The metal throne is uncomfortable and damp from morning dew. King Manny shifts first to his left butt cheek, then to the right, but there comes no relief from the cold, hard surface. He surveys his subjects as they go about their day: some look like they’re being pulled by an invisible lead, padding around like terriers following their go-get-em owners out for a morning jog, while others dart around like cheetahs circling water buffalo. They are playing a game; some of his subjects are villains, and some are heroes.
Manny wants to play, but he has to keep watch over his subjects. Being king is lonely, but he knows loneliness and suffering are part of ruling over a land. His job is to stay vigilant and watch for the man with the Red Eyes. Red Eyes doesn’t sleep. Red Eyes doesn’t spare children. Red Eyes doesn’t care whether it’s night or the bright of day.
He pulls out his sketchbook; the cover is worn, but he likes it that way. “Manny,” his mother used to say, “the thing with books is…
