Steve Shilstone's Blog, page 25

Behold the Princess Ivah Skay.

She outwitted her parents and ran away.

She rebelled against Law

and became the Green Va.

Why did she do it? I really can’t say.

The plank considered itself blessed to be the topmost plank on the pile of planks in the hold of the ship. Its constant yapping about its mountain origins and its trip through the sawmill and the long bumpy ride on the wagon before being swung aboard by some kind of pulley contraption was, to put it mildly, an annoyance to the rest of the lumber. The plank didn’t notice. Truth, it was excited to be on a great adventure. It speculated aloud and on and on about where they were going and what would become of them.

“I can see myself as part of a wall, that I certainly can,” it said. “Maybe in a parlor, where there would be a piano and music. That would be good. But of course on the one hand I don’t wish to limit myself, and on the other I dare not try to venture too far above my station. So saying, I wouldn’t mind at all being a part of a sidewalk in, say, Nome, Alaska. Perhaps just outside the swinging doors of a saloon. A lot of topsy-turvy chaos there, I can bet. You know, even taking part in the floor of a cabin would be satisfactory to me. I wouldn’t like to be covered by a rug, though. That would never do.”

The plank rattled on. It was a wonder to hear. The other planks were appalled, and yet at the same time amazed, at the plank’s endless imaginings. And so it happened that a kind of bliss settled over the lumber pile after a square shaft of light opened above, two men descended, fetched the plank, carried it up and away, and the shaft of light thinned to darkness.

The plank remained speechless with a strange combination of fear and anticipation when it found itself shoved out over the side of the ship and hanging above the sea. It heard muttering and many drawn out pronunciations of the letter ‘r’. Boots walked along its length. There was a splash below and more and louder pronunciations of the letter ‘r’. Then the plank itself was tossed into the sea. It wondered if it would wash up on a desert island and make part of a shelter. It certainly hoped so.

*

What can one say about Jemby

when addressing the ruling assembly?

He’s a goblin, it’s true,

and he isn’t one, too.

It’s enough to make one all trembly.

While pondering a rhyme for thimble,

reject at all costs using bimble.

Your brain might be considered nimble

if it went with a word like symbol,

the same, but different, from cymbal.

There is, of course, no word spelled simble

which brings us back to the unword bimble

which you must not rhyme with thimble.

The Wand of Life removed the tamale pie in its ruddy earthenware casserole from the oven, placed it on a crocheted potholder at the center of the mahogany table, and admired the heat-glazed golden amber color of the cornmeal topping.

“Kids!  Dinner!” she called.

“I don’t want any!  I ate four boxes of Milk Duds today, so I can’t eat again until Thursday!  Leave me alone!” came from off in one direction.

“I smell tamale pie!  I hate tamale pie!  You know I only eat candy corn and honey!” came from off in another direction.

“Good.  All for me then,” muttered the Wand of Life, and she tapped the table, sending sparkle spangles whooshing around in a whirl.

The casserole gleamed dull empty, licked clean.

Here’s Dosh, the hutkeeper, lost in dreams.

Her quest? To solve rain riddles, it seems.

How long will it take?

Will her frail mind break?

When she opens her eyes, a madness there gleams.

While the other socks clumped together and gossiped in the hamper, the angular sock eased under a pillowcase and brooded. No one liked her, not even her partner. The angular sock clearly heard her partner jabbering and complaining to the others about the angular sock’s shortcomings. Her stripe was flawed. Her toe had that awful angle. She had two ridiculous threads hanging loose from her cuff. On and on they gabbed. Her partner told how Hetty, their cruel and forgetful mistress, had flung the angular sock against the wall before flouncing from the room and slamming the door. Oh, how the socks laughed.

“They’ll be sorry,” muttered the angular sock.

For you see, she planned to escape to the land of lost socks. She had heard the legend of a magical place found somewhere beyond the washer and the dryer, and she yearned to go there. All through the thrilling swim and dizzying spin in the washer, she kept silent and searched without success for some way to escape, some secret opening to the land of lost socks. Meanwhile, the other socks laughed and frolicked, playing tumble games with the underwear and flipping up to see which one could cling and remain in place highest on the washer wall. When the giggling mound of underwear and socks was at last lifted from the washer and deposited in the dryer, the angular sock remained alert and sober, ready to scan the dryer for a way out to freedom. She hadn’t found an exit from the washer. That means it simply must be in the dryer, she thought. She told herself it was impossible that she had missed it. Metallic click, hum and roll, comforting heat spread over, around and through the happily tumbling socks and underwear. The angular sock barely felt the heat. She barely noticed herself tumbling. She was much too busy searching, searching, searching. Oh, there. What was that? What did she see? The angular sock leaped with hope at a nearly invisible slot high up at the back of the turning cylinder. She hooked on, hanging. She strained. She pushed. She struggled to squeeze through.

SUCCESS! Blue skies! Rolling hills! Grassy meadows! Romping socks, hundreds of them, giggling and skipping, approached. The angular sock stood her ground, thrilled but uncertain. Would they accept her? After all, she had a flawed stripe, dangling threads, and a bad angle. She waited, and yes, they welcomed her! Each and every one of them! Ripped, threadbare, with holes or whole, they welcomed her! And she heeled and toed and joined the romp across the meadows and over the hills in the land of lost socks! And there she is romping still unless she isn’t.

Oh, what a fool is the Fool called Fatch.

For this grouchy old jester there is no match.

I’ll tell you that

it’s his jingle bell hat

driving him straight to the looney bin hatch.

The oh so pure and crystal clear little marble orb, fair glowing with pride, presented herself to be gilded by feathery brushes and lifted into the place of honor at the apex of the centerpiece on the Royal Table in the Hall of Kings there in the Queen‘s castle. Jack came by at ten to see that all was well. All was.

The Quing of Blossom could not be more haughty.

To tell you the truth, she’s really quite snotty.

Nose in the air,

she simply can’t bear

the rudeness of crudeness or anything naughty.