Showing posts with label 3 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 3 words. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Saturday, 30 May 2009
the kind Dragon, the alabaster Tower and the lone Raven
It is a little know fact that Dragons are not malefic. Their breath, licked by flurrying tongues of flame, serves not only the combustion of the flesh, but gives theirs life. Dragon's blood is made of rubies, molten and pushed by their mighty hearts, each beat sending the blaze of life to their very fingertips where it dances round and about, almost leaving their hands as a halo of healing force. If a Dragon surrounds you in his colossal hand, fear nothing, his sweat may burn but not harm, drink up and your sadness shall shatter and, as tiny droplets of mist do, give rise to rainbow.
We've cheated much these gentle creatures, in search of the treasures they keep within and not without, for, contrary to legend, they search no riches for themselves. It is us greedy ghouls who, craving their blood, take up arms against these noble behemoths and leech their sap, plunder their passion, let it run and crystallize into empty, listless stones. So you see, the Basilisk has human form, our so called heroes make up the Medusa, each a serpent grown on the head of covetousness, while our fond villains, unlike Perseus, possess no polished shields, no mirrors. But perhaps one can't deflect this gaze no more, so much amassed urge that it has condensed to two black holes that swallow worlds entire.
You will ask, how can these leviathans fall prey to our puny assails? The reasons are rather simple: Dragons cannot but be kind. The irrational heat within them never turns to inferno, but always tender, rises up to their eyes, making their vision ruddy, wholesome. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Indeed, each flame that leaves their mouth is a piece from the mosaic of their soul that they pledge, pawn even, to invigorate our fading Earth. And though we are to them but mosquitoes, our swords but harmless trunks, it is our poisonous hatred and greed which disease and ravage their bodies for the sake of a few drops of their crystal life.
Sometimes the malady infused fails to harm the heart, even as the collapsing corpse unzips scale by scale, disintegrating into fine dust. Instead the plump, pulsating clot falls and buries itself. In the stead of precious blood, brute earth fills its throbbing core and flows through its atria, as a beggar pilgrimaging through a palace. And with each beat, the soil acquires the redder, crystal aspect of true blood. From the makeshift grave sand, grit and crushed rocks spread as a living desert, devouring our lush envy.
In the midst of one such roseate desert stands a Tower carven from Alabaster. It is said a dying God sculpted it for his bride, tracing its shape with his bare fingers, moulding the stone a caress at a time, scratching skylights and portholes into the translucent stone. As he laboured, tender each touch, he eroded his hands past existence, salving their demise with the sweat and tears he rubbed into the rock.
His stumpy fingers still so dexterous that they fashioned within the spire round rooms amidst an arabesque of corridors, each styled with mural upon mural of myths and legends sculptured in sleep by the mistress living within, each story crowned by 3 words writ in charcoal. At the very pinnacle, within an oval chamber he placed not only the dame's bed but, to her delight, also a replica precise of the very steeple it was housed in. The same chambers and galleries, frescoes and syllables, that very sanctum sheltering the spire, and the same love etched within it as without. A Matryoshka of ivory towers...
By day, 'twas a lighthouse concentrating the light pouring out of the shining hole in the sky, beckoning the nomadic winds whose motions stirred even the sedentary sands. When dark fell, the light trapped in its labyrinth web of stony threads, caged as in diamond, would search out its pores and perspire without.
Some say a Raven, an Icarus of its own kind, would fly too close to the tower on such nights, and clothe itself not merely in the onyx yarns, but taint its darkness in the light lingering within. Or perhaps not tarnish but sharpen the edges of his ebony, reminding him that e'en his eve carries the seed of morn. Ash-Winged Rokh, some call him, or Night's Mirror, or Charred Cherub, or Lone Silverback... Lone because he is the last and first. Lone because he feels not loneliness. Lone because he sees no frontier 'tween self, sand or sky. Lone because his beak spoke too sharply of love. Lone because his true name is Raven, and evermore will be.
