By Matthew solem
The Tiny Tyrant
Short Story
King Reginald III is confident, cunning, and utterly convinced of his own royal greatness. He rules his small kingdom with passionate intensity, outmaneuvering his stubborn chef and treasonous worker at every turn. Told entirely from Reginald’s self-important perspective, this warm and witty fable captures the hilarious gap between how we see ourselves and how the world actually sees us.
A Rich Fable
King Reginald III has a kingdom to run. It is not easy work. His chef ignores his breakfast preferences, his worker meddles in royal decisions, and the park remains a place of dangerous political tension after a necessary incident involving a duke and a sand excavator. Still, Reginald meets every challenge with the confidence of a ruler who has never once questioned his own judgment.
His tools are many: fists against the table, pleading eyes deployed with surgical precision, and a royal scream capable of bending even the most stubborn subject to his will. He knows the weaknesses of his staff, he knows how to play them against each other, and he knows that persistence wins every battle. What he does not know, and cannot see, is something the reader will spot immediately.
A short, sharp, and deeply funny fable for anyone who has ever lived with a tiny ruler or answered to one, “The Tiny Tyrant” delivers its comedy through a perfectly maintained royal voice and one perfectly landed punchline of a premise. Read it in a single sitting. Think about it all day.
Reading Sample
King Reginald III awoke with a wide stretch and an exasperated sigh. He put on his favorite robe and waddled toward the door. There will be no royal bath today, he proudly thought.
Glancing out the window in the hall, King Reginald could tell it was going to be a good day. It always was when you were king.
The walk down the hall to the stairs was short, but the massive staircase took time and care for King Reginald to descend. That always was a chore, but worth it. For at the bottom of the stairs was where breakfast was served.
As he made his way into the kitchen to inspect the morning’s offerings, he heard the familiar voice of his head chef greet him. “Good morning Regi. Did you sleep well?”
Always the same question. Reginald simply gave a tired nod and threw himself onto his seat at the kitchen table.
After a moment, he noticed the fair offerings of the head chef were not to his liking. He knew he had told the chef previously of his preferences, so this error would require a serious response. “I don’t want fruit!” King Reginald pouted. “I want pancakes!” He pounded his fists on the table, clearly emphasizing his point to prevent any confusion.
The head chef turned away from preparing the fruit, a concerned expression on her face. “Oh, Regi, you had pancakes yesterday. Some fruit will be good for you.”
The woman truly was dull. What could it possibly take to make her understand his desires? Naturally, he would have to speak to her in the only way she seemed to understand. “Pancakes!!!” he screamed, pounding his fists even harder.
The chef raised her arms, walking toward her king as one would approach a rabid animal. “We can have pancakes again,” she stammered, caressing his royal head. “Just calm down, ok?”
King Reginald ceased his table pounding and quieted his royal voice, letting his face slip into a smile. “Yay!” he cheered, giggling. Screaming and pounding one’s fists was certainly an unseemly method of communication for one so royal, but Reginald could not argue with its effectiveness with his subjects. Truly, they made him do it.