Even the best of Kings can get knocked on the head.

His name was Jackson and the people liked him. He ruled for 7 cycles, his family for hundreds. While some of the family felt the pangs of inbreeding, the Rutgauer blood was strong and Jackson could've ruled another 50. If he didn't love jousting so much.

The tournaments had become near stage plays, with each of the warriors enacting a story line written by one of the priests named Laren. Everyone has their guilty pleasure and this was Jackson's.

And then one day, Laren wrote King Jackson into the play. He was to pretend to be one of the squires, hiding until the evil knight character is about to poison his opponent. The priest wasn't sure if Jackson would do it, but word was passed that he'd love to come aboard. "Whatever you need," he said.

Jackson dons the robes of a simple squire and goes to his mark, face hidden from audience. He awaits his cue with a grin, his wife, the queen, within a stone's throw. "Where is Jackson?" He hears the common man asking. The King snickers.

A lame donkey ironically named the King trots up to Jackson... The donkey tries to sniff him out... Jackson shooes him, but the donkey wont let up.

"Ay, look! The king's tryin' to fuck that squire!" The common man turns, laughs.

"Shoo!" Jackson mutters at the donkey, trying not to make a scene. The donkey gives Jackson an evil glance... he turns slowly... leaps and kicks back hard with both his legs.

King Jackson takes a nasty hit to the head. The audience explodes with laughter until Laren calls it off, gets aid for his injured King. "I'm so sorry my Lord! We will mend you, sire, we will pray for you all hours of the night."

Jackson says nothing, his forehead split open and leaking blood down his face. He's dazed, there's a glaze over his eyes... "What would you pray to?" He says it with a tone of disgust, very much out of character for the beloved King.

"My lord, I would pray to God, the almighty." Laren asks, confused.

"Oh, why wouldn't you pray to your King? Tell me Laren, who makes the rules?" Jackson shows unbridled rage, a sight never seen, even by the Queen, his closest confidant. The blood runs further down his face, it becomes a mask of madness.

"Jackson! My dear, are you OK?" The Queen rushes down to her husband with tears.

Jackson pummels her across the face, she's knocked out cold. "DON'T YOU FUCKING THINK OF IT!"

The audience gasps...

"BRYET!..." The King yells, slumped on the ground and seething. "BRYET-COME TO ME!"

"My lord, you're hurt." A knight rushes out from behind curtains, comes to the King's side. "We need to get you to the healers."

The knight tries to pick him up, but Jackson beats him across the face. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME... Do you not know who you touch?!"

The knight swallows his pride, sets him back down gently, his red face turning redder. "Yes my lord."

"I will tell you what to do and you will do it." The King's left eye slips out of sync with his right as he speaks. "And what you will do, is hang this priest for attempted regicide of the highest order."

The audience shrieks with horror, some not sure if this is part of the show.

Bryet waivers, he looks to Laren who shivers and backs away from the notorious killer knight. "Laren. You must not run." He steps forward, the steel, metal in his armor jingles loudly with each step.

"I am innocent! I had nothing to do with that donkey, that was the stage hand! I can show you who it was!" Laren shrinks away from the audience, the King's gaze, the knight's approach.

The audience begins to boo Laren, they chant for his head.

Jackson's wild gaze tracks the priest as he fails to flee... the King smiles.

Sometimes these thoughts come when I'm crying my eyes out and other times when I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

Would I rather live in an oblivious world, in which I wake when the sun rises and sleep when it falls, isolated and unknowing. Where questions never arise, but then I don't think to question anything at all?

Or would I rather live as I do now? Where I know the ups and downs, the hardships and the opportunities, the hopes that are impossible, the dreams that will never be but also the simplest joys and most complex happiness.

 Note:

~'100 words for thought' series

~follow, like and comment for more!

<3

In the Kingdom of Ruze, the last heir to the throne was killed and anarchy started. Looting happened in the streets, the killing of villagers, and the corruption of mankind slowly gave rise to the leaderless empire. However, Letholdus thought that perhaps if he were to take the throne, then everything would go back to the way it was. Thus, he decided to take the throne as his own. Since there was no one to oppose his rule, everyone decided to let him become king. Letholdus strengthened his kingdom,&nbsp;formed a&nbsp;large and resilient army, and&nbsp;expanded its territories. He was one of the kingdom's greatest kings. However, as time progressed, corruption took hold of him and he became greedy. He took what he wanted, he stopped caring for peasants and increased taxes, and hanged all who stoodagainst him. He swiftly took over all of the neighboring kingdoms and slaughtered many innocent people in his pursuit for gold. Economy&nbsp;declined and people fell into poverty. The people who could not pay the taxes would be imprisoned or hanged. After one of his many conquests, an oracle went up to him. She told him that he would be one of the worlds greatest rulers and that all would fear him, but that when he meets his downfall, his name would be wiped from history in order to be forgotten. That no one would ever remember his name, that everything he did would be undone. Letholdus was stubborn, though, and killed the oracle. He continued his tyrannical rule until his demise by the hands of his most loyal advisors and the omen became true.

