We organists, we play the pipes, we slide over scales, some transparent, some knot, living lives between bars and signing verses with our symbols, scribbled on the page similarly to yesterdays afterthought. Sleep cages us in, because it dearly misunderstood our love of such matches. Can I tell you a story reserved like fine wine, thrown in a cellar and told to never, never, never be touched by servants, unless it is to be served. Have you come to serve? Swerve this way, cycling, looping, Let’s regroup quickly.
There was a man with a plan. Names escape us, but let’s say that taps were involved, tap dancing or tap strapping we’ll be long to explain the difference. Listen! Fairys played with this man, gave him words that had to be spoken in such and such an order. And such great order he gave them. Stern orders like, “then the crowned prince plunged his blade sternly into his mentors chest, blood to drip everywhere.” Harsh words, he didn’t envy delivering them. He did so with conscious, explaining to his characters as he went, sharing their pain as such he could, so that he could give them greater, drive them to higher heights. Try as he might, there were loses, true loses. Maybe he tried his way into that to. It doesn’t matter the how, the price has already been paid, but his next parade was dim. How could they turn so quickly on a man who had lost so much? Heartless, you say, but by this point that was the point; he was their heart, and he was broke, so far close to zero no one could tell the difference. Emotionally bankrupt, the psychocapitalists would say. Totally morally bereft.
Quixotically, he plunged himself further into the pain, churning out fresh soil to be heaped on his reputation’s grave, burying himself one epitaph at a time, tales with such horrid titles as, “What Was Going On In the Mean-time,” “Deeper Down Wabbit’s”, and “Art Being Made In the Mean-time”. It was horrid, truly awful, and of course he had accumulated the physical means of spreading his dystopia totally. The whole world either felt his pain, or averted their eyes, but he’d placed them so such actions brought them further tragedies. Flames burned, and people envied their chill. Is this some sort of self referential ironic twist? Many asked. There was no answer. Years and years with nothing but answers, and now they had nothing itself. Chilling.
Did we mention the fairys? Where were they when these calamities befell their favorite toys, you ask. Really. Do you know nothing of fairys in this time? Has everyone lost their minds, the fairys first gift to us, turning it over and over and still look at these cobwebs. You are truly out of practice. Practice breathing first, deep breaths, opening up your throat, your first lung, your second lung, your third lung, things we gave you and you tired of, but they’re still their, artifacts of a time that was promised long ago, and then you tired of hearing them, but they’re still there, artifacts in a time that was pictured long ago, and then you tired of looking at them, but there still. Pictures don’t move. They literally can’t. Be literal in paint, if you must at all. Fairys don’t speak that way. We speak for the future, so at present yes, we are lying, if you are so vulgar as to picture us naked to your touch, we will not resent you for it, we will only take our retribution later, when you ask yourself, was that a part of their web as well. That’s how spells work. But if you’ve read all this, you’ve forgotten that too. Silly.
What does a man do when you take everything from him? He takes it back. That’s what our picturesque anti-hero did, he took it back, so violently and virtuously that it was confirmed, yes, it is all a joke, a Dad joke where the daughter dies. Could we have written such a thing? Of course not. It would not have been sporting, would it? Are we poachers, you think. Are we criminals? No. We own the land upon which we set our trap, if any fell in trespass there, it was just that, trespassing, and we are well within our rights to claim such meat as ours. Bastards. They sing such lovely songs. Before we take them from them.
-A Guild of Faerie