Tiñ-Ton and The Princess: The Story of a Rat.
One by one, the mouse kept on eating.
Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lived a wealthy King who was deeply loved and respected by his people. His daughter, Princess Stella, was not only beautiful but also an adventurous and intelligent young woman.
The King was keen to find a suitable husband for his daughter but had grown increasingly disappointed with the Prince candidates from neighbouring kingdoms who only seemed interested in his wealth. He decided instead to allow his daughter to choose from three villagers who would cherish and love her just as much as he did.
The Princess selected three contenders for her hand in marriage: Don, the son of a farmer who was skilled at playing the flute and the most handsome of the three; Gerald, the son of a Royal Servant who was the most skilled fighter and trusted soldier of the King with his exceptional sword skills; and Tiñ-Ton, a random person from the crowd who was the least handsome of the three but had a talent for making people laugh with his simple, short, and humorous stories.
The King then set a condition that whoever told him the longest story would win his daughter's hand in marriage. Don started by telling the King a story about planting, harvesting, and cooking crops that lasted for seven hours. Next, Gerald sang songs and told stories of wars and battles he had won, with his story lasting for twelve hours.
Finally, it was Tiñ-Ton's turn. However, after listening to stories for nineteen hours straight, the King was exhausted and allowed Tiñ-Ton to tell his story the following day.
Tiñ-Ton was worried as he had never told a story that lasted more than an hour. He spent the entire night thinking about the stories that had been told and what story he would tell the King that would last longer than Don's or Gerald's.
The next day, Tiñ-Ton stood in front of the King and Princess, knowing it was his only chance to win her heart and hand in marriage. He began his story with a simple tale of a farmer who had a paddy field, planting paddy and harvesting it, and then storing it in a room.
However, when a mouse began to eat the paddy one by one, Tiñ-Ton repeated the phrase "one by one" for an eternity, capturing the attention of the Princess and King.
Tiñ-Ton's voice echoed through the room as he repeated "one by one" for what seemed like an eternity. The Princess and the King looked at each other, wondering if this was all there was to the story.
But Tiñ-Ton continued, his voice now low and menacing, "The farmer tried to catch the mouse, but it was too clever for him. He tried everything he could think of, but the mouse continued to eat the paddy, one by one."
The room was silent as Tiñ-Ton's story continued. He spoke of the farmer's despair as he watched his hard work being destroyed, day by day. He spoke of the mouse's cunning, and how it would hide and wait until the farmer was gone before returning to the paddy field.
"But the farmer was not a quitter," Tiñ-Ton said, his voice growing stronger. "He thought and he thought, and finally he came up with a plan. He would build a trap that the mouse could not escape from."
The King and Princess leaned forward, caught up in the story, as Tiñ-Ton continued to describe the intricate trap that the farmer built. He spoke of the mouse's struggle to escape, and the farmer's triumph as he finally caught it.
"But the story doesn't end there," Tiñ-Ton said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Because when the farmer caught the mouse, he didn't kill it. Instead, he let it go."
The room was silent as Tiñ-Ton let the suspense build. "And do you know why he did that?" he asked, looking directly at the King and Princess. "Because the mouse had taught him a valuable lesson. The farmer realized that he had been so focused on his own success, he had forgotten to appreciate the little things in life. And the mouse, in its own way, had reminded him of that."
Tiñ-Ton finished his story, and the room was filled with applause. The King and Princess were both moved by the story, and the King declared Tiñ-Ton the winner of the contest.
Tiñ-Ton was overjoyed, and the Princess smiled at him warmly. From that day on, they were inseparable, and Tiñ-Ton's stories would continue to make the Princess laugh for many years to come. The end.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Fiction and other communities.
Rage
Content Warning: Domestic Violence, Assault Rage D. A. Ratliff “Who did this?” My voice echoed through the house. All I wanted was a cup of tea, but one of the twins, running through the house like maniacs, knocked it over. My nerves tingled, and every muscle in my body felt coiled like a spring. Survival seemed out of reach.
