1)

He sauntered into the bar. Nobody made a move. It had been a long weary ride and most of his crew had died of hunger somewhere along the way. He took off his hat and set it on a table, throwing himself into a nearby chair. He rubbed the sweat off his forehead with an old hanky, making a streak where the dirt had been. There were other streaks too, like rips in his cheeks, probably tears caused by eyes shut tight against the battering wind. Though some may have suspected the tear trails had been in memory of fallen comrades, to suggest such would have meant a bullet in the chest.

The bartender thudded down a glass of milk and nudged the plate of baked goods in the middle of the table just a little closer.

He took the last cupcake.

No one blamed him after the long fierce ride.

2)

He had watched her baking them, mouth watering in anticipation. It was almost too much to bear. But bear it he had, for so many long hours, the decorating, the finishing touches, for she was an artist and would have no less. Then she had placed them high in the window, such a magnificent display. Still he held his tongue, still he quietly hid. Then they had sold. How quickly they had sold! Everything in him strained to break free from his hiding place, but he stayed strong. Then, at the very end of the day, she closed up shop, and walked home. The lights were off, the floor was swept, but the tantalizing smell still engulfed him.

He walked towards the table, looking all about him, breathing deeply to calm his quickened pulse.

He took the last cupcake, then unlocked the door and walked out into the dark and empty street. She would never know.

3)

The floor was polished so finely she could see her reflection as clear as in a mirror. The silverware was laid out, and a place of honour was decoratively furnished. The little they had was laid out on the table. The king noticed none of these things when his entourage so carelessly burst through the front door.

“It would honour us if you considered our home worthy enough to take a small rest from your travels here, my Lord,” said her father, nearly prostrate from his crooked bow.

The king walked around the table and peered into the modest bedroom, then ran his finger along their only shelf as though searching for dust. “No.” He looked up sneering, I’m afraid not even my servants could rest a wink for all the fleas.

Walking past the table towards the door, he took the last cupcake and munched it carelessly.

She hated him then.