Once, upon a yesterday, a boy and girl went out to play, on site that just wasn't right, by many morals which held sway, among the minds of others who, used the site for talk most cruel, but, for the two, with childish glee, the site was used best for talk of time, tide, and tea. Though, I must admit, not literally.
It started with talk, most sad, of the boy and his lovely dad, which dad was in need, or so said the girl, of giving Dr. Seuss a whirl. From there it led to light flirtation, with some talk of deviation, however, with dire exclamation, there was also talk of being misplaced in nation. Toward each other, that is, not that there was something wrong with hers or his.
Then, the girl, gathering nerve, showed the boy her written verb, and noun, and comma, and other punctuation, and asked him to read the written potation, drinking it down with mind and eye, and seeing if the writing could be said to fly.
The rest is written, down below, for those who would like to know how the odd conversation did go. Yet, to lend an air of mystery, it is not told to the reader which bits were writ by him or me.
Nice, i love the intricate flashes of poetry and humour, very light touches, very subtle, but an amazing cohesion between the weight of older style writing with a knowing/modern twist. You clever girl
Stop it! Stop talking that way, or I shall be forced to marry you. Hard to do long distance, you know?
Err.. I mean .. thank you!
my pleasure. Yes, arizona and london are rather far from each other, and possibly not only in terms of distance
Yes, well, I am not worried about the other terms, as I am very far from Arizona in most of those, as well. I am not from here, and I wish to remain only because my family is here and, well, all the coastal places are likely to be wiped off the map by storms, lately, it seems. I like the warmth in the wintertime and the fact that one can use solar power, if one has the money, to light up one's house.
sunshine is a long fragmented memory to us Londoners right now, here in the midst of cruel breaths of midatlantic gusts
Sunshine was but a fragmented memory to the boy from London. Standing in the misty morning, toes jutting over the edge of the embankement, with the cruel, gusting breaths of midatlantic fury pushing against him as if to knock him back, wrapping its frozen tendrils about his neck, like a serial killer, he waited. Not for a person, not for a bus, nor even a passing ship, but, for what then?
"Life." he muttered. "I wonder what that's like?"
its like youve taken a leisurely walk in my head, or at least followed me on my way to work
lol I would love to do either, or both. I imagine, in either case, the scenery is fantastic.
and rather cold and frosty(the scenery, not my brain lol)
No. I imagine your brain has lollipop trees, and the sort of bushes that not only look so fluffy that you can snuggle and bounce upon them, but, which really are snuggly and bounceable. And, sunshine. And, green grass and moss covered banks, in case any little girls need to dip their fingers in the water to attract talking gold fish, or any little boys need to jump down onto a raft and sail away to see the world.
and lanes of golden gingerbread, and fuzzy smiles slightly out of focus and woozy because of the low intensity of the sun, and balloon races hemmed by twirling moustachiod errants with gap toothed manners and clipped vowels coughing at discussions of geography, and biplanes piloted by a muddy kneed junior nine year old version of me, with my oversized goggles bracing my strappling curls.
And, you are a barn stormer, but, there is no Oz, because Oz turned out to be a fake and you will not dwell in sane unreality, but, in insane reality wherein lays your heart, hearth, home, deepest desires, and a small fluffy dog named Skip, whom you rescued from the gutter where it ran away to when it's cruel owner was dragging it off the pound. Except, of course, when Skip, safely seat-belted in (for you are a conscientious boy), joins you on your aeroplane flying quests for the lost treasure of Sierra Madres, just off the tip of the Tortugan Bay, where the mermaids drag themselves to shore and, on becoming human for that small time, dance their witching hour revelries.
And we will meet in the carnival at the edge of town and talk excitedely with hellium panache about the golden shafts of corn we used to run through, blazing constellations through fields of stilted, driven time, climbing through applegarden trees leading us to cavernous booming castles of pristinne banners, taking tea with kind china doll pale princesses with red smudged lips and cultivating long veils of sickly nightshade on the side to hide her from her husbands eye
Not to mention the way she has with truffles. No, not cooking them. She can find them with her nose and root them up, just like the pigs do, only it is both prettier, and sillier, when she does it. Oh, how it stains her aprons so! Oh, how her mother does cry over the ruined silken garments!
Each tear from the Queen's eye drops to the ground and becomes a rose petal; a blessing and a curse, combined, from the semi-wicked fairy that attended her birth. For, while it is a most fetching principle that a queen should forever trod on rose petals, even in her misery, in practice it makes it hard for anyone to take her seriously when she is wailing in misery.
However, on a side note, the court magican does a lively trade in Rose Petal Oil, and, so, the Kingdom prospers. He does have to stick her with pins, on occasion, if her child has not soiled enough aprons, and there is a back order, true; but, such is life!
Although the semi wicked fairy likes nothing better than cruising through the part of dreamland known as spikesville. Spikesville, with its promiscuous bars adorned with ripened neon, glowing like stagnant firecrackers and washing over the face of the semi wicked fairy in arabesques of twisting, gutteral shadow.
Spikestown was once a decent neighberhood, long before the coming of the long ships from the frosty north arrived, spikes land luxuriated in soft fluffy smiles and smart greased side partings. Off course the fleeets from the frozen north soon spoiled the gleaming dream of two automobiles and one kangaroo for each household
The semi-wicked fairy missed the side partings, how she could scamper up the backside and slip down the curving interior of the left side (she liked the left side best), there to nestle in among them, allowing their greasy interiors to moisturize her fairy flesh. It is important for a fairy to moisturize, often, as all that flitting about in the air does tend to dry one's epidermal layer.
However, the more wicked part of her reveled in the change the ships had wrought. On the pathways where children used to skip, now, concrete lay in ugly slabs upon which whores knelt and did a brisk and lively trade. Where once there was a glade of innocent puppies, full of warm milk, ready to roll over and let you pet them on the tummies, now dog fighting was nightly sport. Those, actually, she could take or leave. It was the heroine laced fairy dust she really craved.
Yes, you read that right. Heroine. As in, not the smart white powder, but, the smart young English damsel who spends her time thwarting evil villainry in badly writing novels from the 1960s, mainly. At least that was the vintage of heroine the semi-evil fairy enjoyed having her fairy dust laced with.
The first time it happened, it had not been by her choice. She was much less wicked back then, even though still semi-wicked. She had only wanted real fairy dust, to stock up, but, had been low on funds. That's when one of the crew of the ships that had so recently come into port had made her an offer on a special blend of fairy dust, much cheaper in price, and, seemingly, much more potent in power. Wel, and, what choice does a semi-evil being have, then to take advantage of a foreigner who does not know the value of what he offers? So, he gave her a snort of fairy dust, and, she bought the whole bag off him, and went on her way, never realizing that it had more than the usual ingredients in it's making.
Nor did she realize it, until the bag was used up, and she came to Grassy Glade, as Spikestown used to be known, seeking out more fairy dust. She bought her usual bag, from her usual source, but, it just didn't give her the usual feeling. Complaining, she tried to get her money back, but, all the other fairies, even the truly wicked ones, assured her their fairy dust worked just fine, so the problem must be with her.
That's when she realized she was hooked and would have to go back to the foreigners for more of what they had to offer.
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