A slippery boy ran in circles around the king’s cadaver.
Under thunder clouds, where the gulls echo.
His friend yelled ballads from the sidelines.
The rain fell and the mud churned, frothing in puddles.
His Bloated Majesty ballooned and stank,
so inflated, his legs stuck out and pointed at the broken rooftops.
Sweaty men wanted the corpse and stood watching the boy.
He amused them, so arms folded.
The other boy stopped yelling and clasped his hands to his eyes,
starting to count backwards.
Laughter rose up, clear, as the men readied.
Air escaped from the king and his noisy stench blew the boy out of his circle.
The boy kept running.
Over black moss.
Over smashed poultry igloos.
His ankles hurt on the curbs.
He thought about the king’s body and how it was behind him,
threatening to explode.
He must look like how people did when they were running from the bombs.
The sirens sang in from the outskirts,
So he took a different way, and discovered a shopping centre
that still existed.
1: Matches from his pocket.
2: An impromptu trash bag torch
He set the building to burn and ran on.
Chairman Boy sat on the dead king’s cardboard throne,
up near the beams at the back of the dark barn.
The boy ran in and stopped.
The other boys sat in a circle all around him,
“You’re late,” Chairman Boy said, “Where’s my king?”
“The lechers got him, a group of jolly meanies,
They had a giggle and all I could do was leg it.”
Chairman Boy pulled a scrunchie bag from his side,
covered schnoz and gob, and huffed a few,
’til the plastic deflated and the puff died away.
He drooped to one side before lifting a finger and pointing at the boy.
“I couldn’t do nothin’! He was ‘bout ta burst anyway.
It weren’t fair, you sending me to zoom round ‘im.
It’s no protection, I tell ya, though I tried me best.”
The other boys rattled their snuffing bags
and the boy spun around under their gloomy eyes.
“You couldna done no better. It’s trying circumstances.”
Outside, the evening weather got dank.
Some boys lit fat dirty candles and the wicks spat out their flames.
All the hay barrels and box crates stacked to make their meeting room.
Under corroded metal the heady conference began.
Chairman Boy sucked on a glow-in-the-dark oversized dummy.
“Where’s my king?” he cried, creasing his face around vacant pupils.
The boy lifted a scratched CD and checked his face in it.
His welts were growing, looking like caviar.
“How we gonna decide who is next up?” he said.
The boys tossed arguments between them into the night,
sometimes wrestling to settle minor grumbles.
“I got qualms about any of us being King Boy,” the boy said finally.
“None of us in this room is fit,” Chairman Boy said,
freshening from his glue stupor.
“As Chairman, I’m proposing we wait here until our king arrives.
Whoever next walks through the door is coronated His Majesty.”
A hush brushed the snuggly barn, the spittle of candles crackling.
Without any objection or ideas, the boys silently concurred.
Hunkered down in the early hours the boys took their waking dreamtime,
given in sleepy solvent gasps, stained plastic soothing.
One by one the candles faltered.
A gentle light left.
And the bright moonrays broke through radiation clouds,
to enter by door and by window on the waiting.
A scabby little one convulsed on the bare floor between pallet stacks.
“Leave him be,” Chairman Boy said, scraping dribble from his drained lips,
“He’s been wanting to die for ages.”
Strangulated sirens blared far off across the deserted city ruins.
The boys had heard them all their lives but still didn’t know what they were telling.
Or if they were telling or meaning anything at all.
Tiny tottering footsteps arrived at the door, a delicate outline wobbling under the moon.
The boy lifted his head in recognition of the sound.
A pair of rear back legs, the tap tap of hoof on concrete.
“Denise,” he said. He sighed.
All the boys roused and looked, snorted, and laughed.
Denise the two-legged lamb was king.
Chairman Boy stood.
“All hail Denise! Denise! Denise!”
The boys repeated, over each other and woozy:
“Hail, hail! Denise! Denise, Denise!”
The lamb trundled over to the boy and sniffed out his finger.
She’d been allowed life because the boy fed her.
She was his burden.
The boy grabbed a CD from the floor and slit the wound on his thumb with the sharp edge.
With urgent pushing, the lamb sought his digit and suckled her overdue meal.
One of the other boys said, “This ain’t gonna work.”
Chairman Boy lit a candle and stood up straight, wavering.
“The king sucks her advisor.
All hail the king! All hail our advisor!”
REBECCA GRANSDEN lives on an island and writes sometimes. She can be found on Twitter @rlgransden and online occasionally at rebeccagransden.wordpress.com