Sherry Morris
Once upon a time there was a king eager to retire. He was a decent-enough king—he kept the peace, ruled with a fairly even hand, and only slightly overtaxed his subjects. But, like many kings, he held a rather inflexible attitude towards women and possessed a distinct lack of taste. Still, he wanted to be liked and each year hosted a picnic for his subjects within his vast castle grounds where he served mounds of Spam and cucumber sandwiches alongside glasses of sweet lemonade. Nobody much liked those soggy, cold pink-meat sandwiches but, equally, nobody wanted to stick their neck out and complain.
After nearly fifty years on the throne, the day-to-day tasks of ruling bored the king. Truth be told, he wanted more time to play more golf—his green-lawned, sand-duned kingdom was renowned for its outstanding courses.
Protocol dictated the crown pass to a male heir and the king had three sons. So far, so good. But none of the king’s sons had an air of authority or demonstrated a crumb of leadership ability. If only his wife were still around to advise him. Some days he truly regretted banishing her. She’d forced his hand years ago by insisting on co-ruling credit. Perhaps in private he could admit producing heirs, looking pretty and balcony-waving were super-dull activities. But these were royal wife duties. He didn’t make the rules. Although, of course, he did—as his wife had repeatedly pointed out to him much to his irritation.
The king sighed—everyone thought his life was just one big Spam picnic. Change was hard. Banishment sooooooooo easy. To make matters worse, his wife had taken their clever young daughter with her. The child had shown such promise. No doubtshe could have assisted one of her brothers in ruling discreetly from the sidelines—uncredited of course. The king missed them both deeply, especially his wife—and not just on cold nights.
The king shook his head. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. He needed to figure out his present predicament and replacement. He didn’t want to be bothered with how-to-rule questions or have to fix f*ck-ups from the golf course, and turned to the timeworn tradition of A Questto determine which son to crown to ensure he could golf in peace. Satisfied with his decision, he hit the fairway and achieved his personal best: two over par—once one hundred and eighteen strokes were banished.
The next morning, the king gathered his sons: Curly, Moe and Darrell.
“The time has come for me to step down,” he said. “And pass the crown to one of you. To decide who, go and find a wife. One who understands her place, demonstrates good judgement and vows to discreetly help you in your role. Present her before me and I will choose who’ll wear the crown.”
All three sons scratched their heads, confused. It sounded like they were being given a task—and even they knew tasks were for staff to complete.
“There are three rules,” the king continued. “You must travel beyond our kingdom to obtain your bride. You cannot reveal you are a prince. And you must find your future wife inside a castle that represents you. Now go. Cook has provided plenty of Spam and cucumber sandwiches to sustain you for your journeys. For like a good golf swing, finding a suitable woman to be a good wife takes time… and considerable work.”
The sons set off, separately, but altogether perplexed how to find castles and suitable wives. As the king watched them go, he hoped this quest wouldn’t tax his sons too much—never considering the actual taxpayer’s burden.
***
Bald-headed Curly was a natural beach bum, a Dude who dreamed of surfing and bagging giggling Baywatch babes. His simple brain made a simple plan: beach, bucket, spade. After ten minutes of effort at the nearest beach beyond the kingdom’s border, he congratulated himself on his rudimentary row of sandcastles that would entice his perfect wife. Before he could get comfortable with a cold brewski, a squad of bikini-clad beauties ran towards him. He clapped his hands and whistled in delight. Wondered how he’d choose just one—perhaps they’d wrestle for the honour to be his bride.
But these women were professional volleyball players, unimpressed that Curly had invaded their court. They kicked his pathetic sandcastles to smithereens and when ordered to stop, buried Curly up to his neck in the sand. When the tide came in, Curly was washed out to sea and never heard from again.
Moe was a Good-Time Guy. His perfect bride was bound to be inside a party palace. He typed those words into his phone and let Google lead the way. His eyes lit up when he spied an inflatable castle tethered to a park lawn in a quaint town holding its annual summer picnic.Kicking off his shoes, he bounded inside—and found it full of shouty, rowdy children. These noisy nuisances wouldn’t do! Moe began flinging children from the castle to make room for all the single ladies who’d rush to join him inside. Instead, hordes of angry mothers appeared, outraged that their now-mewling offspring had been manhandled by Moe. Their fury, ire and curses filled the air, created a whirling twister of wrath.
