TheJacques
Registered User
- Joined
- Oct 25, 2006
- Messages
- 16
- Points
- 0
CANDLE TAME
I, Hyronimus B. Bux, the Court Jester of Castle Kingdom, awoke on a Thursday morn to hear the devil knock at our door.
There was one resounding bang every minute, no sooner and no later. I could hear the fiend behind our door, right outside our living quarters!
What was I to do? I was but a court jester. A knave. A fool. A coxcomb. I could make witty allusions between foxes and tents, and I could cast humorous metaphors on eggs and churches, as well as make the palaces from here to China erupt in cackling guffaws of ambrosial laughter.
But this was, in all tragic sense of the phrase, no laughing matter. The devil demanded entrance into Castle Kingdom, and I, Hyronimus B. Bux, was to do something about it.
Where was the porter? Where were the guards? What happened to the kitchen staff? No cats?
I could hear down the swaying rouge hall the groans and moans of honey-dew pleasure passed between the king and queen. I would often hear our leaders in that bedroom, carping deep into the night, sighing and heaving and panting with the coming heat of our Spanish weather. Rarely did I ever see them. Rarely did I see anybody.
I turned out from the corner of my starry-blue chamber, walking into the raspberry jam stone road, forking a left at the pig in the haystack.
Even the pig gave me a snort that told me he knew what grew behind our door.
To my hypnotic surprise, I was walking ever closer and closer to the door, endangering myself and the whole of Castle Kingdom.
What should I DO? I thought with panic and worry. What should I DO?
As I stepped closer and closer, my thoughts began to brighten. My speech became liquid as a moonbeam gem, slipping my voice into the hieroglyphic kaleidoscope of time and candles.
I smelled the new age relief from the last candle in the hall, remembering the tossing of golden hair in the summer and the batting of emerald eyes in the winter.
My fingers tickled but a whisper of space before the door's knob, until this vibrant candle aroma consumed my senses and my judgment. I stepped away from the door, whiffing in this burning pleasantry of afternoon wax and sunshine evenings.
And then, to my horror, the devil let himself in with the key we always left under the mat.
I turned my belled shoes on their heels and strode away from the creaking groans of the yawning wood, pushed by the shadowed abyss behind it.
When he entered our home, I rounded the corner.
I, Hyronimus B. Bux, the Court Jester of Castle Kingdom, awoke on a Thursday morn to hear the devil knock at our door.
There was one resounding bang every minute, no sooner and no later. I could hear the fiend behind our door, right outside our living quarters!
What was I to do? I was but a court jester. A knave. A fool. A coxcomb. I could make witty allusions between foxes and tents, and I could cast humorous metaphors on eggs and churches, as well as make the palaces from here to China erupt in cackling guffaws of ambrosial laughter.
But this was, in all tragic sense of the phrase, no laughing matter. The devil demanded entrance into Castle Kingdom, and I, Hyronimus B. Bux, was to do something about it.
Where was the porter? Where were the guards? What happened to the kitchen staff? No cats?
I could hear down the swaying rouge hall the groans and moans of honey-dew pleasure passed between the king and queen. I would often hear our leaders in that bedroom, carping deep into the night, sighing and heaving and panting with the coming heat of our Spanish weather. Rarely did I ever see them. Rarely did I see anybody.
I turned out from the corner of my starry-blue chamber, walking into the raspberry jam stone road, forking a left at the pig in the haystack.
Even the pig gave me a snort that told me he knew what grew behind our door.
To my hypnotic surprise, I was walking ever closer and closer to the door, endangering myself and the whole of Castle Kingdom.
What should I DO? I thought with panic and worry. What should I DO?
As I stepped closer and closer, my thoughts began to brighten. My speech became liquid as a moonbeam gem, slipping my voice into the hieroglyphic kaleidoscope of time and candles.
I smelled the new age relief from the last candle in the hall, remembering the tossing of golden hair in the summer and the batting of emerald eyes in the winter.
My fingers tickled but a whisper of space before the door's knob, until this vibrant candle aroma consumed my senses and my judgment. I stepped away from the door, whiffing in this burning pleasantry of afternoon wax and sunshine evenings.
And then, to my horror, the devil let himself in with the key we always left under the mat.
I turned my belled shoes on their heels and strode away from the creaking groans of the yawning wood, pushed by the shadowed abyss behind it.
When he entered our home, I rounded the corner.
