Offered: You will be the object of all desire. The love of any woman, of all women, will be yours. Any woman you choose will love you completely, will desire you with all her being. Any woman you bid into your company will be fully yours, to do everything you want with her. Each one of them will fulfill your every whim and fantasy. You will enjoy their bodies, their company, and their charm. Your magnetism and attractiveness to women will earn you great fame and riches. You will know, more than any man has ever known, what it is to be loved.
In return, I demand only your love. Every ounce of your love you must to surrender to me in perpetuity.
You will never be able to love, nurture, or cherish. You will never love any of the women who give you their full devotion. You will only be able to destroy, demolish, and break. You will hold all women in disdain. Every woman who keeps your company will depart from you wounded and broken. Vengeance, pain and misery will be yours to give in abundance.
Small price to pay, methinks, for all the women of your dreams.
Now, do we have a deal?
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Friday, 19 March 2010
War Widow (#fridayflash)
How dare you call me beautiful? Here I am, pregnant with a child I will only ever hate. His eyes will always remind me of his father's, of the man who shot my husband in the back as I watched, then pinned me to the floor, gun to my head. I hoped he'd pull the trigger once he'd taken his pleasure from me. Instead, he stood, zipped up his trousers and laughed, then howled and whooped as I screamed on the floor.
How dare you speak of lessons in suffering? Suffering has only one lesson: Those, like you, who speak of the "redemptive potential" of pain are morons. Did you hear that? Morons. Heartless, soulless, shallow morons.
How dare you say that God is on my side? What did God do for me? I, the vanquished foe, have no honour. Yes, I am vanquished. Yes, I am disgraced. You can keep your God of the oppressed.
How dare you say it was barbarous, what he did? Did you see his eyes? Did you? You do not know barbarity. How dare you speak of what you do not know.
How dare you take my voice? I have my own voice. I am not voiceless. Can you not hear me? I can speak for myself.
How dare you speak of making peace, as though you have a special calling? Let me tell you this: Without me, without my dead husband, without my bastard child, you would have no peace to make. We are the conflict, the raw materials you use to create peace. We do not want your peace. I will spit it in your face. It is too late for me, for us, for all of us that you pity, for all of us that inspire you.
Yes, you look at me with pity. You see me on your TV screen, and you look at me with pity. You philosophise with your friends as to how you might help. You feel bad for me. "That's terrible," you say. You, whose colleagues are researching how to improve upon the gun that killed my husband. "Mechanical Engineering," they call it. You, whose elected officials ensure the guns are sold. "Diplomacy" and "ensuring economic stability", they call it. You, who do not speak to judge.
How dare you speak of me? How dare you speak?
How dare you speak of lessons in suffering? Suffering has only one lesson: Those, like you, who speak of the "redemptive potential" of pain are morons. Did you hear that? Morons. Heartless, soulless, shallow morons.
How dare you say that God is on my side? What did God do for me? I, the vanquished foe, have no honour. Yes, I am vanquished. Yes, I am disgraced. You can keep your God of the oppressed.
How dare you say it was barbarous, what he did? Did you see his eyes? Did you? You do not know barbarity. How dare you speak of what you do not know.
How dare you take my voice? I have my own voice. I am not voiceless. Can you not hear me? I can speak for myself.
How dare you speak of making peace, as though you have a special calling? Let me tell you this: Without me, without my dead husband, without my bastard child, you would have no peace to make. We are the conflict, the raw materials you use to create peace. We do not want your peace. I will spit it in your face. It is too late for me, for us, for all of us that you pity, for all of us that inspire you.
Yes, you look at me with pity. You see me on your TV screen, and you look at me with pity. You philosophise with your friends as to how you might help. You feel bad for me. "That's terrible," you say. You, whose colleagues are researching how to improve upon the gun that killed my husband. "Mechanical Engineering," they call it. You, whose elected officials ensure the guns are sold. "Diplomacy" and "ensuring economic stability", they call it. You, who do not speak to judge.
How dare you speak of me? How dare you speak?
Friday, 12 March 2010
Bottled Tears (#fridayflash)
Translated from the Elvish original by Professor S.C. Nieklot and Dr R. J. Siwel.
