield no sap. Your Queen shall be much pleased that I’ve the mind to collect what I can.”

“Our Queen,” the escort scowled.

“I’ve not seen her,” Sol said. “Nevertheless, grant me a moment to bottle the ash. The sap is superior, but this may prove useful yet.”

When at last they arrived at the castle, a short, hairy mass of a man cloaked in fine, flowing garments greeted Sol with a face that had never known a smile. He pointed and ordered two servants, each with horns winding from their ears and two extra arms born from their ribs, to search the bags. Sol set them down and stepped away, but his escorts placed hands upon his back so he could move no further. From a small pocket in his tattered, wool vest, he produced a single foil-wrapped morsel. Trembling fingers peeled back the foil and plucked the chocolate piece within. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, then wiped the beaded sweat from his upper lip with a knuckle and placed the chocolate on his tongue.

“Your nerves will do you no favors,” the hairy man said.

“Nor will I seek any,” Sol replied. “It has been three years since I’ve last brewed. With this unpracticed hand, I need not favors; I need miracles.”

“Well, I have found,” the hairy man said. “One can do anything if one’s life depends on it.”

The half-melted chocolate piece slipped down Sol’s tongue and into his throat, and he welcomed the ensuing coughing fit as an excuse to divert his eyes.

“Master Pi,” one servant said and extended a small, flat package.

“And this?” Master Pi asked Sol with masterful condescension, and he gripped the package between thumb and forefinger as though it were diseased.

“A gift for my daughter,” Sol replied. “I took it with me for fear either curiosity or boredom might lead her to it in my absence.”

At great risk, Sol seized the package, much to the apparent displeasure of Master Pi, for the wrinkles that framed his frown hardened. Master Pi turned and started up an enormous staircase, and Sol, requiring no further coaxing from his escorts, took up the bags and scurried after him.

“Our Queen is ill,” Master Pi began. “We’ve called upon the best sorcerers, herbalists and healers in the land, but to no avail. Her condition remains a mystery, and as it worsens, so too does our land. Your talents intrigue us advisors, but we are a skeptical breed and fail to see how mere chocolate can triumph where the most potent magic betrays. It is rumored, however, you conjure remedies for all ails — or, rather, nearly all. Regardless, I fear your,” here he paused, “craftsmanship is her only and final hope.”

At the staircase’s summit, sunlight burst through towering windows and bathed the lush, vertical flowerbed that adorned the Queen’s bedroom doors. Sol mused that the whole of the Byre outside the castle’s walls lay slowly dying, and so too the Queen within, but somehow the garden upon this door thrived. Then the door opened a crack.

“She invites you inside,” Master Pi whispered. “Rare indeed. Enter, but keep safe distance. She will not reveal herself. Work quickly and retire.”

Sol slipped through the crack and into the darkness. He looked back at Master Pi with frightened eyes that glistened blue in the sun’s rays.

“How does one work in utter darkness? And I must physically contact the patient to treat her. It is impossible otherwise.”

“None have seen her in years —“

“Pi,” her voice came from the shadows. “Must I trust you with nothing?”

Master Pi’s stocky frame shook violently: “My Queen?”

A leather bag fell hard from Sol’s hand and from it his daughter’s present ascended and unwrapped itself. A small hand mirror — its handle and frame woven of bronze threads with a small ceramic butterfly perched atop — spun magically before Sol’s eyes. Master Pi wobbled toward it with outstretched arms and worried eyes, but some pugnacious force ejected him from the room and the door slammed shut behind him. The mirror’s glass shattered and fell lifelessly to the floor.

“Begin,” said the Queen, and there was no compromise in her tone.

“But I…”

Sol clung to what little light fought through the door cracks and window coverings as he unpacked his bags and set his implements upon a large table.

“I shall certainly require a candle. Without heat, there shall be no chocolate.”

A candle sprouted from the table and a flame danced upon it. Sol took up a handful of cocoa beans from a tin container and dropped them into the stone mortar. He fumbled through his many vials and found one that held the finely chopped Twerpen leaf, but his hand trembled as he uncorked it and some of the leaf leapt to the floor.

“Why should a mirror have pleased your daughter?”

The Queen’s voice came gentle to Sol’s ear, and his shoulders relaxed and he remembered now to breathe. He pictured his daughter’s smile — the rare treat it had become — an exact replica of the smile he had once loved more than all else.

“Astoria’s fourteenth year has proven difficult,” he said as he ground several ingredients with the pestle. “She believes beauty has been unfair to her, and I want her to see how truly beautiful she is.”

“With a mirror, she will only see what she feels.”

“Then how can I change what she feels?”