FOR MUTUAL REASONS, equality maybe, fairness, Murray Webster knew; because he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively or part contained in them metallic streetholes peering into life’s flit and filtering shadows for tangled up glimpses of the wonder; the classic author live and in living colour.

Murray Webster could not resist them looks in crowds. So, collectively and separately, he could not be not too involved either; then maybe telling himself things in great words, etching scenes no one will ever be able to read, the great Murray Webster, the phenomenal standing soul figured with this fascinating understanding of his place amongst the herd or crowd, party… knEw exactly how to act and what to say, and how to exactly fissure the way he was perceived within attitude and form and presence of whomever surrounded; to be that person everyone expected, such as one creatively writ to be, but no one, in truth, intends to be. That! my friends, made him one really sweet dude going, “this dude, I swear this is one really sweet dude I tell you.”.

And, living people, I have survived using this just the same as from one to the next in short sips; while at other times actually moving universes and feeding off incomes and such, or blooming from there with slight sustenance but never thriving; eating away and developing nothing. Beyond the very wearing of my frail frame, I have been using their info to pass it off as my own and like a balloon or beach ball in a crowd at a stadium; like that, I have moved impressions of things to be my very own thoughts.

And so, so our story attains the eye-to-eye popping inaudible conversations (the immediate close ones) just as Pakmer placed, just in a crowd; on that emotion of fair levels, which innately are impossible with floods of everyone peeped like everyone knows it, but we acknowledge it and no one even attempts to talk in that place; like the rest of this story and thee overwhelming commonality ….

In the scene of this perfect self-confidence, where Murray went unto me, “can you believe that,” Murray Webster asked—“believe what?” I returned—“that Pakmer. That is one sweet dude I tell you. Mmmaybe the sweetest dude in the room. I mean how cool would it be to be Pakmer Theromstadte!? All huge, dude like that all inescapably awesome -and you know he knows; just look at him,” yet never revealing or telling, or making-believe Pakmer was this composed genuinely Murray Webster exclaim roughly to me about this, and about us, “-we, we being these incredible writer types, we could unstoppably, unpredictably charm, steal females by embracing soft jaw corners with our mitts and just smile them to their knees; ...if weee looked like that dude..”

Phew! And so, around him become this contagious need to not talk with anyone about just how kept, almost reposing in this magnificent sculpt Pakmer was. Certainly ‘Spence’ to everyone who could get him to recognize them. His boyish neck all shoulders in curved portions detailed so the lumped hemp necklace made me realize why girls wrapped around themselves atop his build, with flits here and there as if admiring in some statuesque figuring the dreams, oh heavens the dreams; and his jeans had v-cuts at the bottoms, flared, draped, fine casual expensive and smooth; while I had sneakers and Murray Webster had Adidas and salvation army Dickies drooped, shorts underneath we see the waistbands of when he wrestles someone like DJ or Todd later in the wasted morning hours. Spence had boy curls, browns, hat smashed depth his face and pretense so perfected, so intelligently attracted, so empowered, and so overcome the searches for laudable reactions ….

Murray Webster’ admiration went further into the night with nearly no one left, “man, oh man we are gonna hit Taco Hell,” and kept lingering looks around for somewhere just…. Just phenomenal….

In these small subcity streetholes Murray Webster really look forward in serious talks to Pakmer about underneath all the spoiling mesh and blend of more brilliance than we merely, emphatically understood, that is to say, “yeah I hope we see them moiling strains,” Murray Webster exclaims. And Pakmer come morphing and judgments instantly vanished as we climbed into this car, and Pakmer goes, “Mowee -is a lot of ga-age,” in such drastic mumbles and incomprehensible crawls in the back smashes all over the matter with those nice shoes, and down into the passenger floor mess, rustled the piles, then closes the door waiting for the echo, or maybe I was just me; to speak again, and speaks up again, and changes the subjects kind of engrossed, “ew got vose apes Vebtrr,” whereas Murray Webster holds before his eyes so clear and so almost snuck then out of that floor where Spence could not hear him sneak and from somewhere in the whole mess of cigarette packs and empty cassette cases, mail, things, fast food wads, bags, cellophanes, gumwrappers and crinkling candy wrappers, beer cans warped and some unopened climbs in the back, through shoes,,socks, clothes flings the middle armrest compartment wherein he grabs music cassettes, blank tapes so mostly quiet that though obliterated high tones of it, like music, to Pakmer, moves round over the lost emphatic scrunches of singing lip synchs just shoved in the straight kind of skeptical actions hardly experienced and those two connect on some deeper level than the group in there..

