Monday, December 26, 2005
The Red Pen [Chapter 1: The Cave of Red Rubies]
Once upon a time there was an ogre with no teeth. He wrote stories with a red, red pen.
The pen was as red as the heart of a bird or the gills of a fish.
He wrote his stories upon the gummy mass of his vast, toothless mouth, scratching deeply with the pen so that the words were inscribed there forever.
He fed on words and he was quite hideously mad.
He wrote a story of two old people who once loved each other dearly but had lost their souls in sordid affairs.
He wrote of a tree in Hyde Park that was being preyed upon by countless parasites deep within its trunk. The tree suffered greatly and bore flowers the color of dried blood. Children who played near it would have frightening dreams at night.
He wrote of the lives of paintings, lost forever in underground caves off the island of Galapagos. They are guarded by the ancient, malevolent ghosts of pirates. One of them is a deeply unflattering portrait of Emperor Napolean.
He wrote many stories. Some he ate, some he spoke.
At night he would sleep with his great maw wide open. It appeared to unwary travelers as a cave of glittering rubies. Invariably, they would be compelled to investigate, and as we know the nature of humankind, would be further compelled to chip off one of the wondrous, blood-red rubies.
This invariably woke the ogre, who would invariably eat the unwary traveler. His toothless mouth would snap shut with vicious speed and strength, and with a slow grinding motion would crush the bones of his victim, much as a python does before swallowing its prey.
The blood, naturally, he would use to fill his pen. He could not remember how he had come by the pen, only that he had had it for years beyond years. Existing with the pen was the insatiable hunger for words, and warm human flesh, and madness. ¶ 3:49 PM
The pen was as red as the heart of a bird or the gills of a fish.
He wrote his stories upon the gummy mass of his vast, toothless mouth, scratching deeply with the pen so that the words were inscribed there forever.
He fed on words and he was quite hideously mad.
He wrote a story of two old people who once loved each other dearly but had lost their souls in sordid affairs.
He wrote of a tree in Hyde Park that was being preyed upon by countless parasites deep within its trunk. The tree suffered greatly and bore flowers the color of dried blood. Children who played near it would have frightening dreams at night.
He wrote of the lives of paintings, lost forever in underground caves off the island of Galapagos. They are guarded by the ancient, malevolent ghosts of pirates. One of them is a deeply unflattering portrait of Emperor Napolean.
He wrote many stories. Some he ate, some he spoke.
At night he would sleep with his great maw wide open. It appeared to unwary travelers as a cave of glittering rubies. Invariably, they would be compelled to investigate, and as we know the nature of humankind, would be further compelled to chip off one of the wondrous, blood-red rubies.
This invariably woke the ogre, who would invariably eat the unwary traveler. His toothless mouth would snap shut with vicious speed and strength, and with a slow grinding motion would crush the bones of his victim, much as a python does before swallowing its prey.
The blood, naturally, he would use to fill his pen. He could not remember how he had come by the pen, only that he had had it for years beyond years. Existing with the pen was the insatiable hunger for words, and warm human flesh, and madness. ¶ 3:49 PM
