Friday, February 25, 2011

Ode to the Ladybug (old)

Ladybug, ladybug, won't you stay?
Of course not, soon you'll fly away

Fly away, ladybug, fly away
Crawling and flying and creeping all day
Munching and buzzing your troubles away

So very gentle but not tame
So very careful but not lame

Ladybug come, you can rest on my arm
You're one small insect with a lot of charm

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Kingdom Leave

I watched the four horsemen ride downtown, the aura of fear they brought spreading faster than the speed of their galloping horses. The horses' eyes were livid with a rage no one had ever seen in such a normally tranquil and noble animal, their fury enough to leave a permanent impression on your eyes, a ghastly image you could not banish, a gash in your very soul. The riders themselves were just as disturbing, albeit less grotesque. Their faces were concealed by thin, black cloaks. Their bony hands were visible, but almost swallowed up by their monstrous robes. The sickly white bone shone brightly against their black robes, darker than a moonless night. They left a fiery path behind them as they tore open the very fabric of the Universe, leaving a literal Hell on Earth, the bright red flames consuming all of God's creation, all that was Good. They were armed with scythes, fear and the flames of Hell. The screams of all mortals, sounds of pure terror and outright horror at the aberrations that rushed towards them, were not muted by the horses' hooves. Rather, they were amplified, and the mortal terror of all God's creation blended into one sick, harmonious crescendo. Mothers forgot the frightened children beside them, and the bakers forsook their bread in the ovens, leaving it to be consumed by the fire. Their masterpiece, so carefully crafted and near perfection, was engulfed by the flames, and in no time, became a shriveled, pitiful coal, as the Earth was soon to be turned by this plague. Their horses galloped at a marvelous speed, yet their actions seemed slow, delayed. At the heels of the horsemen scurried a hundred thousand Rotweillers, the hounds of Hell coming to play on Earth. With their menacing razor-sharp teeth, they snarled and barked, a sickly red foam emanating from their muzzles. They leaped upon and devoured any pitiful creatures left intact by the horses' hooves and the fiery flames. Some died before they had time to even react, to fully comprehend what was happening. Behind the devilish horsemen, the charred bones of such poor individuals fed the raging flames, a deep red color smelling of death itself. No obstacles blocked the way of the ghastly crusaders, they were merely ingested by the fire, the living, breathing fire, the evil, writhing, mocking fire. Entire fields of crops were destroyed, monstrous cities burned to the ground, and that deadly quiet amidst all the noise, amidst the shrieking and yelling and screaming. For where the horsemen brought destruction, they brought silence. An eerie, unbroken silence that was slowly wrapping around the Earth, draining the life out of it. They would prevail, they knew they would prevail. No messenger could outrun them, letters and warnings alike simply fed the blaze, the evil, murderous blaze. The situation was more than hopeless: there was no hope to give up, no hope to lose. The villages were simply devoured, life being conquered by Death. The cloaked riders, feeling no remorse at their destruction of all God's creation, surveyed the scene with a ghastly, unblinking eye. They took in the burning land, the crumbling houses, all that is pure on fire. And for the first time since the Dawn of Eternity, the fourth horseman smiled, a dark, mirthless smile.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The Philosopher Turnip

Roger T. Booker was a small, timid man. He wore comfortable but neat clothing, had a small pair of spectacles and lived a miserable life. Curiously enough, he was also very happy. He was a teacher, and taught Philosophy in Woodacre High School. His students were lively but chatty, and scarce were the alumni who had a zest for the subject. Even those students who looked up to him and claimed him as their favorite teacher admitted it was hard to do so. Whenever their eager eyes were upon him, thirsting for knowledge, he began to stutter and repeat himself, his hands became sweaty and he broke into palpitations. Very little was known about his personal life except that he had some sort of family, evident by the blurry pictures he would reluctantly pull out of his black leather wallet. When pressed for names, he would mutter incomprehensibly until the interrogating party gave up. He had a passion for his subject, but no true lust or even taste for life itself. He walked down the path of life like a drunk blundering home; stumbling along, letting whatever happen happen. Sometimes, his students swore, when speaking to him about some assignment or new idea, they would see a dim light glow in his nervous blue eyes, and he would seem to be in a better place. But he would quickly break loose, like a dreamer abruptly awoken, and say, "I'm sorry, what?" At times he could be very happy, others he could be very sad. He was a very lonely man, the kind aware of his own loneliness and so deep in it he had long given up trying to shake it off. He had no known religious affiliation, besides being a self-claimed, "very confused and God-fearing atheist," a cryptic comment no one could decipher. He was a believer in old-fashioned manners and discipline, but terrible at administering or even forcing it. His own students towered over them, and already a very submissive man, he easily submit to them, but not on the basis of fear, never fear. It was more of dwindling hopelessness and anxiety. He wore a shirt and tie everyday, and treated every day as if it was in the middle of the school year, even if it was the last day of school. He did not become exceptionally attached to any one student during his years: it seems the years just passed him by without him giving any notice. One day he would find himself teaching a completely different classroom, and with a shrug accepted it. The more his students loved him and his lifestyle, the more withdrawn he became. At some point, he became like a turnip rolling downhill. Sometimes he would slow, but lately he began to just accelerate down the hill. He passed many things, but like a true turnip, gave them no mind. In fact, should a turnip achieve sentience, it may have believed Roger his brother. He was a turnip, no doubt, and some suspected, a genius. Perhaps a revolutionary philosopher pioneering a profound new way of life. Most just thought he was a turnip. And yet he was the quint-essential symbol of the school, its values, morals, and education. He was forever immortalized as the school's Philosopher Turnip.