The room became cold and quiet, and Sol huddled nearer the candle. His hands warmed and instinct took command. He moved fluidly through his cache and withdrew precise amounts of rare herbs: Burmant, mildly toasted; Vym juice, a drop thereof; Jomfrey root, peeled and dried. He called upon some most rare ingredients with origins outside the Byre itself, such as the Bospire grain, and he delighted in a dab of the Lymur ash. The Queen, quite impressed with his work, trusted a closer peek: a curious eye, warm in the candlelight, eased for a moment from the safety of the folding screen that divided the room in two, and then it retreated.

“Someone will come to your daughter one day — someone she trusts as unbiased — and make her feel beautiful. Those that fawn over us cannot be trusted so.”

“Ah,” Sol said with a thoughtful smile. “That explains my ineffectual attempts.” He selected a brush with long, soft bristles and dabbed it in a vial of light oil and then into the mortar containing his brew. “I must test the blend — please present your wrist.”

Many tales, believed mostly to be legend, built the Queen’s fury into monsters and demons, and also, rumor had it that illness had enfeebled her darkest magic. Sol thought, after he was knocked flat from her explosive outcry, that if he should ever make it back home, he should set the record straight once and for all: the rage demon lived.

“Infidel! You dare address me as anything but ‘My Queen’? Do you not acknowledge the throne?”

Sol lifted himself to his knees and crawled to the table that lay upon its side, his implements sprawled across the floor. The mortar had toppled and its powdery contents emptied. Defeated and breathless, Sol fell onto his bottom.

“I believe only what I see,” Sol said. Then he thought of the mirror and his daughter. After a quiet moment, magic spawned a new candle that floated beside Sol.

“Sometimes, life grants but one final bid.”

The Queen said this and then presented her wrist. He scrambled for the brush, which still had the oily compound upon its bristles. He crawled toward the screen and the candle followed. He reached for her wrist, just hardly extended beyond the screen’s safety, and she retracted slightly.

“I deserved not this wretched skin cloaked in red plague. It is the curse of an enemy unseen, though one I’ve sworn to avenge. You’ve seen too much of my hideousness. If you cannot cure me, you will not live.”

He placed his quivering hand beneath hers, and painted a single, jittery brushstroke upon the soft underside of her wrist.

“What is your expectation?” she asked firmly.

“I am no sorcerer, but if my work is true, I will see just a bit of magic,” he said.

He put his eyes close to her skin. He studied the brushstroke, but the glitter for which he waited never came. Fearing his fate, he held his breath and imagined his daughter looking upon his casket. He wondered would she mourn him as she had her mother, and he wished to hold her once more. His eyes welled with tears, and when he blinked them free, he saw more clearly her skin. He smiled.

“And here I’ve seen the magic!” he said. “Though I require one final ingredient that I regret to say is not in my bags. Please send for my daughter. Have the escorts ask her to retrieve from my workspace a pouch of fresh Prysm berry. You will take it with the chocolate.”

The Queen issued swift orders and with efficient magic had restored Sol’s workspace. He returned to his pestle and mortar to grind a new batch of chocolate. His hands moved fast and sure, but froze when the Queen spoke.

“No magic could have saved your wife,” she said. “You must stay confident in your craft. You are skilled.”

“I nearly lost my way when I lost her, but chocolate — pure and unaffected — saved me. I make the chocolate, and the chocolate heals me.”

Before long, Sol had finished work on the special chocolate piece. Then the door opened a crack and the Queen asked him to retrieve his daughter, for she had arrived.

“The Prysm berry must remain in sunlight,” Sol said. “Exposure to darkness will destroy its magic. I’d ask that you step just beyond your door where the sun is plentiful.”

“And without the Prysm berry?” she asked fearfully.

“Naught,” Sol said.

A swift gust snuffed out the candle and a dark chill gripped the room. A silhouette, tall and lean, emerged from the folding screen. Sol scurried from the room and into the sun. Then came the Queen. Her hand gripped the lush door and her tender fingers brushed the Tressel vines’ delicate flowers. When her face peeked round rosy pink flowers, there was a collective gasp. Red, wavy hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her eyes, big and green, sparkled in the sun when she smiled. She studied the creamy-white skin on her arm with her fingertips.

“The curse,” she whispered. “It’s been lifted.”

She stepped forward and ran a gentle finger down Astoria’s blushing cheek.

“My beautiful child,” she said. “You’ve my Prysm berry?”

Astoria, teary-eyed, supplied the berry. The Queen then turned to Sol.

“And you, my healer, you’ve the chocolate to save me?”

“Yes,” Sol said, and from the small pocket in his tattered wool vest he produced a plain, foil-wrapped chocolate. “My Queen.”

THE END

The Queen’s Curse was written as a Round 2 submission to the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2016. The assignment: write a 2,000 word story in three days. The prompts: fantasy (genre), chocolatier (character), and body dysmorphic disorder (subject).