Teardrop Wine - Flash Fiction Story by Kelly Moyer

 

Teardrop Wine

Flash Fiction Story

by Kelly Moyer

 

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a king whose daughter was very sad and lonely. She hadn’t always felt this way. Before her kitten, Mandu, was hit by a runaway buggy, she was full of song and smiles. Her eyes twinkled from the moment of waking until she closed them for the night.

Yet, with the passing of Mandu, she lost her best friend and had no one to know her heart the way it needed to be known. She kept all of her dreams, her fanciful ideas and boundless wonder to herself. By the time she reached the tender age of five, her light had begun to dim. The glow left the peach of her complexion and an emptiness filled her gaze as her once plump cheeks grew hollow.

On the cusp of her sixth birthday, the king put out a call to all the land, challenging vintners from far and wide to make the most exquisite wine from his daughter’s salty tears. Whoever could produce an elixir that would return the smile to her lips and the sparkle to her eye could have her hand in marriage on her sixteenth birthday.

Over the decade that followed, the king’s daughter grew ever more sullen. She stopped writing poetry by the age of nine, abandoned her embroidery before she turned twelve and ceased making music shortly thereafter. In adolescence, while the other girls were attending balls and showing off their finery, the king’s daughter became utterly mute and seldom left her room, where she cried tears into buckets from which the king hoped a fresh start could be made.

With the arrival of her sixteenth birthday came the telling of her destiny. Were no one able to craft a wine to her liking, the king knew she would likely end her life, a loss that would certainly end his own as well. However, were there a man with the sensitivity and a capacity for artistry that could put the taste of possibility back onto his daughter’s tongue, perhaps she could begin anew with someone special by her side.

The king’s subjects from all across the land gathered on this day at the steps to the palace. Many had travelled miles. Some had spent their last penny to make the trip, for were the king and his daughter to end their lives, the neighbouring rulers would surely claim the homeland as their own.

In the waning hours of the afternoon, the king emerged with his daughter, feeble by his side. Though trumpets blew a fanfare, the atmosphere surrounding the palace remained tense and eerily subdued.

“Who has crafted an exemplary wine from my daughter’s tears?” the king asked of the crowd.

Three men stepped forward, each with a solitary bottle in his hands.

“And who shall present his wine to my daughter first?”

“I shall!” exclaimed the first vintner. “I am Paulo of Marsuvia. Please drink, Princess.”

The king poured a sip of the wine into his daughter’s goblet. “Tell me, Master Vintner. How was this wine made?”

“I swirled your daughter’s tears with finery, Sire. Gold threads and the dust of diamonds.”

The king’s daughter took a sip and swallowed with exaggerated effort.

“I do not like this wine, Father.”

Rage filled the gentle king’s countenance. “To the gallows!” he bellowed. “Who shall present his wine to my daughter next?”

“I shall!” exclaimed the second vintner. “I am Marjaun of Cantonia. Please drink, Princess.”

The king poured a sip of the wine into his daughter’s goblet. “Tell me, Master Vintner. How was this wine made?”

“I mixed your daughter’s tears with the scruff of my beard and the prolific spurt of my seed, for a woman wants nothing more than the essence of a strong man.”

The king’s daughter took a sip and spat.

“I abhor this wine, Father.”

The king shook with a ferocious rage that had never before been seen in the land. “Off with his head!” he bellowed. “Who shall be the last to present his wine to my daughter?”

“I shall,” spoke the third and final vintner. “I am a simple man, who wants only to see your daughter happy.”

The king poured a sip of the wine into his daughter’s goblet. “Tell me, Master Vintner. How was this wine made?”

“I am a master of nothing, Sire. Not even of myself. Yet, I have taken time to infuse your daughter’s tears with that which she most treasures:  stardust, scraps of verse, the frayed ends of embroidery thread, crescendos and diminuendos as well as the whisker of a kitten.”

The king’s daughter took a sip and held still for a long moment before she began to cry—tears of joy.

The crowd gathered around the palace cheered, shedding joyful tears of their own.

“You, Good Sir, may have the hand of my daughter in marriage,” the king announced.

“With all due respect, Sire. May I ask your daughter if this is her wish as well?”

“Be my guest.”

“Dearest Princess, is it your desire to take me as your husband?”

“It is,” the Princess whispered without a moment’s hesitation.

“And so it shall be!” the king exclaimed. “Tonight, we shall gather to affirm the union of this man and my beloved daughter.”

The king’s daughter requested a simple ceremony, performed in hushed tones before the citizenry. And just as the celebration commenced, she and her husband slipped away to begin their life. Together.

Kelly Moyer is an award-winning poet and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter. When not writing or weaving, she is likely to be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her partner and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, was recently released by Nun Prophet Press.