“Good riddance, you kiddie creep,” the mothers shouted, untethering Moe’s castle and making rude hand gestures as their tornado-rage whisked him up and away, far out of sight. He, too, was never heard from again.
This left Darrell. He had the most sense of the king’s three sons, but rarely spoke up. Before departing, he looked at a map and reasoned a good-hearted woman with sound judgement could most likely be found in a place called The Heartland. On a grey Palomino called Percy, Darrell journeyed many days and nights through barren flatlands without a castle in sight. One bleak night, weary, saddle-sore, sad and super-sick of Spam and cucumber sandwiches, he considered giving up. Wondered what would happen if he telephoned his father and said he didn’t want a wife.
Then moonlight broke through the clouds. A pentagon-shaped sign illuminated the black sky. Dark blue letters on a clean white background proclaimed White Castle. Darrell blinked in wonderment at the words. Stared at the miniature blue-and-yellow castle that crowned the words. Could there really be a castle here? Below the sign, a second message board announced in capital letters: WE’RE HIRING!
Darrell went to the sign. Arrived at a parking lot where a small squat building with tacked on faux towers, battlements and turrets stood. The smell of frying meat and grilling onions tantalised Darrell. He threw his soggy Spam sandwiches in a trash can and ventured inside.
When Darrell clapped eyes on owner-manager Noreen, he gasped. She was so efficient! She managed serving crews at both the busy drive-thru and counter, as well as the grill team in the back. She was smart, sassy, and in her sky-blue White Castle t-shirt, baseball cap and name tag, she was… well… not sexy, more regal.
All around Darrell, people ordered ten to twelve White Castle mini-burgers in one go. Sliders they called them, though some said Belly Bombers. Darrell stared at these Cupcake-sized meat squares, served with nothing but a fluffy bun and delicious grilled onions. Business was absolutely booming. Darrell watched in amazement as all around him people gobbled down these mini-burgers and went back for more.
Then Darrell saw a dark-haired blue-eyed Adonis behind the grill. He stood mesmerised as Gorgeous Grill Guy flipped twenty mini-burgers all in one go, looked Darrell right in the eye and winked.
Darrell’s heart responded with its own flip-flop. His brain whirred. His mouth watered as the scent of frying onions filled the air. He wanted to do more than share a row of sliders with Gorgeous Grill Guy. He wanted to make the Heartland his home.
His eyes flicked back to Noreen. He saw his father’s eyes, his own Roman nose. His whole face lit up.
“Can I take your order?” she asked. But Darrell knew she was born to give, not receive orders.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he began and smiled as recognition spread across her face. “How’d you like to manage a bigger place…?”
***
Down the phone line, Darrell stood firm with the king.
“Dad, if you want to retire, you’re gonna need to ditch this whole ‘Patriarchy rules’ thing. I told you I’m not interested in being king. I relinquish my right to the throne. Word has gone ’round I’m the only son left. Pass the crown to Noreen. She deserves to govern as our queen.”
It was all a bit much for the king.
“But what about protocol? Tradition? Our ‘Men Rule!’ motto?” he wailed.
“Times change,” Darrell said. “Update your attitude. And your picnic food. You need to ditch those awful Spam sandwiches—no one likes them. Noreen will introduce something new.”
At the sound of uncontrollable sobbing down the line, Darrell softened.
“Dad… listen… Mom’s here’s too. She’s a retired professional golf coachwork and has worked for decades with all the pros. She might consider coming out of retirement, for the right guy with modern views… and a less chauvinistic attitude.”
And in a flash of clarity, the king saw how he could have his best happily-ever-after life, retired and carefree, with his clever daughter and beloved wife by his side, AND improve his golf swing.
“In that case,” he said, “Hell, yeah! Topple the patriarchy!”
Originally from Missouri, Sherry Morris writes prize-winning fiction from a farm in the Scottish Highlands where she pets cows, watches clouds and dabbles in photography. She presents Sherry’s Shorts, an online show featuring short fiction on Highland Hospital Radio. Her stories often stem from her time in 1990s Ukraine. She received a 2025 Best of the Net nomination from Fictive Dream for “The Cabbage Tree.” Visit www.uksherka.com for her stories. X: @Uksherka Bluesky: @uksherka.bsky.social
Featured photo by Arnaud Vigne (Pexels)
