Hello, I’ve returned.
I’ve been working hard on writing things, I promise … but, I didn’t write on the short story for here like I had wanted to.
(Instead I started writing a new novel, oops.)
But, I wasn’t going to shirk my responsibility to deliver content to this blog. Naturally, I went through some of my older pieces, searching for the perfect thing.
And find the perfect thing I did.
About three years ago, I had a class assignment to write a piece based on the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. I don’t remember much about why I chose to take it in this direction, but … well, it’s interesting. I couldn’t stop laughing while reading through this.
As you are about to see, I have matured a lot as a writer in the past few years.
Please enjoy the following piece
where I discretely made fun of my friends.
The Quest to Find the Perfect Cookie
The winter was cold, coldest one in three
Years past. Flowers dead and without a bee,
Frozen over lakes, the snow dusted lands,
Added to the season, and palmer’s hands
Praying to survive their pilgrim-age-es.
The whole lot of them, distinct im-age-es.
I met all six of them in a hostel,
For-get-ting them would be im-poss-i-ble.
The first was a soldier as valiant as
A mouse enclosed by barn owls and poison grass.
(But of course we are assuming the mouse
Has not a clue of all the danger.) Louse
Have more knowledge about safety and stealth.
The enigma was the soldier’s full health.
Next I con-ver-sed with the physician.
Her eyes sparkled, always on a mission,
She spends her sparse spare time knowledge seek-ing.
Never having a dull day when practi-cing,
Whether that be medicine or the flute.
So elegant, one might think her a snoot.
The hobbit was the next one I spoke to.
Novels were where her eyes were fixed and glued.
She froze up at small, slightly gruesome sights.
She was nice, a bit on the weirder side,
But then again, in the end, aren’t we all?
Oversized shoes made her prone to a fall.
The next I spoke to was in-ter-est-ing,
To say the least. (And that was the very least).
She claimed openly to be a felon;
The claim was thrown by her “carry-ing melon”,
As she called it. The cantaloupe was dressed
In baby clothes and was to be addressed
As “Madame”. This felon was more insane
Than psychopath. I walked away slowly
While she was dist-ract-ed with ra-vi-oli.
The minstrel held my words after I walked
From the fellon. She sang more than she talked,
But her song was beautiful. At times she
Co-uld be sassier than a queen bee,
And the sweaters she wore were the felon’s,
They were warmer and taken on a loan.
The artist could barely take time away
From her sketching to talk, like I might sway
Her talents from perfection with just my
Presence. Her voice showed open dislike by
The way she would place emphasis on some words
And imply that my exist-ence was absurd.
I deci-ded that she would be more inclined
To speak when her work was finally signed.
As I wandered away, I met a small
Little red head, that when she was appalled
Her face became a color to match, making
Her many freckles disappear. Baking
Was something she enjoyed, but not nearly
As much as she enjoyed cer-al. Clearly
She was a killer. A cer-al killer.
And her spoon would make anyone shiver,
For she br-and-ish-ed it like a knife,
Cutting food to pieces. Most wished for their life
Upon meeting her, the villain with the
Spoon used as a knife. She came from the sea.
The little red head’s companion was just
As fascinating. Her hands adjusted
Her perfect clothes every other second.
Manners just as refined, I reckon.
She was tall and lanky, with a staring
Problem. She spaced out when things got boring.
I met the pure essence of evil next.
Her face always showed the feeling of vex.
Where she walked seemed to be wind and thunder
There were what looked like horns coming from under
Her dark hair, and a red tinge to her skin.
Surely demon kind were her kith and kin.
She told me she was Satan, and she asked
To buy my soul, so I walked away fast.
A sweet southern belle and I exchanged
Words after that. She did not seem deranged,
Like some other travelers, but she did
Seem fasc-ina-ted by the snow, like a kid.
She was from the south, having journ-eyed far
For this pil-grim-age, following a star
That apparently leads to a magic
Bake-ry. The story behind was classic,
She told me, that the cookies made from there
Would make pain and grief eas-i-er to bear.
That was why this rag-tag group had joined forces,
They hoped to treat their problems at the source
I thought it was a good and no-ble idea,
So I joined their group as well, to be a
Fellow pilgrim. We left the inn the next
Day, thoughts spinning and whirling, all complex
Misconceptions about what might occur.
I thou-ght we were going to the fir
Tree orchard, but apparently our goal
Was to reach Narnia by the night’s fall.
It was a long journey, made all the more
Longer by the “felon” and Satan’s gore
Speak. The physician and the soldier found
They got along well, and seemed to be bound
At the hip. The artist and the sweet belle
Spoke, telling stories and weaving a spell.
We arrived at Narnia’s best bake-ry,
The whole pil-gram-age seemed mostly crazy,
But then again, everyone here was, for
The most part. The cookies were not a bore,
But the magic was a lie. The cookies
Couldn’t fix lives, it wasn’t a movie
That we were in, but maybe we did in
Fact form fri-end-ships that could spark a grin.
It isn’t magic or spells that we need,
But other humans, to help us indeed.
I … I don’t have a reasonable explanation for this. I just thought someone might have a nice laugh at least.
Anyways, thanks for reading! I hope you have a lovely day!
Come back on Thursday for some fresh-squeezed, modernly-formatted poetry! I have a good idea. 🙂