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My Son May Be Small, But He Has an Iron Grip

  • by jenfreaky, furry phenomenon
  • Five or six times a day
  • with each passing hour
  • but there’s a hitch
  • you and I have nothing more to say

Tune in next time part 325      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My son may be small, but he has an iron grip. It took a full minute for me to work his chubby little fingers loose from the object he held, which turned out to be an egg-shaped remote control with a single button.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

My son didn’t reply. He merely stuffed his fist in his mouth. The blue panda whose chest he was strapped to saluted me and gamboled back to the sliding board to begin another slow climb up the ladder. I stuffed the remote into the pocket of my fancy dress pants and sauntered over to greet my daughter by the see-saw. Her armadillo steed stood patiently while I cooed at the infant, but the turtle mascot stomped away to Fleur’s side.

Viscount Arlo’s voice came from inside that green, freaky, furry phenomenon. He whined at Fleur about being exiled from her boudoir, and she laughed at his terrapin costume. I was unable to follow the rest of their argument because Isolde stormed into the room with fire in her eyes.

“Harry!” she cried, racing up to me. “Why aren’t you in the chapel? We have not yet been married for 24 hours!”

Fleur had directed me to be Harry-by-proxy for a full day, but she had also brought me here to see our children. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Isolde went on, “I shackled you for a reason, Harry. Five or six times a day is the optimal number of times to make love when you’re trying to conceive. Now that I have rested I’m ready to continue, but I’ve wasted so much time searching for you all over this ship! My window of fertility is closing with each passing hour. We must return to our honeymoon, but there’s a hitch.”

The hitch turned out to be the old incense woman who had attended the birth of the twins. She was something of a Contrarian fertility specialist, and Isolde demanded she coach us through the next few rounds in order to guarantee conception.

We concluded our final session with simultaneous shouts of release, a mere ten seconds before the timer went off, announcing the end to my term as Junior-Baronet Harry. Isolde’s passion evaporated in an instant and she turned her back to me, saying, “You are not my husband, so you and I have nothing more to say.”

I barely had time to pull on my underwear before she shoved me into the corridor.

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I Awoke Alone

  • by Kentmove your fingers up and down the outside
  • anything more complimentary than ‘quotable’
  • slowly and gravely down the slide
  • hockey players still wear garter belts
  • “Hey sport, what you got there?”

Tune in next time part 324      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I awoke alone in the wedding chapel, staring up into the reproachful glare of the vulture’s skull. When I tried to sit up, I discovered the shackle spanning my neck. A quick inspection showed that it wasn’t metal, but bone. Fortunately, I recalled an article I once read about this Contrarian style of restraints, so I knew that the way to open it was to move your fingers up and down the outside in the correct manner. So that left just figuring out the correct manner.

Two hours later, I finally gained my freedom, just in time for Fleur to come through the door. She arched an eyebrow and said, “Isolde has been babbling about ‘Harry’ nonstop, all the sweet things he said to her last night, the poetry of his pillow talk. Good show, I suppose.”

I’d begun putting my fancy clothes back on as she spoke, and used the activity as a pretext not to look my wife in the eye. If her sister was going to tell her so much about our night of passion, it stung that she didn’t seem to have anything more complimentary than ‘quotable’ to say about me.

“Come,” Fleur said. “It’s time for you to play with the children.”

I followed her through twisting, dank passageways lined with tangles of plumbing, deeper into the bowels of the aircraft carrier, I in my morning suit, she in a powder blue gown with a six-foot train. Eventually we reached the nursery, where the royal infant twins were enjoying the playground. Each baby rode in a front carrier installed in a cartoon animal costume worn by an adult. The blue panda bearing my son progressed slowly and gravely down the slide while the candy-striped armadillo carrying my daughter rode the see-saw with a fluorescent green turtle. The turtle lacked an infant, but I could tell what sport it was a mascot for because in Contraria, hockey players still wear garter belts.

When the panda reached the bottom of the sliding board, I noticed that the boy baby clutched something in his tiny fist. I stepped over the ankle-high picket fence delineating the play yard to move up for a closer look.

“Hey sport, what you got there?”

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This Ceremony was Much Shorter

  • by jenFrench breeding — but
  • “Hold your tongue.”
  • some grade Z porno film
  • various techniques and “octopus etiquette”
  • without all the fanfare

Tune in next time part 323      Click Here for Earlier Installments

This ceremony was much shorter than the one when I’d married Fleur, much to my relief. Isolde locked the door behind the officiant and turned to me. “I have seen several illicit magazines and movies about French breeding — but I’d much rather employ the American method if you don’t mind, Harry.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I said, doffing my top hat.