You will ask, how can these leviathans fall prey to our puny assails? The reasons are rather simple: Dragons cannot but be kind. The irrational heat within them never turns to inferno, but always tender, rises up to their eyes, making their vision ruddy, wholesome. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Indeed, each flame that leaves their mouth is a piece from the mosaic of their soul that they pledge, pawn even, to invigorate our fading Earth. And though we are to them but mosquitoes, our swords but harmless trunks, it is our poisonous hatred and greed which disease and ravage their bodies for the sake of a few drops of their crystal life.
Sometimes the malady infused fails to harm the heart, even as the collapsing corpse unzips scale by scale, disintegrating into fine dust. Instead the plump, pulsating clot falls and buries itself. In the stead of precious blood, brute earth fills its throbbing core and flows through its atria, as a beggar pilgrimaging through a palace. And with each beat, the soil acquires the redder, crystal aspect of true blood. From the makeshift grave sand, grit and crushed rocks spread as a living desert, devouring our lush envy.
In the midst of one such roseate desert stands a Tower carven from Alabaster. It is said a dying God sculpted it for his bride, tracing its shape with his bare fingers, moulding the stone a caress at a time, scratching skylights and portholes into the translucent stone. As he laboured, tender each touch, he eroded his hands past existence, salving their demise with the sweat and tears he rubbed into the rock.
His stumpy fingers still so dexterous that they fashioned within the spire round rooms amidst an arabesque of corridors, each styled with mural upon mural of myths and legends sculptured in sleep by the mistress living within, each story crowned by 3 words writ in charcoal. At the very pinnacle, within an oval chamber he placed not only the dame's bed but, to her delight, also a replica precise of the very steeple it was housed in. The same chambers and galleries, frescoes and syllables, that very sanctum sheltering the spire, and the same love etched within it as without. A Matryoshka of ivory towers...
By day, 'twas a lighthouse concentrating the light pouring out of the shining hole in the sky, beckoning the nomadic winds whose motions stirred even the sedentary sands. When dark fell, the light trapped in its labyrinth web of stony threads, caged as in diamond, would search out its pores and perspire without.
Some say a Raven, an Icarus of its own kind, would fly too close to the tower on such nights, and clothe itself not merely in the onyx yarns, but taint its darkness in the light lingering within. Or perhaps not tarnish but sharpen the edges of his ebony, reminding him that e'en his eve carries the seed of morn. Ash-Winged Rokh, some call him, or Night's Mirror, or Charred Cherub, or Lone Silverback... Lone because he is the last and first. Lone because he feels not loneliness. Lone because he sees no frontier 'tween self, sand or sky. Lone because his beak spoke too sharply of love. Lone because his true name is Raven, and evermore will be.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
the Sand, the Phoenix and the Desert Rose
"Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the sand." Job 29:18
Sand. Its waves in a desert sea, roll roughly over, frothing dust foam, laying salty tastes on thirsty tongues, guiding winds through living fingerprints of impermanence, God's identity. Few know this, but from its grain grows fauna and flora as vivid as our own.
Our story starts in a wasteland where aught is squandered, where ruin is rebirth, where dying dunes pour onto progeny their ardent, arid love. A world of ageless autumn, mantles moulting, layers slipping off as leaves. One power endures in the eye of eternal change, finding sustenance in rasping, sharp sand.
Sand. Its waves in a desert sea, roll roughly over, frothing dust foam, laying salty tastes on thirsty tongues, guiding winds through living fingerprints of impermanence, God's identity. Few know this, but from its grain grows fauna and flora as vivid as our own.
Our story starts in a wasteland where aught is squandered, where ruin is rebirth, where dying dunes pour onto progeny their ardent, arid love. A world of ageless autumn, mantles moulting, layers slipping off as leaves. One power endures in the eye of eternal change, finding sustenance in rasping, sharp sand.
Ere Desert knew boundary or beginning, the first seed of sand was sown in a pocket of night, sealed by a celestial pinch, sewn by a comet, as by needle and yarn. There it swigged the sparks of starts, twining each into a fiery feather, the first dune drawn from their gritted crackle, its matter erupting from solid sound. The first plume rose as a petal or leaf, gorging on the Sun, miming his mane with her own tangerine bristles, curling as ribs enclosing an empty chest, but not for long. Following this first outstretched finger, foliage unfolded, burst into life and flame, then coiled over the sandy nest, caging blaze in a hive of dactyls.
Gilded orb, mocking and psalming trochees to her Lover in the sky, she desired to rise to his side. Her nascent vanes braided themselves into wings, barb clutching barb, nets to trap air, a haul of light hooked within, melting no wax in its wake, illuming waves too slack to drown in. Her embrace did not eclipse her Lover, but gyred his rays, carrying day to each corner of Earth. He let two tears fall onto her skin, turned to umber obsidians, Phoenix eyes, sighting the radiance sifting through scissures in the passion of existence.
Curious to witness what pith was planted within, she veered her Vulcan orbs inward. In the darkness of black glass drifted burnished dots, atoms of her water. Realisation draws demise. She smiled, bent beak of siltstone, shrewd smile, tasting the last feather, tongue to drink the keen elixir of her cradle, now deathbed. One seif after another she quaffed until her thirst was quenched and her Realm gone, replaced by Eden's grove, a jungle of jade veiling the empyrean, its teal tiles roofing her mausoleum. Among the Orchard's woods, she chanced upon a tree of Cinnamon, whose bark reminded her of home, and nested in the broken twigs beneath it, engrafting and licking them into animation. In igneous terpsichore, Firebird and forest ashed into a waste of cindered barrows.
Upon a mound, an egg of myrrh lays, surrounded by stone blossoms, as poppies, spotting the sepulchre. Bred by maelstrom, built and sculpted from eddies, scratched into bloom, it feeds the fledgling born and dwelling in Desert's heart, where the newborn Phoenix drinks the dusty dew of Desert Roses.
Gilded orb, mocking and psalming trochees to her Lover in the sky, she desired to rise to his side. Her nascent vanes braided themselves into wings, barb clutching barb, nets to trap air, a haul of light hooked within, melting no wax in its wake, illuming waves too slack to drown in. Her embrace did not eclipse her Lover, but gyred his rays, carrying day to each corner of Earth. He let two tears fall onto her skin, turned to umber obsidians, Phoenix eyes, sighting the radiance sifting through scissures in the passion of existence.
Curious to witness what pith was planted within, she veered her Vulcan orbs inward. In the darkness of black glass drifted burnished dots, atoms of her water. Realisation draws demise. She smiled, bent beak of siltstone, shrewd smile, tasting the last feather, tongue to drink the keen elixir of her cradle, now deathbed. One seif after another she quaffed until her thirst was quenched and her Realm gone, replaced by Eden's grove, a jungle of jade veiling the empyrean, its teal tiles roofing her mausoleum. Among the Orchard's woods, she chanced upon a tree of Cinnamon, whose bark reminded her of home, and nested in the broken twigs beneath it, engrafting and licking them into animation. In igneous terpsichore, Firebird and forest ashed into a waste of cindered barrows.
Upon a mound, an egg of myrrh lays, surrounded by stone blossoms, as poppies, spotting the sepulchre. Bred by maelstrom, built and sculpted from eddies, scratched into bloom, it feeds the fledgling born and dwelling in Desert's heart, where the newborn Phoenix drinks the dusty dew of Desert Roses.
Monday, 16 June 2008
el Rey, el Acuario y la Mora
This little text, I wrote as an entry to a contest of microstories, and based it on an older tale of mine:
"Érase un viudo Rey cuya esposa dejó sólo un tirabuzón bronce, dentro del libro escarlata donde él trazaba su pasión, no con tinta, pero con sus yemas y hálito. Cada noche quemaba un pelo, intentando agostar su duelo, pero el mechón nunca menguó.
