O Ye Garbage
Sneaky into the night, o perpetrator,
Bothering good folk, ye good neighbor,
Undeserving fair people, hard at labor,
All but you, slithering and filthy traitor!
Vermin, cockroaches and buzzing flies,
Stray dogs and on occasion even mice,
My mail box, riddled with goo and lice,
Fleas roaming wild, not once, but twice!
Stop filling my box with your garbage!
Seek trash cans, they're not that far!
Maddening, unspeakable damage!
Weird friend, let us raise this bar!
Or to Hel private one-way passage!
Souls refuse. Fitting, yet so bizarre!
a sonnet glued to a particular mail box
a sonnet glued to a particular mail box
*a sheet of fine parchment is carefully glued to the post of a particular mail box, belonging to a spacious house just east of the Meddler's Risk. The mail box seems to have been washed and waxed recently*
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Nola.Witlock
- Posts: 8
- Character: Nola Witlock
Re: a sonnet glued to a particular mail box
The house just next door to the Meddler's Risk offered many things. It had a vine whose leaves were great for picking one's teeth, a tub of rain water to refill your water skins and a pristine mailbox to deposit one's refuse into. Yes, Nola liked the house next door to the Risk very much. She'd often visited it when it was empty, but now that it was occupied it was far more interesting.
Earlier that day and much to her delight Nola had found for sale a whole cake in the market. She'd always been told by her father's partner Jisel that she shouldn't eat more than one slice during special occasions, or she'd get a sour stomach. Now that she was an adult and lived away from home she saw quite the chance to prove her mother figure wrong. With mischief in her eyes Nola purchased the cake and brought it back to the Meddler's Risk.
Surrounded by unwilling on-lookers, Nola began her work. Using her hands she took pieces out of the cake and ate it loudly. The cake was a masterpiece, the buttercream melted in her mouth and she made quick work of half of it before the malaise hit her. Sugar began to sweat from her pores and she felt hot, her stomach cramped and the involuntary need to purge the sugar and flour from her system overwhelmed her.
"Fuck, I'm ganna throw up", she announced and dashed outside to the refuse pile.
Nola heaved, the cake and frosting coming up in two bouts of vomiting. The different colors from the dyed buttercream retained their hue coming back up, creating a beautiful yet disgusting addition to the heap. She returned to the tavern, head hung low for she had lost her battle with the cake and proven Jisel correct. This was something every young woman must come to terms with, she told herself.
Nola felt the pangs of defeat in her chest every time she looked at those in the bar or at the cake. While she couldn't do anything about the witnesses to her gaff, she could rid herself of the pastry. Nola picked it up, the three layered cake was still quite the sight to behold, and took it outside with her. She considered for a moment placing it in the trash heap where she had deposited the rest of it but then her eyes fell upon the mailbox.
She approached it and tipped her head as she noticed the poem plastered on top of it. She grinned as she read it because she knew it was about her. She’d been placing her bottles, wrappers, used napkins and unwanted items in the box for the better part of two weeks. Nola extended a sticky hand and opened the mailbox, the cake was bigger than the small compartment but that wouldn’t stop her.
From within the bar she could hear the gasps of those inside and the voice of Adam Blackwell that she knew so well utter, “Sweet Decus”.
Her work was tireless as she forced the cake to fit and closed the hinges that burst forth with frosting and sponge. She licked her fingers and stood back, taking in her handy work. Ah yes, this was her finest delivery yet. She gave the mailbox a little pat, leaving a frosting shaped handprint on top of the box and the poem before wandering off down Fort Road.
Earlier that day and much to her delight Nola had found for sale a whole cake in the market. She'd always been told by her father's partner Jisel that she shouldn't eat more than one slice during special occasions, or she'd get a sour stomach. Now that she was an adult and lived away from home she saw quite the chance to prove her mother figure wrong. With mischief in her eyes Nola purchased the cake and brought it back to the Meddler's Risk.
Surrounded by unwilling on-lookers, Nola began her work. Using her hands she took pieces out of the cake and ate it loudly. The cake was a masterpiece, the buttercream melted in her mouth and she made quick work of half of it before the malaise hit her. Sugar began to sweat from her pores and she felt hot, her stomach cramped and the involuntary need to purge the sugar and flour from her system overwhelmed her.
"Fuck, I'm ganna throw up", she announced and dashed outside to the refuse pile.
Nola heaved, the cake and frosting coming up in two bouts of vomiting. The different colors from the dyed buttercream retained their hue coming back up, creating a beautiful yet disgusting addition to the heap. She returned to the tavern, head hung low for she had lost her battle with the cake and proven Jisel correct. This was something every young woman must come to terms with, she told herself.
Nola felt the pangs of defeat in her chest every time she looked at those in the bar or at the cake. While she couldn't do anything about the witnesses to her gaff, she could rid herself of the pastry. Nola picked it up, the three layered cake was still quite the sight to behold, and took it outside with her. She considered for a moment placing it in the trash heap where she had deposited the rest of it but then her eyes fell upon the mailbox.
She approached it and tipped her head as she noticed the poem plastered on top of it. She grinned as she read it because she knew it was about her. She’d been placing her bottles, wrappers, used napkins and unwanted items in the box for the better part of two weeks. Nola extended a sticky hand and opened the mailbox, the cake was bigger than the small compartment but that wouldn’t stop her.
From within the bar she could hear the gasps of those inside and the voice of Adam Blackwell that she knew so well utter, “Sweet Decus”.
Her work was tireless as she forced the cake to fit and closed the hinges that burst forth with frosting and sponge. She licked her fingers and stood back, taking in her handy work. Ah yes, this was her finest delivery yet. She gave the mailbox a little pat, leaving a frosting shaped handprint on top of the box and the poem before wandering off down Fort Road.