Nemonymous
07-16-2008, 04:30 AM
Tugging the Heartstrings
by DF Lewis
Published 'Thingmajig' 1997
Being a court jester of the old school was not necessarily the happiest lot at the best of times. So, when the King - who had recently lost his dearest sweetheart to a Space Captain - wanted the jester to create laughter, well, faced with such absurdity the jester cried instead. But not easily defeated, he daubed his face with the brightest joy-paint his cosmetic palette could boast and - after a few finishing touches applied with the fine dyer’s brush of a marmoset’s tail to the upturns of his mouth - he careered into the throne room. Indeed, he pursued the foreplay of his own jingling body-ends, nose to feet, in yodelling cartwheels of self-imposed delight.
The jester stood stock still with shock.
The vast echoing chamber was up-ended, the throne itself tipped into the corner like so much disused baggage. The King sat astride a roasted haunch of meat, one that had been dislodged from the dining-table. The courtiers similarly squatted upon the tureens and platters, scrunching the food with their behinds, making the jester think of fools-on-broken-horses. The giant chandelier was hanging by a thread of flex and, gently turning with the planet's own imperceptible swing, it spread the misplaced scintilla of reflected starworlds upon the shimmering palace walls. A miniature rocket travelled the spice-routes of outer space, although it actually crept along the ceiling with a slug's glistening trail in its wake with toy people inside who thought themselves real.
The King's panoply of a play-pen was rent and riven. Dolls lolled along the skirting boards, tongues hanging out, with real tears on their china cheeks instead of make believe ones. Ranks of tin soldiers were in disarray, frozen in self-defeat. A quick-change artist of a jack-in-a-box had burst up its spinal spring in tatters of flesh, evidently too soon released from its trap. Abruptly, the chandelier crashed to the floor, thus putting the finishing touch to Disorder's reign. Jagged shards of glass homed in upon every toy rocket that threaded the cat's cradle of puppet-strings. And with no attempt at unnecessary complication, the jester abandoned the throne room to its own self-perpetuation of sorrow. There was to be no laughter in there today. Not even the jester's. Or especially not his.
In the palace garden, the coolness of the night air spared any blushes. The jester could barely hear the distant breakers, as a faint salt tang stirred his nostril hairs. He felt sad for probably the first time. He didn't even know if the King were dead - or whether the courtiers were dead too: a form of mass suicide in sympathy with the King's misadventures in love. And, if so, how had the jester alone survived the terrible tantrums of such a dreadful night. Perhaps, indeed, being a jester, he was immune. Sadness, it seemed, was to be his only punishment.
But, sadness, without him having experienced it before, was more than simple sadness. It flowed along the veins towards the heart upon freezing rapids, its leading edge sharpening into a bright red icicle. Yet was he really sad? Never having been sad, how was he to know he was indeed sad? The tears could be tears of laughter, as he began to woof like a stray dog.
He then called the word out loud: "Sadness!" And called it out several times - Sadness, Sadness, Sadness, Sadness, Sadness - until it sounded like a seaside resort with a private cove where he would one day find a sweetheart of his own.
Eventually, he picked up his long stilts from a secret corner of the palace garden and strutted among the black flower-beds. He was now so tall, he could even see realler rockets slip through space, shipping spice for trade, plumes of rosy flame playing at their rears, darting across the pitchy canvas of the night sky - burning the strings behind them that once held them up. He laughed at his own metaphysics. Yes, he was now so tall, he could even witness the marionette mechanics of the universe.
On one rocket must be the King's sweetheart. The jester wondered if she could see the jester’s own double-jointed contortions in the garden, from those Light Years away, teetering on his trusty stilts as he was. She would split her sides with laughter at his antics. He hoped, also, that she would be able to enjoy a romance with the Space Captain amid the stars - and that her own feelings of sadness at having abandoned the King would be eased by this sight of the King's own jester. A jester could make anyone laugh, even the love-lorn and the preoccupied. But his own puppet-strings soon snapped, crumpling him to the ground: a mess of flexing limbs, a victim of delight.