Una noche, saturado de sufrir, el Rey incinero tomo y trenza en su hogar. Esa mañana, junto al trono apareció un Acuario abarcando un pez áureo y cuarenta pescaditos plateados. A medida que el pez dorado tragaba a sus vecinos, el Rey conquistaba los suyos, hasta que declaró guerra con su última adversaria, una muda Princesa Mora. Él rechazó su hospitalidad, quemó puertas, rompió paredes y cuando ella, arrodillada, pidió merced, amputó y tomó consigo su negra cabellera como trofeo.
De vuelta al palacio vio al pez gualdo consumiendo su propio cuerpo, desapareciendo; y advirtió que de la bronce cabellera en su mano pendía un volumen carmesí."
"Érase un viudo Rey cuya esposa dejó sólo un tirabuzón bronce, dentro del libro escarlata donde él trazaba su pasión, no con tinta, pero con sus yemas y hálito. Cada noche quemaba un pelo, intentando agostar su duelo, pero el mechón nunca menguó.
Una noche, saturado de sufrir, el Rey incinero tomo y trenza en su hogar. Esa mañana, junto al trono apareció un Acuario abarcando un pez áureo y cuarenta pescaditos plateados. A medida que el pez dorado tragaba a sus vecinos, el Rey conquistaba los suyos, hasta que declaró guerra con su última adversaria, una muda Princesa Mora. Él rechazó su hospitalidad, quemó puertas, rompió paredes y cuando ella, arrodillada, pidió merced, amputó y tomó consigo su negra cabellera como trofeo.
De vuelta al palacio vio al pez gualdo consumiendo su propio cuerpo, desapareciendo; y advirtió que de la bronce cabellera en su mano pendía un volumen carmesí."
Saturday, 14 June 2008
the Charcoal, the Blackbird and their Art
There once was a piece of Charcoal, of no shape in particular, amorphous as blackness, shifting there and here, water-like. A mucky onion of infinite layers, sliding over one another, rubbing, as palm over palm, trying to wash away its own dirt.
This Charcoal had its own Art, as wild as graphite is tempered, drawing its flood of forms on the bodies of pebbles and stones, painting their outlines with the dyes of the sands and dust. But never did it draw its own nature, for it could not paint upon thin air; only the shadow of its true self could be traced upon the face of the Earth.
The deep self of the earthy Charcoal was flight, and only as it drew falsehoods, as skin after skin it shed itself, consumed itself in the fire of creation, could it approach its own truth. The dirt gone, the shining Blackbird emerged from her own ashes. And as she shook the ash from her feathers, she realised that she would never draw again as she once had, smearing darkness upon the world believing that the images she traced would last. Instead, she started painting with the world, marking the sand with her feathers, her claws, her beak; but never asking the lines to remain constant, but let the Winds change them as they willed. She threw her ashes into the eye of a whirl and let them melt.
This Charcoal had its own Art, as wild as graphite is tempered, drawing its flood of forms on the bodies of pebbles and stones, painting their outlines with the dyes of the sands and dust. But never did it draw its own nature, for it could not paint upon thin air; only the shadow of its true self could be traced upon the face of the Earth.
The deep self of the earthy Charcoal was flight, and only as it drew falsehoods, as skin after skin it shed itself, consumed itself in the fire of creation, could it approach its own truth. The dirt gone, the shining Blackbird emerged from her own ashes. And as she shook the ash from her feathers, she realised that she would never draw again as she once had, smearing darkness upon the world believing that the images she traced would last. Instead, she started painting with the world, marking the sand with her feathers, her claws, her beak; but never asking the lines to remain constant, but let the Winds change them as they willed. She threw her ashes into the eye of a whirl and let them melt.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
the Stone, the Mirror and the Hedgehog
Once upon a time, there was a Stone. He lived alone, a pebble, his rounded skin enclosing mystery not only to others, but also himself. He lived mute, a boulder, his voice smothered in the lattice of sial within him. He lived sightless, a rock, his only eye a cataract glossed by the rain.
