mercoledì, aprile 13, 2005

Jeanette Winterson, eat your heart out!

A Really Lame Fairy Tale
By Eddie G.

Once upon a time, there was a Prince. A Prince who was so self-conscious that he would brood enviously over anyone more talented than he was with such seething vengence that even the vegetation in his garden would burn stark dry. While on the outside he seemed amiable, friendly and obliging, deep down inside he was arrogant, brash and condescending. The court advisors, fulfilling the stereotypical syntagm of all court advisors in fairy tales, were not able to find a way to change the Prince's heart.

Now in the land, there existed three goddesses, who also happened to be sisters, ageless and beautiful. Their names were "Fate", "Chance" and "Destiny". They were so beautiful that many men had wasted their youths furtively trying to catch a mere glimpse of their splendour. But alas, the only ones who succeeded (and there weren't many, mind you) were the ones whom the Sisters had chosen to reveal themselves to.

Tales of Three Sisters had reached the Prince, who then foolishly made a solemn vow that he too would go on a quest to find the Sisters. He hadn't the faintest of ideas on what he was exactly trying to prove, nor did he know what he would do in the event that he did find them. But since it was all the rave, surely the Prince had to be in it too right?

It came as no surprise that many court advisors had tried to dissuade the Prince from his foolhardy resolution, but each and every who did all ended up one kidney poorer. But since it was either that or genric unemployment, they chose the lesser of two evils.

On the night before the Prince's perilous journey, the King had decided to hold a marvelous feast in his honour. Banners of "Farewelle, our Goode and Kinde Prince" were put up all across the Grand Hall, which was in itself a marvel of architectural competence. It was an oval-like room surrounded by tiers of intricate gargoyles carved out of marble. In its midst, a beautiful fountain sat, spraying dazzling jets of waters at regulated intervals. Built into one corner was the orchestral pit, where minstrels strummed on their lutes tirelessly ("Use it or lose it," the Prince had warned them, his eyes fixed intently on their fingers).

Guests from both far and near had attended to wish the Prince all the very best. At the dinner table, the advisors sat, their meals untouched (the cooks had served kidney), muttering in low voices how the Prince would probably never return.

More to come... When I feel like it! (Mental note to self: NEVER blog after lunch!!!)

Ye who seek for audience, let ye speak now!

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