Isolde shrugged out of her ceremonial robe and arranged it on the floor under a large vulture skull. We stood upon it together while she, gloriously naked, undressed me. It felt a little odd to be continuously called ‘Harry,’ but no odder than anything else about Contrarian court life. If this was how the Warlord’s daughters wanted to conduct their marriages, there was no point in arguing.

“Open your mouth,” Isolde commanded.

I complied. She peered in at my fresh, golden tattoo.

“Hold your tongue.” She demonstrated with her own fingers how she wanted me to grasp it. I took over, and she studied the arcane markings for a minute. Then she swatted my hand away and kissed me.

We sank to the floor on top of the robe, and got down to the business of consummating-by-proxy Isolde and Harry’s marriage. The freeform jazz record was still playing, which made it feel like some grade Z porno film. That feeling only got stronger when Isolde introduced various techniques and “octopus etiquette” moves she had learned from the Contrarian version of the Kama Sutra, and Fleur’s browser history. It was physically taxing, but I was having a great time without all the fanfare and press attention that had accompanied my wedding night with Fleur.

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Fleur Rang Her Little Bell Again

  • by jenhe sang as loud as he could
  • tolerably well off for a German professor
  • And not in the way he’s usually feeling it.
  • you do a victory dance
  • circuit breakers?

Tune in next time part 321      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur rang her little bell again, and the vice-chancellor of the exchequer joined us in the birthing chamber. I held the children and made faces to amuse them while he, Fleur, and the old incense woman consulted many hefty tomes and divined their official titles. When all was in order, the Royal Contrarian Radio Service members were brought in. The vice-chancellor took the microphone and sang-announced the royal births to the world in ritualistic Contrarian fashion. Contrarian microphones are notoriously terrible, so he sang as loud as he could. My son’s title clocked in at three minutes on the dot, while all the feminine suffixes of my daughter’s added an additional eighteen seconds, and took up the entirety of the allowed time.

With that bit of official nonsense out of the way, I thought I might finally enjoy some time alone with my little family. I was wrong. Fleur’s beautiful sister Isolde raced into the room, afire with manic glee. Now that the babies had arrived, she was permitted to marry Harry, a toadlike Contrarian noble. I had no idea what she saw in him. As I already mentioned, Harry was ugly, and while he might be considered tolerably well off for a German professor, as royalty went he was the bottom of the barrel.

“I’ve been waiting so long to marry my sweet prince!” Isolde sighed. “We can wait no longer. The wedding will be in half an hour!”

“Harry is not a prince,” Fleur corrected. “He’s a junior-baronet, but since you love him so, I grant permission for you to wed upon my ship.”

Isolde squealed. “You are the best sister!”

“Where is Harry?” Fleur asked. “I must perform the anointing ritual.”

“He went ashore,” Isolde said. “He’s feeling seasick. And not in the way he’s usually feeling it.” She winked at her sister. “If you know what I mean.”

“So it’s to be a proxy wedding?” Fleur asked, sounding bored. “You have the ceremony with a stand-in groom, you do a victory dance together as per tradition, and then you take him to your bedchamber and see if you can blow out all the circuit breakers?”

“Precisely.”

Fleur said, “My husband seems to be already dressed for the occasion, more or less.”

“Wait,” I said, clasping my infant children to my chest. “What?” I had always found Fleur’s sister attractive, and it seemed I might suddenly be given permission to bed her.

“Thank you!” Isolde cried, hugging her sister. “I can’t wait to be married to my darling Harry!”

The old incense woman took the babies, and Fleur splashed a bit of ceremonial wine on my temples, inner wrists, and genitals. “For the next 24 hours you are Junior-Baronet Harry,” she pronounced. “Go and wed my sister, Harry.”

“Oh, Harry!” Isolde cried, taking my hand. “I’m so happy!”

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I Was Not Alone With My Wife For Long

  • by jentongue was similarly decorated
  • just an hour and a half later
  • lifelong search for love and affection
  • wrapped in many layers of oiled sailcloth
  • The result is awesomeness.

Tune in next time part 319      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was not alone with my wife for long. As soon as the prickish viscount left the birthing chamber, with John on his heel, Fleur picked up a bell from her nightstand and rang it. Immediately, a stream of courtiers flooded in, each with their own ritualistic function. While an old woman waved incense around, and a trio of pubescent girls chanted something in Olde Contrarian, Fleur received a foot massage, and I was dressed in a morning suit, complete with boutonniere and cane.

The incense woman blindfolded the chanting girls, and then Fleur disrobed. The warlord’s personal calligrapher got to work with his needle, tattooing the ancient royal symbols in gold on her tongue. Next my tongue was similarly decorated, which I was assured was a great honor, but it was one I would have been just as happy to skip because holy hell it hurt.

And then, just an hour and a half later, the children were born, one right after the other. The first was a girl, which brought back all of my fears about being martyred as the prophecy foretold, but the second child was a boy which put my mind at ease. Until Fleur chuckled deviously and said she couldn’t wait to give them siblings.