Within him, a brain of basalt and quartz learned time, touch and the content of himself. He knew of the Gravel upon which he lay, his brothers and sisters. He knew of the Winds, his Chance and Destiny, dictating his story, granting and robbing all that surrounded him, yet never touching his midst. He knew of the Lake, whose waves slowly gnawed his substance away and would one day devour him, would one day know him inside out and so would he know her.
But the Winds, envious, took the Stone in their hands and threw him into the Lake. As he fell, the blazing brushing of the Winds seared his cecity away and let him behold the Lake, a round Mirror. As he touched her surface, the Mirror broke into a myriad pieces and he saw himself as he was: not a single soul but a fragmented phantom, a hundred shards, a million grains of sand. As he watched himself breaking he became thus, a Stone shattered into a thousand thorns, not dry, but carrying a Lake within himself.
Thus was the Hedgehog born. Watch your reflection in his spines, a plain looking glass to your mind...
Within him, a brain of basalt and quartz learned time, touch and the content of himself. He knew of the Gravel upon which he lay, his brothers and sisters. He knew of the Winds, his Chance and Destiny, dictating his story, granting and robbing all that surrounded him, yet never touching his midst. He knew of the Lake, whose waves slowly gnawed his substance away and would one day devour him, would one day know him inside out and so would he know her.
But the Winds, envious, took the Stone in their hands and threw him into the Lake. As he fell, the blazing brushing of the Winds seared his cecity away and let him behold the Lake, a round Mirror. As he touched her surface, the Mirror broke into a myriad pieces and he saw himself as he was: not a single soul but a fragmented phantom, a hundred shards, a million grains of sand. As he watched himself breaking he became thus, a Stone shattered into a thousand thorns, not dry, but carrying a Lake within himself.
Thus was the Hedgehog born. Watch your reflection in his spines, a plain looking glass to your mind...
Sunday, 4 May 2008
the Squirrel, the Tree and the Seasons
Once upon a time, upon a little hill, lived a Squirrel and a Tree, who loved each other with an abandon that knew not race nor age. The Squirrel well knew each of the Tree's branches, his lovesome leaves and fragrant bloom, she knew and reveled in the resin that flowed in his veins and gladly ate the fruits he offered her. The Tree well knew each of the Squirrel 's hairs, her tender talons and caring eyes, he knew and delighted in the dew that adorned her fur and lief warded the nuts she offered him.
But Spring soon left the Tree, then Summer came to take his flowers and rot his fruits, then Autumn came to steal his lush leaves, then Winter came to freeze the resin rivers within him. And as each Season passed, the Squirrel asked the Tree: "Why have you changed? Your gifts are gone, our love has lessened." The Tree replied each time: "'Tis but the seasons, do wait a while and I'll be born afresh." But the Squirrel did not believe, and wildly pushed the Tree away with its small mitts. But the Tree would never move.
The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.
They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?
The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.
They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?
Friday, 18 April 2008
the King, the Fishbowl and the Gypsy
This brief bedtime tale is inspired in a dream I had this somewhat lazy morn, and on some contemplations I had the night before:
"Once upon a time, on a small island in the Mediterranean sea, lived a sad King, whose sorrow stemmed from the loss of his dear Wife, who in her wake, in her endless sleep left but a thick, bronze lock of hair, a bookmark in his crimson notebook, once the place where all his passions were kept. Each night the king burned one hair from the curl as an act of remembrance and mourning, but as years passed, the curl never thinned within his book nor did the King dare to ever write within it again.
One dreamless eve, desperate to rid himself from the tangles of dolorous memory, he tore the dense whorl and cast it out of his heart and into the hearth. But when the hair did not catch flare, remaining stolid in the thick blaze, the king resolved to fuel the flame with that which burnt most brightly within him, that which tormented him each moment of his now solitary life. He took his volume, empty of visible writing, yet thickly scribbled with the ink of his Love, in all its shapes and sizes, with each thought dedicated to his beloved Queen impressed there by his bare breath and subtle touch. Grasping it in his right hand, he prayed to free himself of grief, to find happiness again even if it cost his Heart. With that, he threw the volume into the fire.
