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Short stories

a maligned sister

Whom should I speak of? Speak up! Remember I am old and feeble. My hearing has gone. Her! Silence while my thoughts coagulate. Now they have coagulated. Her! Damn her boots! It was I that achieved not her. I was the one that lived. I travelled around the world, twice. A myriad of lovers passed through my sheets. I remember each and every one. Do you want me to tell you of them? Pirates and Conmen and Gangsters and Politicians and Kings never Princes.  My cunt was Aladdin’s Cave. She never left her room, never mind the city, or the country. I saw Wars and Revolutions and Death and my cunt was full. I danced with Kings and dined with Paupers. Still, you want to know about my silly sister. Fine, I will tell you about my sister, silly sister. But you already know all about her. They have probed, psychoanalyzed, constructed, deconstructed, reconstructed her. She got married, lived unhappily forever in her head, and well you… the end. She had pencils, papers, and that table. Right there you are – done.  The end. Goodbye. I on the other hand, well, let me tell you about the King of Corboyorl. He was a fine King and well hung a cock as hard as a rock as a big as Oh my legs quiver my cunt wets.  My sister, my silly sister. She was unfortunate I should say. Mundane looking. Nondescript. Nothing up there and maybe too much down here. The ankles. But she married her charming man. With his small cock and little vinegar. They moved into a big house. She got her room and her chair and that table. Don’t you think all her heroines are the same. Nothing differentiates them, don’t you think? They now call her Rhodopis. I remember Hylda Ramsbottom. Curlers and wool socks. She was nothing more than a little girl. Rhodopis, what a name. In the Kingdom of Corboyorl there lived Rhodopis. Now that sounds good. He was a randy old King and the veins in that beautiful cock throbbed like Oh my wet cunt. Had sixteen wives and numerous concubines, which I proudly say I was one.  Instead, we get: There was a poor girl, her name was Rhodopis, and she had to clean the cat litter, wash the dishes, and go to the market to buy pig trotters. Give me a break. She always had her head in a book. That’s all she did. And write. And write. And write. They say now that the Greek historian Strabo was the first to write about… How? … How? She was nothing more than a silly, little girl with a huge imagination. I will never forget the night she came into my bedroom and told me she had been conversing with a Fairy Godmother. Fairy Godmother! My like rubbing her own cunt! I could have dropped down dead. Turns out she sneaked into my favorite beatnik jazz café. The name escapes me. Probably smoked opium. I smoked tons of opium with the King of Corboyorl and then rode that big hard cock until come dripped down my leg. A night of opium and a hard cock, you can’t beat it. Turns out the Fairy Godmother was a man by the name of Rupert. You didn’t know that did you. Put that in your bloody book. And you know she wrote pornography under a pseudonym. Real hardcore stuff. Torture chambers. Whips. All the good stuff. I remember being chained and gagged and plugged and clogged in King of Corboyorl’s secret torture chamber. Oh, we had a wild time. One night we went to the movie house and watched Georges Méliès’ Le Royaume des fees. A wonderful movie. I am told. I met a young chap and sat in the back with him. Tried to shove a fist up me cunt he did. The movie filled her head with dreams of faraway places that never existed. Poor girl. Now her beauty is unspeakable. She was no Helen. The face that launched a thousand ships. I tell you that. She was no Cleopatra. She wasn’t very nice. Possessed a terrible tempter. Awful. Threw things. Had a knife. Knuckledusters. Oh, she could tongue lash you to death. I blame all those books our father made her read, she never wanted to read them, but he made her, he had tried with me, but I played the fool. What girl of ten wants to read One Thousand and One Nights, Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp, Ali Baba and the Fifty Thieves, The Eight Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor… what girl of eleven wants to read Miscellaneous Morsels from Youyang by Tuan Ch’eng-Shih… He might as well have had her reading Les 120 journées de Sodome. Now I remember that. The King of Corboyorl would sit me upon his lap and read aloud passages while his fingers probed my wet quivering cunt.  Her head was full of the stuff, magic carpets, giants, talking animals. What rot!  Her head was filled with Apuleius, Lucian, and Petronius…Rubbish… Myths …Legends …Leg ends more like… The Golden Ass. I had a great ass. That damn U word, again. I could have strangled her. I will never use the U word.  For years I have been tormented by the U word. Can you imagine the shock, the horror, the betrayal I felt? Yes. I am a maligned sister!

T. Smith-Winstanley

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