I had never thought that I wanted children, but my lifelong search for love and affection came to a sudden halt when the midwife handed over the infants. They were wrapped in many layers of oiled sailcloth per Contrarian tradition.

“We have always done it that way,” Fleur said. She gestured to herself. “The result is awesomeness.”

“What are their names?” I asked.

Fleur laughed heartily. “Silly man! We won’t know that until the naming rituals are complete, which can’t happen until I’m halfway through my next pregnancy!”

“But then how does the youngest child in a family ever get named?”

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I Clapped My Hand Over John’s Mouth

  • by jenI’ll keep you company
  • how many bottles of unguent and liquor
  • made little use of his arms in speaking
  • letting it pour through her fingers
  • washed it in a nearby puddle

Tune in next time part 317      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I clapped my hand over John’s mouth to silence him. When I looked over my shoulder, Xylona was already out of the plane and darting away toward a hiding place.

“I’ll keep you company,” I thought. I kept one hand clamped over John’s mouth while I used the other to reach between us and unbuckle my seatbelt. John’s oily thighs provided enough lubrication that once I was free, I backflipped out of the front cockpit and into the rear one my aunt had so recently deserted, then over the side to land on the flight deck on my bare feet. Above me, John continued to sleep-warble about Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines. I sprinted after Xylona.

“Seize him!” a phlegmy voice cried, and I was quickly surrounded by bulky men in Contrarian Royal Navy uniforms, brandishing scimitars. As they herded me around to the front of the plane, John’s singing finally stopped. I saw another cadre of guards prizing him out of the cockpit while he looked around groggily. The rain picked up, making me shiver.

Soon John and I stood side by side, scimitar points in our backs. In front of us stood Viscount Arlo, and my heavily pregnant wife Fleur. They both wore resplendent Contrarian ceremonial pajamas, and they were shielded from the rain by an enormous red and gold umbrella held aloft by three servants.

“Oh,” Fleur sighed when she saw me. “It’s you.” She batted her eyelashes at the viscount. “Help me remember, Arlo daring, how many bottles of unguent and liquor you and I have enjoyed in bed together these past few months. I’m sure my husband will want a full accounting.”

Like most Svenborgians, Viscount Arlo generally made little use of is arms in speaking. He stood stiff and rigid, his single eye taking me in at a glance. He sniffed. “More unguent than liquor, due to your delicate condition. It was quite the opposite when I was involved with ZsaZsa.”

That guy is such a dick. Why else would he make such a point of his affair with my mother?

Fleur reached into the pocket of Arlo’s pajamas and withdrew a flask. She spun the cap off and sniffed the liquid inside before tipping the bottle and letting it pour through her fingers and puddle in her palm. She stepped forward, causing her entire retinue to lurch after her to keep her covered by the umbrella. She stood in front of me and said lazily, “According to Contrarian tradition, I am to anoint you with ceremonial wine upon your return. This will have to do.” She slapped me once on each cheek.

While I blinked the fumes out of my eyes, she licked a few drops of the sickly sweet alcohol off her hand and then washed it in a nearby puddle.

“My contractions are three minutes apart,” she said. “Let us adjourn to the birthing chamber to begin the ceremony.”

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Contrarian Literature About the Future

  • by Kentknown as ironic repetition
  • I admit, this got me a little teary-eyed
  • eluded surveillance
  • huge and hideous
  • as he frequently did

Tune in next time part 316      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Contrarian literature about the future utilizes a stylistic device known as ironic repetition, making the books tedious to read but easy to memorize. So I recalled enough details to see myself clearly depicted in the story as a tragic hero. I admit, this got me a little teary-eyed even though I was certain the prophecy was a sham. Fleur and her family believed it, and that fact made it pertinent to my survival, which made it self-fulfilling.

Xylona skimmed the waves well below the height of the landing deck, racing toward the stern of the ship. Then she killed the engine. I held my questions, hoping she knew what she was up to. Wondering what good it would do us if we eluded surveillance only to create a huge and hideous grease stain on the hull.

My aunt’s piloting skills impressed me. We slowed abruptly, and just when I was sure we would drop into the churning wake behind the aircraft carrier, she hauled our nose up and we climbed just enough to clear the deck and settle to a silent stop in a pool of shadow.

Leaning forward, Xylona whispered, “No noise, now. We can’t alert the crew to our arrival.”

John started singing in his sleep, as he frequently did. “They go uppity up-up, they go down, ditty down-down!”

Floodlights on the bridge snapped on, illuminating the landing deck.

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“Shut Up and Let Me Fly the Plane”

  • by jenand waited.
  • every single one’s got a story to tell
  • trying to enjoy sex together
  • textured, oily surface
  • getting a little bit slick

Tune in next time part 315      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Shut up and let me fly the plane,” Xylona said.