In the universal viewport we’ll only imagine from afar, and around the street-wires, signs, and empty middle night’s stuttering stops from the book of Murray Webster sunk deep into them streetlight holes the cruising welded miracles with powerful visual understanding of the whole almost startling from my silences like they forgot in there and slip through the highway backroots lurking…

We cannot tell you what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte. But this certainly approachable, glitters upon apraxia, filtering in the shadows tangled up glimpses he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively in or as part as if contained in them metallic streetholes in rationale and demeanor; by some divine quietude; instantly snuck inside my visuals and dreams talking to me close in my own admiring of this outrageous life. But that which I did not want to…and that was to reproach him; for fear of being humiliated but only unto myself; a sort selfless depression; so ignored the chaos, the pressure, the dismal red-eye everywhere that lingered inside the great big mind, some panic that wherever we were and whatever we were doing was right and something great, big, a damn confusion yea like that it went…. Like: We are the afterlife. The future was formulating from some late night courage as Murray Webster steering, wheeled all angled at the moon, hand gripped around the steering wheel, cocked, angled, always at the moon….I swear….and the thing would go straight down the road.

……Oh who would not want to be a writer like Murray Webster, in his hoodies in the middle of such cold Northwest Ohio winters. Murray, who told him, told Spenceer, “sure, man, wh—wait a minute though” and hung us and my readers from this indifferent time unto when we finally found out what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte.

Pakmer Theromstadte indifferently posed himself just how clever and impressive the guy truly is; to be so unsociable and bold, conceited; then I find Murray Webster telling him how much he was awaiting his response, after whatever it could be, Murray Webster just carrying on like he was anyone or like he was everyone, and the way Murray Webster always talks ultimate, the most prevailing, influential, extraordinary, quarreless reasoning with whomever, but ever taking to asking the statue, the David, to comes to life and stared at him uncomfortably as he shunned gullible innocent incredible astral gray gorgeous eyes and seemed more fragile and delicate than the thin air under which his grand sound was accustomed to hearing, that manhood disaster I thought for a second, stutters thickly tongued from those ears protruded with such a wondrous extension of shined looks, penetrated further within Pakmer Theromstadte than he could listen to. And Murray Webster turn to me just annihilated by such substance as if had read Macbeth, “see, I told you he was the sweetest dude.”

Ridiculously trying to make me curl knowing full well what I was thinking and assuming about Pakmer Theromstadte, since Murray Webster would later confess amazingly without my mentioning or maybe I did and he just agreed after I had told him about the impression I had about maybe that I can’t even imagine his curiosity to even listen but just the same unresponsiveness, content Murray Webster’s tapes broke loose in the airwaves of his vehicle and further our souls awaited ever the chance expelling from the way that understanding of the guys’ tremendous distraction coolly downward swirl as FADETOBLACK within vulnerable doubts began to push on me back inside wonder about that sparkling night and things I told to people, mmgeeky daisy, things, flabbergasted things there in the party setting in the sidestreet holes the streetlight holes a quiet underneath moonfilled trees and star scatters around an area where vacant sweepswirl roads kind of slip, shortcut through or something like a wrong turn down enterprise lane or business expressway where the workers used to cross in my youth but uplift, bend, zoom us under the highway overpass, pillared viaduct, underneath the bridge come across ramps disappearing onto the highway or turned, dropped off slow reality juxtaposed with acceleration around down down down this intersection splitting ramps up around them corners the light waits for, catches, consumes Time and us and so Murray Webster goes, “So Spence?” And and oh man and he goes, “Metallica..” clear as fuckin crystal I swear to heaven..And made the ride-along in the car that night cross the highway by fate in a kind of symbol of the broken tragic life when it gets caste to heal, instead of letting the nature devour the end of living there; and instead we hang on and alter now every organism so immensely appealing, inside compacted sidestreet holes and tiny front yards unearthing things to hide in the gaps of trucks and cars and the obstacles; and that merges, allows acceleration before squeezing full all vibrating some high pitched accumulation so Pakmer’s swaying feelings for it—drums double pound the blank lulls then come back a second time inevitably building again, whining magnificent the windows of midnight homes resonantly ignited along the ineffable city edges up grassy hillsides of the highway —right in there like they might have heard…

But alas the thing goes full throttle into the climax into the oblivion, into the soul, into the smacking and from those guitars, in the backgrounds in the twists of the drums and the paralleling feels out of steam pulsating magnificent writing you cant keep up with, writing or living you just fall flat and let take hold…..

