Added£0.99Add to basket(A short story of 4856 words)
Queen of Clubs
Fantasy Fantasy - Speculative
by Allen Ashley
Living alone, currently unemployed, behind with the rent and with only sour milk and mouldy cheese left in the fridge, Henry Merriweather tells himself that “It’s just the usual modern male condition.” Mundane matters don’t concern him greatly because he is on a mission to form a union with his dream woman, the Queen of Clubs. From the standard deck of playing cards. A taut, witty and moving urban fantasy.
Henry Merriweather had been playing Patience for two hours. He shuffled the pack again, flicking the edges of the two stacks and then gradually re-uniting them. It had taken him ages to master this trick. At first he had been all fingers and thumbs but now he was as adept as any croupier.
He was somewhere around thirty; possibly nearing forty. Or maybe he had already crossed even that threshold. It depended on his audience: welfare benefits official, local council departments, potential employer or possible girlfriend.
He was seeking his perfect woman. He assumed that most men were doing the same. Some were seeking a harem.
His desk was the best item of furniture in his bedsit. Henry kept it neat and tidy. There were containers and a wire rack for all the necessaries such as pens, A4 paper, small scissors, large scissors, staples and so forth. A few years ago he’d obtained some home-based, pen and paper work, mostly simple accounts and book-keeping, but even that had dried up of late. The wicker basket by his feet was full of perforated newspaper pages. There were always adverts to reply to, of one sort or another.
He believed he was close to finding his perfect woman. But that was only chapter one. How to encourage and maintain reciprocal feelings in the chosen maid... that would be a much greater undertaking.
*
He awoke early, checked his post for junk mail (four pieces) and job offers, love letters and thousand pound donations from forgotten relatives (zero on all counts). Then he settled back down to a game of Patience. The cards still felt warm, as if they’d retained his life essence and kept it burning through the night like the Olympic torch. There was sour milk and stale cornflakes to consume, otherwise there was nothing to do except shuffle, deal and explore the pack until he could be bothered to go out and pick up a copy of the local weekly advertiser.
Both the computer and the TV were defunct; the corners of the room were either dusty or mouldy. He was a week behind with the rent and if he went out shopping this would drive him further into debt. There hadn’t been anyone serious in his life since Sally. The newspapers were full of child abductions and showbiz titillation. His few books were dog-eared and overly familiar.
“It’s just the usual modern male condition,” he muttered to himself.
Even the playing cards were starting to show signs of wear. He arranged them all face up. The picture cards retained a certain brightness. As a child, he had often passed time arranging them into mismatched royal families and romantic triangles. The Kings were all solid, dependable types with worn faces and grey hair. The Jacks were moustachioed smoothies, lager lads who would inevitably barge you out of the way at a party in order to start chatting up your girlfriend. If you had a girlfriend. If you ever got invited to parties. The Queens, though... Henry supposed their attire was based on Tudor fashion and portraiture. They reminded him of a book he’d read at school about the six legitimate wives of his kingly namesake...
Henry Merriweather had been playing Patience for two hours. He shuffled the pack again, flicking the edges of the two stacks and then gradually re-uniting them. It had taken him ages to master this trick. At first he had been all fingers and thumbs but now he was as adept as any croupier.
He was somewhere around thirty; possibly nearing forty. Or maybe he had already crossed even that threshold. It depended on his audience: welfare benefits official, local council departments, potential employer or possible girlfriend.
He was seeking his perfect woman. He assumed that most men were doing the same. Some were seeking a harem.
His desk was the best item of furniture in his bedsit. Henry kept it neat and tidy. There were containers and a wire rack for all the necessaries such as pens, A4 paper, small scissors, large scissors, staples and so forth. A few years ago he’d obtained some home-based, pen and paper work, mostly simple accounts and book-keeping, but even that had dried up of late. The wicker basket by his feet was full of perforated newspaper pages. There were always adverts to reply to, of one sort or another.
He believed he was close to finding his perfect woman. But that was only chapter one. How to encourage and maintain reciprocal feelings in the chosen maid... that would be a much greater undertaking.
*
He awoke early, checked his post for junk mail (four pieces) and job offers, love letters and thousand pound donations from forgotten relatives (zero on all counts). Then he settled back down to a game of Patience. The cards still felt warm, as if they’d retained his life essence and kept it burning through the night like the Olympic torch. There was sour milk and stale cornflakes to consume, otherwise there was nothing to do except shuffle, deal and explore the pack until he could be bothered to go out and pick up a copy of the local weekly advertiser.
Both the computer and the TV were defunct; the corners of the room were either dusty or mouldy. He was a week behind with the rent and if he went out shopping this would drive him further into debt. There hadn’t been anyone serious in his life since Sally. The newspapers were full of child abductions and showbiz titillation. His few books were dog-eared and overly familiar.
“It’s just the usual modern male condition,” he muttered to himself.
Even the playing cards were starting to show signs of wear. He arranged them all face up. The picture cards retained a certain brightness. As a child, he had often passed time arranging them into mismatched royal families and romantic triangles. The Kings were all solid, dependable types with worn faces and grey hair. The Jacks were moustachioed smoothies, lager lads who would inevitably barge you out of the way at a party in order to start chatting up your girlfriend. If you had a girlfriend. If you ever got invited to parties. The Queens, though... Henry supposed their attire was based on Tudor fashion and portraiture. They reminded him of a book he’d read at school about the six legitimate wives of his kingly namesake...