And so I did. I shut up and waited. Soon John fell asleep, leaning back against my chest, so while I waited I let my hands roam about the cockpit, identifying all of the controls by touch. I wanted to be ready to wrest control of the aircraft from my aunt if it seemed like she was going to betray me. I have so many enemies, and every single one’s got a story to tell, I’m sure, about why they have it in for me.

I wished there was one person I could trust. Just one person who I didn’t have to worry about plotting to kill me while trying to enjoy sex together.

Of course I didn’t want that person to be my aunt. I’d just be happy if my aunt wasn’t actively trying to kill me while I was trapped in a biplane she was piloting. I sighed.

My exploring right hand encountered a textured, oily surface that I could not identify. After a moment of prodding I identified it as John’s bare thigh and moved on.

“We’ll be landing momentarily.” Xylona’s voice crackled through the headset. “The landing strip is getting a little bit slick from all the rain, so buckle up.”

I looked down over the side and saw no land anywhere, just a speck on the water that rapidly grew as we swooped closer. It was an aircraft carrier. A black and gold aircraft carrier with a majestic zeppelin tethered to the prow.

This was Fleur’s personal craft. I counted backwards on my fingers and realized she would be due to give birth to our twins any day now.

I gulped, remembering the prophecy.

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Xylona’s Odd Exclamation

  • by Kentthat spasmodic walk of his
  • stealing her underwear
  • body covered with cuts and bruises
  • drove the getaway car
  • “I’ll look in the out of the way places.”

Tune in next time part 314      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Xylona’s odd exclamation made me wish I could see into her cockpit and make sure there was no flux capacitor back there. But maybe if there was, we could simplify so many things in our lives.

John is a nervous flyer, and before we were even airborne I had been reminded of how awkwardly he rides a bike, and that spasmodic walk of his when he was living with Tessa and kept stealing her underwear. If only he had a pair of it now, but alas.

Chilly rain pelted us, stinging my face and shoulders even with John as a shield. But it felt good on my body covered with cuts and bruises from so many things I couldn’t go back and simplify. But I knew the date that I’d return to, if I could. I knew the one thing I’d change. The delicatessen job, when I drove the getaway car. I’d trick Jason into doing it. That was before the rest of the crew knew I had a twin, so they’d never suspect.

We were soon over open water, in a downpour, with the wind and the prop roaring in our ears. John had found another leather cap, but apparently my aunt never planned on having two passengers. John was speaking, but I couldn’t make anything out. I twisted to look at Xylona and realized they were having a conversation. So I grabbed the headgear. Sure enough, it contained a mic and headphones.

“Where are we going to land?” I asked.

“You let me worry about that.”

“Oh, I’m worrying about it, too!”

She chuckled, not seeming worried at all, in fact. “I’ll look in the out of the way places.”

Nothing but blank, dark waves could be seen in all directions. How much more out of the way could you get?

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My Aunt Wore a Leather Aviators Cap

  • by jenobvious ridiculousness of such a request
  • contemplate how much hairstyles have changed
  • breaking up their canoodling
  • I can bring a wild duck
  • misty and foggy and the rain started

Tune in next time part 313      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My aunt wore a leather aviators cap, and little else besides the goggles over her eyes. I remembered John saying she would only carry naked passengers and marveled at the obvious ridiculousness of such a request. But it was her plane and I really wanted off this damn island. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, but it was hard not to contemplate how much hairstyles have changed through the years in regards to intimate female grooming.

Xylona peered through the goggles at John and myself and said, “Wipe all that greasepaint off. I don’t want it all over my plane.” She tossed us each a rag. John happily complied, while I kept throwing looks back to the temple hut. I thought about racing back in to Tessa and Jove, breaking up their canoodling, and making her get on the plane with us. I’d been searching for her for so long, it felt like madness to leave her behind now. But she’d made her choice. For all I knew she was on an official mission. I cleaned the greasepaint off my chest with angry swipes of the rag.

“Does anyone have refreshments for the flight?” Aunt Xylona asked.

John glanced around the clearing. “I can bring a Wild Duck…”

“It’s called Wild Turkey,” I corrected. “But whatever you want to call it, bring at least two bottles.”

Our trio made our naked way to the nearby airstrip. My aunt’s plane was an old fashioned biplane, with two cockpits. That meant John and I had to squeeze in together in the front seat, and made me miss Tessa all the more. I’m not sure there would have been room for all three of us, but it would have been fun to try.

The weather since I emerged from the sewer had been misty and foggy, and the rain started as we began to taxi down the runway.

“Why can’t we wear clothes,” I demanded, as John planted himself in my lap and started fumbling with the seatbelt.

“Where we’re going we won’t need roads!” Xylona cried. “Or clothes!”

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