By D. A. Ratliff6 days ago in Fiction
Until You Understand
You wake somewhere new. No memory of the night before. Light arrives from no visible source and refuses to cast shadows. The walls are pale, unmarked, faintly warm. The room has edges but no corners. Sound travels too cleanly. There is a door behind you. You know this without turning. You turn. The door is sealed. No handle. No seam. Only a rectangle slightly darker than the wall around it. A clock without hands is mounted at eye level. It ticks anyway. In the center of the room is a board set into the floor. Black and white squares. Perfectly even. A chessboard large enough to stand on. There is a desk made of glass along the far wall. On it rests a single sheet of paper. It wants a signature. You do not touch it. A tone sounds. It is calm. The board hums. Pieces rise from the floor. They do not slide into place. They emerge as if the room exhales them. Pawns first. Then rooks. Knights. Bishops. The King. The Queen. They arrange themselves. The tone sounds again. You understand without being told: it is your turn. You hesitate. The clock ticks louder. A sign fades into the wall beside the board. Stand here. Wait your turn. You step onto a white square. The room stills. A pawn moves on its own. The tone sounds. You are expected to respond. You choose a pawn. It is close. It seems harmless. You move it forward one square. The tone stops. The board hums. Nothing else happens. You wait. Another pawn advances. The tone sounds. You move again. The rhythm establishes itself. Tone. Move. Silence. You begin to anticipate. You think one move ahead. Then two. The board allows this. It does not resist. It simply answers. A bishop disappears. Not taken. Gone. You do not notice. Two turns later, a square darkens. The light narrows. The room feels smaller by a margin you cannot measure. You do not connect this to the bishop. The clock ticks. You keep playing. A knight vanishes. The hum deepens. The air grows denser. You adjust. You protect your King. You sacrifice a pawn. You gain space. The Queen is gone. You do not miss it yet. You will later. The board continues. You begin to understand the tones. One is for urgency. One is for error. One is for delay. You learn when to breathe. You learn when to wait. A rook disappears. The wall behind you warms. You turn. The door remains sealed. You play faster. You try to win. The board does not reward this. Three moves later, a row of squares becomes inert. You step onto one by habit. Your foot does not lift. The board holds you in place until the tone releases you. You stop rushing. You begin to watch. You notice that when a piece vanishes, the room changes later. Never immediately. Always delayed. Always proportional. You begin to count. One piece lost: light shifts. Two pieces lost: sound tightens. Three pieces lost: space contracts. The board is not punishing you. It is teaching you scale. You test it. You sacrifice a pawn. Nothing happens. You sacrifice another. The clock ticks louder. You sacrifice a third. The ceiling lowers by a breath. You recover a piece. The ceiling halts. You stop thinking about winning. You start thinking about cost. The board does not care about victory. It cares about consequence. A piece you save now will matter later. A move you make now will close a door you cannot yet see. You play more slowly. You let a knight fall because you understand what it will buy you. The room warms. The ticking softens. You learn that every square is a future. You learn that speed is not control. You learn that reaction is not choice. The tone sounds. You wait. Not because you are told. Because you see the board. You see the path your hand almost took. You see what it would have cost. You choose differently. The room exhales. The clock grows quiet. The door does not open. You are not finished. You make a move you have already lost. You see it this time. You do not take it. The board waits. The room waits. The tone does not sound. You move anyway. Not to escape. Not to win. To accept that every square you touch becomes the world that follows. The door unlocks without a sound.
By Tifani Power 5 days ago in Fiction
Five—One Grounding
Five—Locked in a perpetual battle against my failing senses and reason, I fight to survive, to get through; I am afraid of... nothingandeverythingallatonce—...—my mouth is dry, and my muscles seize up... what can I see? I can see the birdcage and birds; I can see the watercolour my beautiful wife painted many years ago and unlocked her journey into art; I can see the empty mug of tea as it sits perilously on the arm of the sofa; how many is that now? Three down, two to go; I can also see a jackdaw on the roof of our neighbour's house across the road and a bookcase of potential—Five things you can see.
By Paul Stewart7 days ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.