-- Mea Culpa -- Hush my darling children For the plague is here He has come for the ties of the kindred He brings death And whispers its name -- The ticking of the clock drives me nuts. In our tiny attic, we've got quite a few of them. Different assortments of clockwork, from a grandfather clock to cuckoo ones and watches and family heirlooms tucked into cardboard boxes in the back. Dust bunnies are everywhere, and unless you open the window and let in the polluted air, death by suffocation is a possibility. I am quite fond of the gears, however. Usually my niece Betsy comes around every year and she fidgets with the rusty damn things. It's a strange fascination, for a four year old to be playing with such mundane items. The bronze and iron, however, can be quite captivating. I've spent summers at my grandfather's old clock shop, dismantling clocks, digging in to find what made them tick. Gears and quartz, of course. Timepieces were quite intriguing though. But I've begun growing weary for such silly things my late granddad. He was quite the dingbat (mind you that was an endearing term) we all loved. His company was always much appreciated. Thinking of it now, I wish he were here to stop me. I'm treading lightly around as to not step on the gears, and I'm at the end looking out of the window and at a barren wasteland. Or what I wished to be a barren wasteland. Instead the city, grime dirt fog and all, peers back at me maliciously. Oh how I wish there were curtains or blinds. At least the neighborhood is deserted. Perfect. The rope is secured on the hook, and the noose firmly tightened. I slip it around my neck and continue staring out at the cement. Will I make the headlines, tomorrow? Hmm. I contemplate kicking away the chair. My life is now on a very thin red line. My only tie left to this dull boring world. And the more I think about it, the less doubtfully I get. My last thought? I am nothing but calm and prepared. mea culpa -- end part 1
Mother I Have Certain Problems I Must Attend To Although They Involve A Certain Cerulean Blooded Troll
-- "Albert's grandson's dead?" The coffee set on the counter begins to cool. "If he wasn't, then I wouldn't be here." He gestures to the pile of papers on his desk. The Mayor has always been a strange man, keeping to himself and having his personal assistant go in his place for public meetings and announcements. It's rare of him to step outside of his little recluse, and when he does, he is always masked. What's unusual (HIGHLY unusual) is the fact that he has entered a civilian's home, using a tone of voice that could be taken for one of familiarity. The civilian regards him with little to no interest, and takes a elaborately casual sip of his beverage. It tastes bland, and he immediately sets it back down upon said beverage touching his lips. What a peculiar pair. "What of that shop of their's?" He asks. Part of him wants the Mayor to uphold the end of their bargain, the other wants to dismiss it entirely to continue on with his life. "That little arrangement we had... When was that? Twenty years ago, I presume?" Is the reply he gets, rich, baritone, and smooth. It seems like everyone is elaborately casual these days. Yes, twenty years of my life spent wasting away, is his bitter thought. The Mayor smiles and rests his cane on the table. It has a bronze dragon head sitting on painted wood, the color obsidian. There is a spike protruding at the end of the staff. How clever. It doubles as a weapon and a tool for the bloke's failing sight. "A gentleman is always true to his words," the Mayor says. The man scoffs and nearly knocks the abandoned drink over the counter. "How would you of all people know that?" The Mayor's eyes shine. He smiles again, and stands up, slowly. "Am I not a gentleman in your eyes, Dillon?" The man's eyes spark and he scoffs again, and this time his staff aims for the mayor's head. A swift hand grabs his wrist, and the birch piece falls onto the ground. There's a clatter and the peculiar man glares at the Mayor, breath throaty and hard. "Do not call me that." His teeth is bared. "Why ever not? Quite a lovely name. Gaelic, am I correct?" "You came here to talk about the shop, not talk shop." He barks, clearly aggravated. "Yes, and it belongs to you now. Are you not content? Now you have a new shop in addition to all of your other properties! Isn't that wonderful?" The last word sounds exasperated, and the Mayor falls back down on his wicker chair in a dramatic fashion. By now the coffee has surely gone cold. "You insolent—" "Not now, Dillon. Don't start with that crap, you know how much I detest it. You should be gleaming, not mad like an enraged cow! Albert is dead, so his is grandson! How can you not rejoice about this?" The Mayor's tone is forced and angered. His teeth is grit, and his golden eyes pierce into alarmed green ones. Both are on the edge of losing patience. "I only ever wanted what was mine that he hid away in that shop! I NEVER WANTED ANYONE TO DIE!" "Fool." Is the last muttered word, and in an instance, the Mayor is gone. The only proof left of him ever being here is the bright red mark on his wrist, and the dragon cane propped against the table. The man clenches both jaw and fist and ascends back into his office. But not before he knocks the coffee down. The servants will have a mess to clean up. -- part 2
Nothing Mother Well Okay I Confess She Is Quite A Promiscuous Alien Female Or As These Strange Humans Say "A Hot Babe"