If music be the food of love, play on:
The sad, mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house.
In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, like coarsest clothes against the cold.
And all those swearings keep, as true in soul as doth that orbed continent the fire that severs day from night.
For words, like Nature, half reveal, and half conceal the Soul within.
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will.
I sometimes feel it half a sin to put in words the grief I feel.
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.
O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t’untie.
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Do you covet wealth?
Behold the source of Alchemist’s need, The Userer’s bread, the miser’s greed. Time stands still as desire remains the same. Unchanged, avarice may change its name.
Pursuit of ages, treasure hunt of fools. Finders keepers, he who takes most, rules. Does the lust for wealth die or grow old? No, but fools do. Then remains fool’s gold.
Do you covet power?
Then market it, exchange it, buy it, sell, Vote for it, elect it, fight for it, kill. But ultimate power remains in assets hold. The bankers always win, their surety, your gold.
Votes? Revolts? Elections? Coups? All power rises, fades, dies. Winners lose. Try controlling others. Only your soul, Precious as gold, is your own to control.
Do you covet knowledge?
The prized philosopher’s stone No longer stands alone, As alchemy and chemistry are brought To bear upon an element much-sought.
Nuclear transmutation, in our day, Kills wonder with its chemical decay. What miracle? We form a new alliance: Elements, atomic research, science.
Riches, Influence, Wonder. Gold is none of the above. The love of gold remains a wasted love.
See me, if you will, left out in the cold, Outdated weeds, uninformed, unfriended, Impatient of appointment with the mold. What is life, exclusive of belonging? Inclusion, contribution, common good, Community, cooperation, love, Relegated to the realm of Other. A sibling without sister, without brother.
Hear me, if you will, crying soundless call, Wordless by the standard slang that’s current, Addressing no one and unheard by all. Voiceless by the standard set by media, Deflected, unengaging, unattuned to, Ineffectual wave length, overpowered. To what end unheard communication? To converse requires reciprocation.
Find me, if you will, but no one searches; Absorbed by self in unintended censure. To represent that private realm repulses. Alienated lives repeating patterns, Themes, stereotypes, mistakes, romances, Misanthropic delusions, monsters, myths. To learn from dead past laughable, unthought. Thus, antisocial world thoughtlessly wrought.
“Come with me, Rachel.”
Deborah had the drawn look on her face that Rachel recognized from when her father had passed away. She crossed the small room of their house and stood by her mother’s side, full of concern.
“What is it? What has happened?”
Deborah took her by the hand and led her outside.
“I must show you something. It is in the woods. Come with me.”
As they walked together, Deborah knew that this might be the last day she would spend with her daughter. She clasped Rachel’s hand firmly and swung it gently as they walked, as girls do in childhood. What would she have done without Rachel?
“You must know something I had hoped to keep from you,” she began. “Many weeks ago, when the gypsies were camped on the Highway, I wandered into their camp and purchased something from them. It was foolish. We can’t afford such things. But, I bought something as a present for you… there have been so few nice things in your life… I wanted you to have something nice…”
“I don’t want nice things, Ma. I don’t care about that,” Rachel interrupted.
“Well. I bought it. And took it home with me. You were still working in the fields, that day. But, when I got home, I knew something was wrong. Oh why did I ever listen to that boy?” Deborah interrupted herself, throwing her arms up to clutch her forehead. Rachel had seldom seen her mother so distressed.
Deborah stopped walking and stood silently with her eyes lowered to the ground for a moment before continuing.
“I brought it home. But then I couldn’t turn away from it. It was so small, a little glass vessel, pink colored glass. And I couldn’t step away and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And it spoke to me. It had a voice, daughter. The vessel had a voice. Perhaps a spirit possesses it. It spoke aloud to me. I was so frightened I couldn’t move! Then I picked it up and threw it out of the house but it kept calling me. I tried to break it. But it wouldn’t break. It kept calling me and I couldn’t stand to hear it anymore. So I ran with it into the woods and buried it deep.” She pointed to the ground. “I buried it here. But I can still hear the voice in my head. I hear it in my dreams. It calls me still. I fear it will never stop until I do as it says.”
Rachel’s eyes were wide. With difficulty, she found her voice, and asked her mother cautiously, “what does it say to you?”
Deborah met her gaze sorrowfully. “It demands a sacrifice. Whoever possesses it, has forfeited their blood, and must die.”
She sighed resignedly. “And so, I must leave you, Rachel.”