What occurred later that night is but dead reckoning, but in the dawn the court saw an eerie Fishbowl standing upon a slim, hourglass shaped table by the throne. Within, turned and swirled a shoal of green finned parr and one Goldfish in water that oft reminded one of quicksilver, appearing at the same time thick and murky, yet also bright and of easy flow. No plants nor rocks adorned the Aquarium, not even muck nor rests of food were to be seen, since the King had ordered them not to be fed. Day in, day out the King observed the fish, and when, out of hunger, the Goldfish gulped one of the fishes, he would promptly and merrily declare war upon one of his many neighbors and mobilize his armies to seize their domains.
As the kingdom expanded so did the Fishbowl begin to run out of fish, until one day the very last parr was devoured by the greedy Goldfish. That eve, the King hosted a great feast, serving his noblemen and officers his best wine from his clearest crystal glasses, and bade them shatter them on the floor, but throw as they might, no glass broke nor scratched. Taking this as a good omen, the King took a small band of his closest knights and marched upon his last remaining rival, a Gypsy maiden residing in a low keep. The Gypsy offered no resistance and, to welcome her visitors, removed from their hinges the gates of her hold, much adorned with flamboyant designs depicting the forests, mountains and sea around her modest patch of land. But the jealous King was covetous, and said: "This is my domain, not yours to picture and delight in." And with that he ordered to chop and char them.
Mute, the Gypsy motioned her guests to enter her abode, whose walls were filled with Romany art and the air riddled with music, offering them her best delicatessen and drink, but the cruel King would take none and ordered his knights to tear the silken cloths, smash the painted vases and rip the guitars' strings. The Gypsy fell to her knees and wept, cupping her hands up to the King and with her moist eyes asking "What then? What will you take?" The King, satisfied, smiled and took in his hand her long black mane and with a swift cut severed it off her head. Thus he turned and left her, bearing away the sign of his last conquest.
That night, the happy King looked into his Fishbowl and watched his Goldfish twirling within, chasing its own, now nibbled tail, until all at once it caught its tail fin and bit further and further until it finally swallowed itself whole. As the liquid stopped moving and cleared in the vacant Aquarium, the King came to himself and remarked that in his hand he still held the Gypsy's mane. As he turned to glance at it, he discovered it was not black, but bronze."
"Once upon a time, on a small island in the Mediterranean sea, lived a sad King, whose sorrow stemmed from the loss of his dear Wife, who in her wake, in her endless sleep left but a thick, bronze lock of hair, a bookmark in his crimson notebook, once the place where all his passions were kept. Each night the king burned one hair from the curl as an act of remembrance and mourning, but as years passed, the curl never thinned within his book nor did the King dare to ever write within it again.
One dreamless eve, desperate to rid himself from the tangles of dolorous memory, he tore the dense whorl and cast it out of his heart and into the hearth. But when the hair did not catch flare, remaining stolid in the thick blaze, the king resolved to fuel the flame with that which burnt most brightly within him, that which tormented him each moment of his now solitary life. He took his volume, empty of visible writing, yet thickly scribbled with the ink of his Love, in all its shapes and sizes, with each thought dedicated to his beloved Queen impressed there by his bare breath and subtle touch. Grasping it in his right hand, he prayed to free himself of grief, to find happiness again even if it cost his Heart. With that, he threw the volume into the fire.
What occurred later that night is but dead reckoning, but in the dawn the court saw an eerie Fishbowl standing upon a slim, hourglass shaped table by the throne. Within, turned and swirled a shoal of green finned parr and one Goldfish in water that oft reminded one of quicksilver, appearing at the same time thick and murky, yet also bright and of easy flow. No plants nor rocks adorned the Aquarium, not even muck nor rests of food were to be seen, since the King had ordered them not to be fed. Day in, day out the King observed the fish, and when, out of hunger, the Goldfish gulped one of the fishes, he would promptly and merrily declare war upon one of his many neighbors and mobilize his armies to seize their domains.
