The Prince The Assassin’s gloved fingers gripped the ornate stone windowsill. His tattered cloak billowing in the wind, moonlight poking through the holes in his clothes. The Prince lay in his bed, the sheer curtains of his four poster bed catching the delicate moonlight as they swayed in the breeze. His deep brown locks fanned across the blue silk sheets. The gentle rising and falling of his bronze chest steady through the gaps of the curtains. A boy of just 17, the same age of the Assassin himself. The Assassin swung his legs onto the stoop in one fluid, soundless motion. A flash of dark clothes and pale skin against the night sky. He padded gently into the prince’s room, his green eyes glinting in the shadows. Reaching into his cloak he produced a single ornate knife. The Assassin gripped its twisting, silver handle, the deadly tip sharp and sinister in the moonlight. Creeping from the shadows the young assassin crept towards the beloved prince’s bed, unshaken by the nature of the job he had been hired to fulfill. “I know you’re there.” Came the annoyed voice of the Prince through the billowing curtains. The Assassin froze, almost dropping his knife, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. “I don’t care if you’re going to kill me.” The Prince’s bed creaked as he shifted in it, through the ghostly curtains the Assassin could see the delicate form of the shirtless prince. He lay on his back, one tan arm strewn lazily across his stomach, his deep blue eyes cast upwards at the ceiling. A picture of true resignation. “Just-” The Prince swallowed harshly, as if frightened by the sound of his own voice in the quiet room, “Just tell me who sent you.” The Assassin paused, contemplating admitting his presence. He swallowed warily, “You know I’ll still kill you after, right?” “I know.” The Prince closed his eyes, seemingly at peace. The answer burned in the Assassins throat. But he had never been confronted by one of his own hits before, he wasn’t supposed to talk to them. Still He longed for answers. “Only if you tell me why they want you dead.” The Prince nodded his agreement solemnly. His adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed. The tightness of his jaw suggesting he already knew the answer to his question. “The King sent me.” “My father.” The Prince responded dryly. But no hurt past through his face. No shock, just acceptance. After a few beats of silence the Prince croaked, “Okay, I think I’m ready.” “You didn’t answer my question.” The Assassin prodded. “It doesn’t matter.” The Assassin nodded. Crossing to the prince’s bedside he parted the curtains. Raising his knife he watched as the Prince sucked in a harsh breath, chewing his lip anxiously. The blade hovering dangerously, inches above the Prince’s throat. The Assassin faltered, feeling something he had never felt before in all his years of work. “I don’t want to kill you.”
The Perfect Wedding The stiff high collar of my suit scratches against my skin, slowly I stretch my neck in a craning circular motion, popping my sore joints as I go. I try to shake out the tension in my shoulders when the bride fixes me with a cold glare. Under her veil I see her mouth “stop.” her jaw clenched tightly. I swallow hard, shifting my eyes away quickly, they land on my best friend in the audience. He should be up here, as my best man at least, but her family wouldn’t allow it. His gaze is anxious and he chews his lip, eyes fixed on mine. The bride’s grip on my hands tightens, her manicured nails digging into my palms. The droning of the priest is ceases for a moment, just long enough for the choked cry of an audience member to exclaim, “I object!”
- Everything is perfect. From the white rose petals strewn about the isle, to the fiery red and orange leaves framing the altar. The bride is a vision in white, her hair and makeup done precisely the way I wanted it to be done. All twists and loose waves, and natural colors that don’t make her look too done up. Her veil blows lightly in the breeze, the ring of white flowers resting delicately on the crown of her head. I planned everything for this wedding, the dress, the flowers, the seating, the bridal party. The only thing that isn’t perfect is him. He’s all dark curls and tan skin, the direct contrast from my Angela, with her pale skin and light eyes. Even now he fidgets and looks around as the priest reads out their vows from behind the rustic cedar pew. Nevertheless, I am determined not to let him ruin my big day. As the priest starts on their vows he asks the obligatory question, “If there is anyone who believes these two should not be married speak now or forever hold you-” “I object!”