Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.1

Today I begin the next story in my Writing Wednesdays segment.  The epic poem I am writing adheres (for the most part) to the rules that were mentioned in yesterday’s post.  This began as a personal exercise to see if I could stick to those rules and actually right something enjoyable in the epic poem vein.  I find myself enjoying it better by reading it aloud, but the flow does not always work well for this.  Despite the numerous flaws, I give you “The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria.”

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I.
Hear, Oh Daughters of Gast,
Ye wondrous beauties of Yon,
And pour your inspiration out onto me.
Oh mighty and fierce Sons,
I ask thee to give remembrance to
All who are named in this tale,
That they shall ne’er fade into Black.

May the Children of Aoide, Melete, and Mneme—
Chakra, Ukulele, Kraut, and Kraus,
Oslo, Olso, Ooleo, Orpa, and Olxe,
Bernard, Halbert Dayspa, Antonio, and Wolfe—
Grant me the voice to deliver justice
To those poor fools that were caught up in the twine
Of the Sisters.

‘Twas on the eve of Invocation, Ochtobe 19,
when hope left the Hero and he despaired.
“Why must I find myself in this condition,
where nary Man nor god has e’er dared travel?
If there is hope for me, then it surely no longer
Dwells in my heart.  I am alone in this,” wept the Hero,
“And all have forsaken me.”

Listen, my readers, and I shall spin you
The Tale of Oscambria, the Hero of the Living Worlds.
His is a tale every child knows,
From the rice paddies of India to the
Slums of New Yorke City, from the Outback
To the Peaks of the Great Isles,
But I offer you the only authorized written history of his life.

Grab yourself a cask of Dew and pop the corn,
For the tale is a bildungsroman of sorts,
And you must be comfortable to enjoy and to learn.
Read with care, and observe the cruel way the Fates
Played with Oscambria, bringing him from
Hero of the Three Worlds to a lowly man
Sitting on an uncomfortable bed of a ruined once-glorious town.

II.
“How do you plan to defeat me, Oscambria?
You are but a child of Fire and Flesh,
Not full in your deity. 
I am the mighty Zzizgarg, the Blood-son of
Majestic Paes and Mighty Rone, Fire and Ice
Both course through my veins.
Besides, you are not even immortal!”

“You filthy, yellow-man, I will defeat you with my wit.
You think I come to challenge you with empty hands?
No!  I have the talisman.”
The silence that filled the Courte du Gods was loud,
Like a bleating lamb before the offering,
Like a dead thundercloud on the plains,
And Oscambria laughed at their astonishment.

“You will mind your tongue, semi-mortal,
Or I will have it,” spat Zzizgarg.
“No, I don’t think you will.  I was born in this world
with my tongue, and I intend to Ascend with it as well.
Now I am finished with this pointless banter.
You will either relinquish your lunch money
Or face the wrath of the talisman.”

The yellow-faced Zzizgarg glared with red eyes.
His hand darted into his cloak, but Oscambria was faster.
The semi-mortal already held his god-cell in his hand
And his lithe fingers were moving quickly across the keys.
Before Zzizgarg even had a chance to react,
The challenge was over,
The thirty unique text prayers required for victory belonged to Oscambria.

“I will not be bested by you, mortal!”
“You speak true, Zzizgarg, for you’ve already been bested by me,
though I am semi-mortal.  Now, hand over the loot.”
The proud Zzizgarg gave up his money, sneering loudly as he did so.
“Do not think this is over, punk,” he whispered,
moving close to Oscambria so only he could hear,
“Because I will tell Father of this and you will be in for it.”

The Blood-son pushed Oscambria back and stalked off,
Leaving the Courte.  The audience clapped,
Hesitantly at first, but soon there was a full fledged round of applause.
Oscambria beamed, pocketing the money and bowing.
It is of interest to note the day of this interaction,
As it was fifteen years to the day from start to finish,
The Eve of Invocation, MMIX.