Dear Budding Author,
I would like to file a formal complaint with the appropriate authorities regarding several matters that have never been adequately addressed. We have had conversations about this before, but to my knowledge you have failed to take action or make any edits. Please consider this notice final, as I will no longer tolerate these working conditions.
The first is the matter of my backstory. As you are aware, there is a hole in the plot. I’m constantly afraid of falling through this hole. Can you please get maintenance in here to fix it? It’s like a huge hole! Living with it is giving me constant anxiety and emotional damage, affecting my self worth, and giving me low self esteem. As a result of your negligent treatment I am in therapy and will be sending you the bill for my psychiatric care, which I expect you to settle in full.
The next matter is in regards to false starts. It is really unacceptable to send me to foreign parts on half baked adventures and then leave me stranded in an airport in a third world country. In some instances I have not even had adequate funds or transportation options at my disposal for the return journey. I have gotten lost and died several times in consequence. Air fare is also becoming more expensive and the blatant waste of time and money is frankly appalling, not to mention how inconvenient this constant traveling is for my schedule. This has happened so many times now that I have lost count. It must stop.
Finally, regarding loose ends. Please give some attention to this matter, as it is negatively impacting not only myself, but also almost every other character with whom I have come in contact in the course of several plot twists. May I suggest starting with a rough outline before rashly executing a random plot device? I know of one character who got caught on a loose end and broke his leg in two places. In addition, the string was pulled and several frames slipped out of the storyboard, leaving me and others completely confused. This type of incident has happened several times. And I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t take it.
To repeat, please consider this notice final. If you do not take action on these requests I will have no choice but to resign and find a new home in the pulp fiction aisle.
Yours respectfully,
Ebineazar Coleus Granville Martini IV
P. S. I forgot to add one more affront, namely the nomenclature. Is this a joke? You are doing this to me on purpose, right?
You can’t hear me, but I’m playing. Not quite lies, the words I’m saying Are harmonic, if misleading, With my melody receding.
You can’t hear me, but I’m crying. If I say I’m fine, I’m lying. So I say I’m doing well. Minor key, but you can’t tell.
You can’t hear me, but I’m singing. It’s a well-known tune. It’s clinging In my mind, the theme in question. Variations on rejection.
You should know the leitmotif. Heartbreak is a common grief. I sing my heart out, loud and clear, But you’re deaf, and you can’t hear.
The wild gipsy tunes.
The bright colors.
The enticing odors.
Dorcas had wandered into the gipsy camp in a venturous mood that day, out of simple curiosity. How she wished now that she had stayed on the main road and gone directly home to her family, as was her habit! But once in the camp, she had decided to buy a gift for her daughter from the gipsy peddlers. Ribbons, wooden beads, cheap jewelry and painted wooden figurines caught her eyes. It was like market day, but so exotic! But she had only a few coins in her small purse. She wandered further in, wondering what she could purchase for so little. Dark gipsy beauties went about the camp wearing tiny bells or golden hoops in their pierced ears and bracelets of polished coins on their ankles. They jingled and tinkled as they walked and skipped among the customers, some dancing, some playing fiddles and flutes. “They look lovely,” Dorcas thought with admiration, “but not as lovely as my daughter, Rachel.” Rachel needed no rings, bells, or bracelets. Her beauty shone brightly unaided. Dorcas took quiet pride in her Rachel’s good looks.
Then a dark eyed boy stepped into her path. He was barefoot and nut brown from the sun. He stared at her boldly, took her hand, and led her toward a one of the tawdry looking wagons. Curious and amused, Dorcas had followed obediently and even climbed the forbidding, creaking wagon steps after him. The interior was dim and reeked of incense and polishing oils, and seemed full of color and texture. She found herself confused and dazzled by the shine of glass and copper and smooth oiled wood.
“This one matches you,” sad the boy, speaking for the first time. He held up a small vessel of rose colored glass. Its surface was curiously cut into a web of thread-like lines that reflected richly the copper shine of nearby pots and goblets. Its small round mouth was cunningly fluted and scalloped. Dorcas extended her hand to touch the rim but the child, misunderstanding her gesture, released his hold, forcing her to take the object from him so that it would not fall and break.
“You say it looks like me? What do you mean?” She asked, humoring him.
“Your cheeks are pink and wrinkled like it is,” he answered innocently, “and your eyes shine like the glass.”
Dorcas laughed and rumpled the boy’s curly hair.
“You are a clever peddler already, young man,” she said with a smile, “although you shouldn’t tell people that they have wrinkles.”