In so many ways, a part, the immediate placement in the epoch thought of the insignificance chills and frisson rifts… See, Murray Webster, who had a car like that, but this one dude, gave a light peered green from in front where the radio buttons once were, and the passenger window had to be messed with just right to get up, rollup…… and nonetheless managed to carry everyone like that; and you could not tell anyone anything different; and that’s why so many ended crashing at his house or coming over and just hanging there all night, awaiting that dream and those snow covered streetless dark holes that made it all the way through, with stocking caps on and hoodies (cuz writers do not wear jackets anymore) of freezing uncontrollably; blank travels; yet with the character unbelievable… Murray Webster, who found out what music sounds like to a deaf kid..Murray Webster, who would take everyone to the moon someday.. Murray Webster iii - ready to take over the world

Bogus beast, demons unleashed

dark depths of netherworld explored

deplored, abhorred, waterboard

He rules the realm as he sits at the helm

Beware Americans, hold on for sanity's sake,

kiss the ass of our newly crowned sheik -

pretend you don't know what's at stake.

Not one of us escapes alive to survive,

to strive, to thrive, to connive, to arrive.

Predator King Trump lies as America dies

but he'll never waver in your favor,

slicks his hair to transform, perform, reform

into phantom of urban legends on history page

stands on center stage, traps us in a cage!

History grovels on its knees if you please,

blood shot eyes kick and scream with his dream

as he watches blood being shed, torture he says, okay!

Unwind, rewind, remind of blasphemy of kings,

catastrophe, politics and greed, planting the seed, 

flailing nations's needs at full speed as we plead.

Curse the stench, breathe fresh air but don't despair

as American souls are sold in cold moves so bold

for fame and wealth and hidden stealth.

Don't interrupt with profane streams of dreams

clean your side of the street, he demeans.

Lullaby of death to humanity plays

as bricks are layered on wall, that's all.

Pacing man, stirring frenzy in air, doesn't care,

cut's off health care except for himself,

stays privileged on his own gilded shelf.

Cavalierly gives go ahead on pipeline

the Hell with Indian spirits so fine.

No funds for planned parenthood

forget birth control, have babies, babies, babies

but don't fund their cost, forget the loss.

Don't let anyone into our fair country

unless they think and look like Trump

a red-haired jackal of all trades, but

master of none, not even one!

Tax, tax, tax the middle class

Trump doesn't pay taxes at all

It's not fair but what does he care?

Trumpty Dumpty sits astride his wall

The bigger he is, the harder he'll fall!

But who will save America after all?

They were dancing,

In a galaxy,

And he was glancing,

Just at her.

Among all the stars,

He would only see,

Her smile so bright,

His heart would stir.

She watched the constellations,

Eyes glinting blindingly,

And the whole time,

His gaze would only linger.

She thought it all so magical,

Laughed dazzlingly,

Didn't know he saw the universe,

Reflected just in her. 

At her touch his heart would thump,

So violently,

He'd swoon when she asked,

To dance once more.

And through the stars,

He'd twirl her repeatedly,

Amazed at how his special star,

Remained still so obscure.

She was all his galaxies,

His memories,

His fantasies,

And more.

If you can hear me, please listen intently.

I plea to you, in worry.

A child of mine, a young woman now,

has ventured into your fury.

I feel that I have taught her well,

and prepared her for all your glory,

Yet, I fear your peace and tolerance,

Is most often transitory.

Be gentle with your consequences

Have mercy if she blunders.

Be heedful with your hurdles,

and generous with your wonders.

For all her life, I have guided her,

Protected her when I could.

allowing for hard lessons learned,

Prepared her as I should.

My realized heart is swollen,

and I surrender her with pride.

Yet I can’t help but fret,

with her no longer by my side.

So, again I will implore you,

As you take on your surrogacy,

Inspire, challenge and cradle her,

Until she comes home to me.