As the kingdom expanded so did the Fishbowl begin to run out of fish, until one day the very last parr was devoured by the greedy Goldfish. That eve, the King hosted a great feast, serving his noblemen and officers his best wine from his clearest crystal glasses, and bade them shatter them on the floor, but throw as they might, no glass broke nor scratched. Taking this as a good omen, the King took a small band of his closest knights and marched upon his last remaining rival, a Gypsy maiden residing in a low keep. The Gypsy offered no resistance and, to welcome her visitors, removed from their hinges the gates of her hold, much adorned with flamboyant designs depicting the forests, mountains and sea around her modest patch of land. But the jealous King was covetous, and said: "This is my domain, not yours to picture and delight in." And with that he ordered to chop and char them.
Mute, the Gypsy motioned her guests to enter her abode, whose walls were filled with Romany art and the air riddled with music, offering them her best delicatessen and drink, but the cruel King would take none and ordered his knights to tear the silken cloths, smash the painted vases and rip the guitars' strings. The Gypsy fell to her knees and wept, cupping her hands up to the King and with her moist eyes asking "What then? What will you take?" The King, satisfied, smiled and took in his hand her long black mane and with a swift cut severed it off her head. Thus he turned and left her, bearing away the sign of his last conquest.
That night, the happy King looked into his Fishbowl and watched his Goldfish twirling within, chasing its own, now nibbled tail, until all at once it caught its tail fin and bit further and further until it finally swallowed itself whole. As the liquid stopped moving and cleared in the vacant Aquarium, the King came to himself and remarked that in his hand he still held the Gypsy's mane. As he turned to glance at it, he discovered it was not black, but bronze."
Friday, 22 February 2008
the Bunny House, the Chicken and the Honey
That same morning, a second children's story was born out of three more Pieces, I was glad to tell it, yet am much happier to see it retold through her voice:
"A lonely little Chicken stood scratting one afternoon in the dust of a large yellow field. She scratted all day long at the same dry spot, for she believed she was a Bunny and was trying to build a Bunny House in the ground, as Bunnies do.
She laboured day and night, tearing her small toes on the stones, but to no avail: each time, after much time, she had managed to make but a small pit in the earth, the Summer wind came and blew the earth back from whence it came, scattering her work out into the mellow flatness of the field. But still she scratted on, by day and night, to build a house to live in, for how else could a Bunny live but in a house under the ground?
Yet another time, and this time more than ever before, she had dug into the ground a full basin of air, just about the right size for her to nestle her body in. But this time the Autumn rains came and where air or Bunny should have been, there was muddy water and dark earth. But still she scratted on, day and night.
And then crept Winter over the field, draping its cape of ice and snow over the ground as it stalked on by. At first sight of the snows the Chicken was disheartened, but then she found, as she bent to move the stones and grit with her beak, that the snows made the land thicken into lumps that could be scratted and picked away with ease! By this time she had become stronger, and worked with the land as five Chickens put together.
In a matter of days she had made a small burrow, which, over the following days without snow, became a deep tunnel with a deep reservoir at the bottom with a chamber off to one side, a small way from the bottom where she could sleep without fear of snow or rain touching her. When it was all but complete, she sat back and puzzled: what was it that Bunnies did once they had built their houses?
No sooner had she finished her hard work than she was wandering out into the tired old field in search of Bunny Houses containing other Bunnies whom she could ask what to do. An hour had passed when she came upon the first Bunny House and craned her neck down through the narrow passage. Within, wrapped in great snoozing darkness, was a small family of Bunnies – a Mother Bunny and five or six Child Bunnies, all fast asleep! The Chicken was saddened: because they were asleep, she couldn't ask them what they normally do in their houses.
She wandered on across the greying plateau before her, and stumbled upon another entrance to a Bunny House. Peering in, she saw a big Father Bunny sheltering by himself, his eyes softly closed like night sky on the hills. The Chicken smiled and shed a small tear from her earth-black eye, wishing he would wake, yet marvelling all the while at his profound peace. She retreated from the hole and made her way onward into the dark plains.