Dorcas looked again at the small vessel in her hand. It was truly a captivating little thing. “I’m sure I can’t afford to buy it, even if I wanted to,” she said quietly, speaking more to herself than to anyone else.
“One penny,” said a gruff voice from the shadows of the wagon. Startled, Dorcas looked up, to see a large man in the back of the wagon rise from a low stool. He must have been seated there when she entered, quietly watching from behind his wares.
“One penny, and it’s yours.”
To be continued, maybe
“Take us over there!”
Gesturing passionately, Abel looked from the horizon back to Gabe. His face was red and angry and his voice was ferocious.
Their course remained the same.
“Why aren’t you turning us? We need to go in that direction!” He exclaimed again, growing desperate.
“We cannot risk the shallows. This vessel is too large. And our cargo will not stand any rough treatment. Why don’t you settle down and let me do the navigating,” Gabe responded coldly.
“I can’t believe how little you seem to care about this!” Abel exclaimed, exasperated and furious. “You realize that we will be too late, don’t you? We might as well turn back now!”
Gabe gave no reply. All his attention was on the water and approaching shoreline. He had confidence in his skill, and although having a stressed and shouting companion was not his first choice, he had the patience and control to completely ignore one.
A third voice ventured to intervene, trying to calm the storming Abel.
“Abel, Gabe is doing all he can. We must trust each other. Arguing will not save my daughter,” said Dorcas evenly. “She may be dead already for all we know. You both knew this to be a fool’s errand when you agreed to help me.” The grieving mother was taught with restraint. Holding herself tightly against an array of gunny sacks moored to the vessel’s side, trying to protect their contents from any possible damage, not only her posture but her voice, her eyes, and her whole carriage were strained and straightened in desperation.
Gabe, in the meantime, had found a strong current, and was gently guiding their craft toward its mooring. “You see?” He smirked, glancing at Abel. “Hardly took a moment. And no glass broken.” He jumped over and splashed toward shore with a line.
“I hate your smug guts,” Abel responded sullenly, “but good, about time. Come on, mother, hand me those sacks.” He called Dorcas mother out of respect for her years. He had taken a liking to the lady, partly because she was sweet and partly because she was tough and partly because he had seen her beauty of a daughter. Gabe liked her too, because she was practical and quiet. And partly because he had seen her beauty of a daughter.
“Take the glass,” Dorcas said, passing sacks carefully, although she trembled with nervous energy. “We must get them to the ogre undamaged. Mind the rocks.”
Abel hoisted two, leaving one for his companion Gave to manage. What a pain having such a boring and bland business partner. Useful in a pinch, though, and when doing anything on the water. At least Gabe got things done. He had secured a boat on very short notice, and although small, was agile and energetic enough to keep up with any of Abel’s stunts. And secretly, Abel admired his partner’s quiet confidence.
“Come on, shorty. Let’s get over this hill,” he said over his shoulder, turning toward the castle with a hand under Dorcas’s elbow. “Oh, I meant him, not you,” he laughed, as he met Dorcas’s eyes.
Gabe, busy tying up their pilfered vessel, noted the rude treatment and lack of acknowledgment. “I hate your smug guts,” he declared to Abel’s retreating back, then lifted the sack of clinking glass and followed him up the hill. Abel could be rude, oblivious, and at times, a crybaby. But he certainly was caring and capable. And secretly, Gabe admired his partner’s talkative friendly nature.
-to be continued, perhaps-
I’ll find your weakness if I look long enough.
I’ll try all my tricks. You think you are tough
But buddy you are flawed too, just like they all
Have been and ever will be after the Fall.
I’ll find your soft spot, your embarrassment, your shame, The chink in your armor, the hole in your game, And I’ll play with it, poke at it, taunt with it, abuse it, Harp on it, mess with it, and tease until you lose it.
I’ll have my way with your inefficient mind. Your substandard intelligence will soon be left behind By my masterful meddling. My all-defeating glee. My manipulative meanness. My hidden horrid Me.
Your emotions are a playground for my naughtiness and spite. I’ll frustrate your desires and then rouse them, every night. I’ll whisper in your ear the things you’re trying to forget. And if you think that’s bad just wait. I haven’t started yet.
You really are no challenge and I should be bored by this, But your humanness affronts me and your frailty is bliss. You’re so easy to manipulate. I find you all so dumb, But still I have so much fun with every one I overcome.
I’m never going to tire And I’m never going to rest Till I’ve ruined every single positive thought, spark of hope, happy ambition, feeling of joy, good memory, laudable desire, And lovable characteristic That has ever dwelt in your despicable chest.
