Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.2

Sorry about last week not having a continuation of the story.  I definitely have not been feeling well, and last week was the first time I haven’t posted original fiction for Writing Wednesdays since I started it, which was in August or something.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this piece.  If you remember correctly, Oscambria had just got caught shoplifting.  As always, you can read the previous posts by following here or here.



His hands were bound and he was sitting on the floor in a cool room,
Walls bared and blank,
In a lower level of the same store.
Mossossopia was sniffing around,
Likely looking for a crumb of food.
The Hero had no idea how long he’d been waiting,
But it felt like several commercial breaks.

He had offered no resistance against the guard.
Instead of putting up a fight and causing a scene
He simply dropped his shoulders,
Shook his head miserably,
And looked into the eyes of the thick-set man.
He tried to pour sympathy and pity into his stare,
Like a whipped pup, but it had no affect on the man.

The guard took him and the galleyrat out of the storefront,
Scolding him the entire while,
And left him in the holding room,
Telling him someone would be to see him soon.
The room was dim and empty,
Full of nothingness,
And as time wore on it began to unnerve Oscambria.

He was thankful that the tuxedo suit had not been removed,
Else his problems would have increased a hundredfold,
and he’d’ve likely been executed on the spot.
Finally there came a noise outside the door,
That of two men talking;
Mossossopia ran to the door and sniffed the air,
Her purple tongue flashing against the wood.

The Hero braced himself.
He rehearsed what he’d offer as his defense,
That he was starving and sick,
As anyone could tell from his extremely pale skin,
And that he just wanted a bite to eat before he died.
The food wasn’t even for himself, he’d say,
But for his four children, all motherless and sick like he.

He prayed to the Muses a CCCLXXII word monologue.
“Oh wonderful Muses,
help me in this show I’m about to do.
Fill me with a passion even more than what you did for me in ‘Gilgon the Great,’
That whoever comes through that door will have pity on me and Mossy,
That they’ll release us and spare us,
So we might get on with our quest.

“You know my heart.
You know this horrible curse I bear.
You know how I long to perform once again in the Round,
To please you, dear Muses.
Aid me in this role.
Help me fool the one that comes for me,
And I will give you praise for the performance.

“All of my days have I served thee,
eager to assume a character and entertain a crowd,
all for your glory.
Please do not fail me here,
Here in this dead and barren room in this strange city.
Fill my heart, touch my tongue,
And in all I give you praise.

“Remember me in my time of trouble,
Like you did when I first came into your service.
I once was a nervous lad,
Afraid that I would not please you,
But you stilled my soul
And lit my passions on fire,
And ever after how I’ve served with steadfast determination.

“Even Mossy serves you,
of this I’m sure,
as his antics are always full of cuteness and lovability.
Touch him that he, too, will aid me,
That he’ll look with glassy eyes and pity,
That the resolve of our captors will fail
And we will be released soon.

“Since the dawn of the ages you have been there,
helping Man to find his tongue,
remember his lines,
manipulate his body and put on a show for all to see,
all to glorify your selves.
You, oh Muses, have given this world so much,
And yet I ask for more.

“If you find it in your graces, bless me.
May my performance be the fodder for songs for years to come.
May the bards sing how the Muses came to my aid,
The aid of the captured Hero,
And how they rescued him from his stinking holding cell in Sparka.
Everything I do… I do it for you, like Old Bryan Adams.
It’s all for your glory.  Glory.”

He fell silent and concentrated.
He assumed a dejected position against the wall (as best he could)
And summoned tears to his eyes.
“No one alive can withstand my acting,” he whispered,
fighting the urge to smile deviously, fully expecting divine assistance.
It would do no good if someone walked through and saw him in tears,
But smiling like an idiot.

The door opened,
Slow enough that an air of suspense filled the Hero’s lungs.
He closed his eyes and released the tears.
Warm, salty streams trickled down his face.
He prayed one last, silent, short prayer
And steeled himself for the performance.
He opened his eyes and his mind went blank.

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