“And the lovely star-cruise jilter knew that the unstilted jester loved her more than anyone could love her: but sadly to bear sadness for endless sands of time"
- Rachel Mildeyes (from THE ART OF ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS)
by DF Lewis
Published 'Thingmajig' 1997
Being a court jester of the old school was not necessarily the happiest lot at the best of times. So, when the King - who had recently lost his dearest sweetheart to a Space Captain - wanted the jester to create laughter, well, faced with such absurdity the jester cried instead. But not easily defeated, he daubed his face with the brightest joy-paint his cosmetic palette could boast and - after a few finishing touches applied with the fine dyer’s brush of a marmoset’s tail to the upturns of his mouth - he careered into the throne room. Indeed, he pursued the foreplay of his own jingling body-ends, nose to feet, in yodelling cartwheels of self-imposed delight.
The jester stood stock still with shock.
The vast echoing chamber was up-ended, the throne itself tipped into the corner like so much disused baggage. The King sat astride a roasted haunch of meat, one that had been dislodged from the dining-table. The courtiers similarly squatted upon the tureens and platters, scrunching the food with their behinds, making the jester think of fools-on-broken-horses. The giant chandelier was hanging by a thread of flex and, gently turning with the planet's own imperceptible swing, it spread the misplaced scintilla of reflected starworlds upon the shimmering palace walls. A miniature rocket travelled the spice-routes of outer space, although it actually crept along the ceiling with a slug's glistening trail in its wake with toy people inside who thought themselves real.
The King's panoply of a play-pen was rent and riven. Dolls lolled along the skirting boards, tongues hanging out, with real tears on their china cheeks instead of make believe ones. Ranks of tin soldiers were in disarray, frozen in self-defeat. A quick-change artist of a jack-in-a-box had burst up its spinal spring in tatters of flesh, evidently too soon released from its trap. Abruptly, the chandelier crashed to the floor, thus putting the finishing touch to Disorder's reign. Jagged shards of glass homed in upon every toy rocket that threaded the cat's cradle of puppet-strings. And with no attempt at unnecessary complication, the jester abandoned the throne room to its own self-perpetuation of sorrow. There was to be no laughter in there today. Not even the jester's. Or especially not his.
In the palace garden, the coolness of the night air spared any blushes. The jester could barely hear the distant breakers, as a faint salt tang stirred his nostril hairs. He felt sad for probably the first time. He didn't even know if the King were dead - or whether the courtiers were dead too: a form of mass suicide in sympathy with the King's misadventures in love. And, if so, how had the jester alone survived the terrible tantrums of such a dreadful night. Perhaps, indeed, being a jester, he was immune. Sadness, it seemed, was to be his only punishment.
But, sadness, without him having experienced it before, was more than simple sadness. It flowed along the veins towards the heart upon freezing rapids, its leading edge sharpening into a bright red icicle. Yet was he really sad? Never having been sad, how was he to know he was indeed sad? The tears could be tears of laughter, as he began to woof like a stray dog.
He then called the word out loud: "Sadness!" And called it out several times - Sadness, Sadness, Sadness, Sadness, Sadness - until it sounded like a seaside resort with a private cove where he would one day find a sweetheart of his own.
Eventually, he picked up his long stilts from a secret corner of the palace garden and strutted among the black flower-beds. He was now so tall, he could even see realler rockets slip through space, shipping spice for trade, plumes of rosy flame playing at their rears, darting across the pitchy canvas of the night sky - burning the strings behind them that once held them up. He laughed at his own metaphysics. Yes, he was now so tall, he could even witness the marionette mechanics of the universe.
On one rocket must be the King's sweetheart. The jester wondered if she could see the jester’s own double-jointed contortions in the garden, from those Light Years away, teetering on his trusty stilts as he was. She would split her sides with laughter at his antics. He hoped, also, that she would be able to enjoy a romance with the Space Captain amid the stars - and that her own feelings of sadness at having abandoned the King would be eased by this sight of the King's own jester. A jester could make anyone laugh, even the love-lorn and the preoccupied. But his own puppet-strings soon snapped, crumpling him to the ground: a mess of flexing limbs, a victim of delight.
“And the lovely star-cruise jilter knew that the unstilted jester loved her more than anyone could love her: but sadly to bear sadness for endless sands of time"
- Rachel Mildeyes (from THE ART OF ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS)