The Barren Baroness
Jaded was the Baroness whose fingers were too preoccupied with jewelled rings to knit, lips were too sour to read, eyes too narrowed by hatred to appreciate, and heart too frozen with her barren misfortune to love. For Fate, which is not without humour, saw fit that a woman who seemed to have such power over everyone else, should be punished with a powerless debility over herself. Yet, Fate is not entirely unkind to those who are wanting and one day placed at her disposal a delicate, orphaned changeling by the name of Lenora. Though Lenora tried to complete her duties with a grateful dedication, her insatiable appetite for satisfying the rumblings in her tummy left her passionless for everything else, and she approached reality with the nonchalance of a man on his deathbed being told that in 2.8 billion years the sun might explode. Though the Baroness was often preoccupied with the injustice of her inability to rear children, she was not ignorant of Lenora's ineptitude and derived pleasure from the censure of Lenora's unfortunate failures. On this day, like many days, the disturbance of peace began with a task:
"Lenora!" barked the Baroness, "Go order my car to be ready."
"I have mistress. It..." Lenora bit her lip and thought for a moment, "it doesn't want to be," she finished.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I went down to the Great Beastie and announced that mistress ordered him to be ready but budge he did not. So, I poked his eye, kicked his wheel, spanked his behind - "
"MERCY!" wailed the Baroness. "Satan is upon me! Why is the Lord always out of the way when he is most needed?" demanded the Baroness at the ceiling. "You!" cried the Baroness pointing her walking stick accusingly at Lenora as though she was the cause of the Lord's detainment, "What province breeded you?" Lenora folded her hands and merely blinked. "OH! Wretched! Wretched!" cried the Baroness thrashing her walking stick so close to Lenora's head that Lenora dived behind a divan. "Whatever bore you should have its head on a platter!" snapped the Baroness and began wailing and pounding her stick with such force that the once lifeless chandelier above her head began to tremble violently. Lenora, who had clasped her hands over her eyes in hopes that what she could not see wouldn't hurt her, suddenly bolted upright at the mention of "bore" and "platter." Her eyes ogled hungrily as she professed with desirous earnest, "I do like boars head on a platter."
"Hmph!" returned the Baroness. "And none you shall have. Be out of my sight or I will find a fat man to squash you. And I shall watch him." The Baroness flopped onto the divan with a deliciously evil grin. "Ho! Yes, I shall! And what a gloooorious symphony I will compose!" she remarked as she fixed a piercing glare at the small victim in front of her, and spat, "To the rhythm of your bones crunching!"
Lenora nodded contentedly when she heard "bones crunching" and scurried off to the kitchen in pursuit of a pig to slaughter and a platter to put his head on.
Falling at the Hands of Time
O'er the vim of murder's delight
sound forth an army of decay
and ye shall know the flesh's plight
through the dust and ashes of yesterday.
All that begins and ends with one portal
falls as the pendulum swings the hour
dimeth the voices of every mortal
as time strikes the axe and sounds his power.
Rise the mist and unveil stoned trophies
inscribed with a threnody of immortal lies
while time wrings his hands greedily at pleas
and calls his mischief corporal suicide.
Squash is not a flat sport unless you're playing with a wall in which case the element of joy is getting back exactly what you give...except if someone decides to join you. *sigh* Joan decided to make Smee the indirect object of her dissatisfaction (Joan's so full of...prunes).
Mr. Freezy hasn't entirely come to call, but:
Random rotunded girl (merrily): "WHOA! The WIND is ON ME!!!"
Joan grunts: "Someone needs to tell her to shut up in case something blows into her mouth."
Joan grunts (much later. Armed with my scarf): "Laaannaaa...let's go fly a kite (whack, whack)...this is good exersize...(whack) let's see if I can hit her head."
(Joan proceeds to snake scarf around my throat)
Smee (joyfully): "You're going to strangle her."
Joan (evilly): "Scarf burn!"
(Lana exits. Her obligation to her sanity precedes her moral responsibility)
| A moth is not attracted to the brightness of a burning flame, but to the darkness behind it. Those who speak deeply have already begun to bury their minds in a grave as one who gazes behind a circle of burning fagots into a pit of doom. I shrink from those who see me in my full potential. How we wither the wings of youth, how we burn them to ashes, in order to bind our feet to a frigate of possibility. It is a freedom only by limitation as one free to venture onto the boundless sea, but only in a boarded, enclosed vesicle. A suicide is not committed to end a life - it is committed in order to enter the world beyond life without the pain of waiting. Laws enforce the logic of humanity: what is idolized, logically, stems from that which is advertised. But, in this world, logic does not always have a heart. While a philosopher may comment and critique the tree of civilization, it is the tree that bears fruit. He who gives can also take away. And we may stop barking up a tree, but it is not because it is dead; it is because it is too hard to get the bark on. When we are not finding meaning in the world, we are escaping it...escaping into darkness...entering into the instinctual suicide ignited by the absence of light. This the flame of our world, this is His might.