I am surrendering my love for you to the ocean. Through my tears, captured in this bottle, I have purged it from my soul. I hold it in my hands. It weighs heavy. My hands and arms ache as my soul ached.
The bottle, like me, is fragile. It could be smashed on the rocks at this very shore tomorrow. Sea water could leak in, taking it to the ocean's depths. It could wash up on an empty beach to be discovered by a human child. I know the risks. I know the tears will force their escape somehow. I am tempted to swallow them. Still, I will be strong. I will throw the bottle to the sea.
I know not where they will find release, nor whose heart shall be haunted with my sadness. I know I am not the only one to have done this, to have broken faery law and polluted the sea with my sorrow. Do you remember how you told me once you heard the anguish of the ocean in the waves crashing on the shore? Then, I pretended to listen to the waves as you told me to, I pretended to understand. Now, I hear it too. The sea only mourns.
I am placing my tears in the ocean for you to hear. All the energy we created and bound up within ourselves. Each wave of the ocean will be tinged with this darkness.
The only grief I feel is that this bitter liquid sparkles in the sunlight. You have torn my spirit into fragments. Some of them will always be yours. I am gifting these parts to the sea.
I am letting you go, but you will never, never be free. I have spoken the spell that ensures this is so. Should you return, you will be forever bound to the ocean. You will stand, despairing, on the shore, smelling heartache on the breeze, and listening for redemption songs in the desolate waves.
Should destiny dictate that this reaches you, you will know who I am.
X.
I am surrendering my love for you to the ocean. Through my tears, captured in this bottle, I have purged it from my soul. I hold it in my hands. It weighs heavy. My hands and arms ache as my soul ached.
The bottle, like me, is fragile. It could be smashed on the rocks at this very shore tomorrow. Sea water could leak in, taking it to the ocean's depths. It could wash up on an empty beach to be discovered by a human child. I know the risks. I know the tears will force their escape somehow. I am tempted to swallow them. Still, I will be strong. I will throw the bottle to the sea.
I know not where they will find release, nor whose heart shall be haunted with my sadness. I know I am not the only one to have done this, to have broken faery law and polluted the sea with my sorrow. Do you remember how you told me once you heard the anguish of the ocean in the waves crashing on the shore? Then, I pretended to listen to the waves as you told me to, I pretended to understand. Now, I hear it too. The sea only mourns.
I am placing my tears in the ocean for you to hear. All the energy we created and bound up within ourselves. Each wave of the ocean will be tinged with this darkness.
The only grief I feel is that this bitter liquid sparkles in the sunlight. You have torn my spirit into fragments. Some of them will always be yours. I am gifting these parts to the sea.
I am letting you go, but you will never, never be free. I have spoken the spell that ensures this is so. Should you return, you will be forever bound to the ocean. You will stand, despairing, on the shore, smelling heartache on the breeze, and listening for redemption songs in the desolate waves.
Should destiny dictate that this reaches you, you will know who I am.
X.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Living Hell (#fridayflash)
Wanted: One human soul, to be held in perpetuity. Preferably male. Must desire wealth. Must blame the poor for their poverty. Must deny climate change. Must live in the suburbs and drive an SUV. Must demonstrate love for family by being the sole breadwinner. "Bread" in this case to include (for example) 42-inch plasma screen TV, three family cars, two iPhones, four MacBooks, an annual trip to Disney World, a Nintendo Wii, a kitchen and bathroom refurb every five years, and weekly shopping binges. Must send kids to college. Must spend at least 80 hours a week at work. Must take a maximum of three days vacation per year, all of them at Christmas. Must not demonstrate despair of this lifestyle by wasting money on golf, prostitutes, alcohol addiction, gambling, or fast cars. Preferably reads the Wall Street Journal. Must support the US military. Must oppose gun control. Preferably Republican, though Democrats will be considered. Must attend church every Sunday. Preferably believes in God. Must believe in America.
Will exchange for: Ignorant bliss, self-righteous attitude or early promotion. May consider trading all three for an immaculate example of the specifications.
Will exchange for: Ignorant bliss, self-righteous attitude or early promotion. May consider trading all three for an immaculate example of the specifications.
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