Night coursed over the ground like a hum, broken only by the small peaks and troughs of moonlight on the stones. The cold clung to her feathers like tar, made thicker with her own mounting exhaustion. Spotting a denser patch of dark beyond her, the familiar sign of a Bunny House, she quickened her brittle feet and gathered herself impatiently toward its mouth. The warm darkness revealed still more of itself and grew to a girth sufficient to allow the Chicken's whole body to nestle its way inside.
Within this ample Bunny House, she heard a faint scratching sound and peered in as deep as her eyes would let her – before her, and with no less surprise than she, was a Chicken! Though startled, each offered the other a welcoming cluck, and settled down together on the floor where the newfound Chicken offered her guest some honey from a nearby pot. They lived out their winters together in this way through the rest of their lives, waking from the long and languorous stretch of the snows with a drop of the sweetest honey."
"A lonely little Chicken stood scratting one afternoon in the dust of a large yellow field. She scratted all day long at the same dry spot, for she believed she was a Bunny and was trying to build a Bunny House in the ground, as Bunnies do.
She laboured day and night, tearing her small toes on the stones, but to no avail: each time, after much time, she had managed to make but a small pit in the earth, the Summer wind came and blew the earth back from whence it came, scattering her work out into the mellow flatness of the field. But still she scratted on, by day and night, to build a house to live in, for how else could a Bunny live but in a house under the ground?
Yet another time, and this time more than ever before, she had dug into the ground a full basin of air, just about the right size for her to nestle her body in. But this time the Autumn rains came and where air or Bunny should have been, there was muddy water and dark earth. But still she scratted on, day and night.
And then crept Winter over the field, draping its cape of ice and snow over the ground as it stalked on by. At first sight of the snows the Chicken was disheartened, but then she found, as she bent to move the stones and grit with her beak, that the snows made the land thicken into lumps that could be scratted and picked away with ease! By this time she had become stronger, and worked with the land as five Chickens put together.
In a matter of days she had made a small burrow, which, over the following days without snow, became a deep tunnel with a deep reservoir at the bottom with a chamber off to one side, a small way from the bottom where she could sleep without fear of snow or rain touching her. When it was all but complete, she sat back and puzzled: what was it that Bunnies did once they had built their houses?
No sooner had she finished her hard work than she was wandering out into the tired old field in search of Bunny Houses containing other Bunnies whom she could ask what to do. An hour had passed when she came upon the first Bunny House and craned her neck down through the narrow passage. Within, wrapped in great snoozing darkness, was a small family of Bunnies – a Mother Bunny and five or six Child Bunnies, all fast asleep! The Chicken was saddened: because they were asleep, she couldn't ask them what they normally do in their houses.
She wandered on across the greying plateau before her, and stumbled upon another entrance to a Bunny House. Peering in, she saw a big Father Bunny sheltering by himself, his eyes softly closed like night sky on the hills. The Chicken smiled and shed a small tear from her earth-black eye, wishing he would wake, yet marvelling all the while at his profound peace. She retreated from the hole and made her way onward into the dark plains.
Night coursed over the ground like a hum, broken only by the small peaks and troughs of moonlight on the stones. The cold clung to her feathers like tar, made thicker with her own mounting exhaustion. Spotting a denser patch of dark beyond her, the familiar sign of a Bunny House, she quickened her brittle feet and gathered herself impatiently toward its mouth. The warm darkness revealed still more of itself and grew to a girth sufficient to allow the Chicken's whole body to nestle its way inside.
Within this ample Bunny House, she heard a faint scratching sound and peered in as deep as her eyes would let her – before her, and with no less surprise than she, was a Chicken! Though startled, each offered the other a welcoming cluck, and settled down together on the floor where the newfound Chicken offered her guest some honey from a nearby pot. They lived out their winters together in this way through the rest of their lives, waking from the long and languorous stretch of the snows with a drop of the sweetest honey."
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