In Honor of Kill Jack Haringa in Your Blog Day…
They came at him from all sides. Some wielded warped, haphazardly hand-written dictionaries and grammar texts with their participles dangled and their metaphors hopelessly mixed. Others held shar-nibbed fountain pens drenched in blood red ink. Something held him, and he fought to free himself, but each thrash of his limbs tangled him more helplessly.
“We will tattoo him,” one said.
“We will make of you a book of blood,” chimed in a second.
“We will spell every other word incorrectly and write without structure. It is your fate.”
Jack strained to see the shelves above him, but when he craned his neck far enough he saw they were empty. The tales had been taken - the stories stolen - the words were gone.
“No,” he croaked.
They smiled and moved in, jabbing with pens, carving poorly sculpted prose into his flesh and slicing him with the sharp edged pages of their warped tomes. They marked him with excessive adjectives and misplaced modifiers. They re-arranged his earthly outline so that the blood no longer flowed properly - the pacing all wrong.
His breath parted from his frame in a final gasp, meant as a cry of outrage and lost in the cackling mindless laughter of his captors.
“I reject thee!” he cried.
And died.
–DNW
03/8/08, 12:20 AM |
Jack dies gruesomely…again. These are great. I added a little demise of my own for him, too.