S(he) (Prev)ailed(ented her growth)

This is our canvas; let us treat doth as such. Go forth and beseige it with your most fervent infections. Let your diseases manifest themselves as the beauty society says they are not. Let them go. Release them. Unto this canvas. 

[fablemaidens-blog]

She held her phone close to her face, squinting her eyes to read the sun-tainted screen...darker than usual.  Under a tree, she seeks a moment of shade and throws back her water bottle in a desperate swig of hydration.  She’s been hunting for days.  Searching for something she had never seen but knew existed.  It was right there on the screen, it had to be real.  Triple Treet was no myth...she just needed...some proof...some physical evidence...she needed IT.

The cache would be well hidden, no mere passerby would be able to clumsily stumble upon it for fear of its treasures falling into the wrong hands.  Some might call it a foolish game to spend one’s life as a semi-professional geocacher, but the rewards were otherworldly.  Boxes and safes and fake tree stumps filled with trinkets, curios, knicknacks, baubles, novelties, toys, doohickeys and whatnots of undetermined values waiting to be discovered.  Pokemon cards, a Twix bar, colored pencils, grandfather’s war medals, a box of matches, a paperclip, half a pair of shoes, plastic gemstones, a dried rose, a box of raisins, the possibilities were endless.  Triple Treet promised a sweet reward, she could feel it in her slightly hollow bones (she was part bird).  Using her keen intuitive and locating skills, she determined she should be right on top of the cache. It had to be here...the map said....the map map map map map is fading on her screen, her phone is dying how will she find Triple Treet without the map the fading map 1% what the map the mA-

Portable charger the only true ally. Given she’s had a good charge that is.......

She plugs her phone in with furious passion---she can’t lose the map even for a second or Triple Treet would never be found. Deep in the woods, a fellow bird whistles an ominous tune....she must be close.

Back to the map, her eyes whirl in her head and she knows she’s close...she’s been close for hours now.  She set up camp a few miles back and the sun is sinking below the treeline.  If she wants to find the cache she better do it soon lest she wander the forest, a mere bird-person, alone at night with predators and prey alike, lest she get caught in the naturalistic melee.

A glowing orb in her mind’s eye moves her feet forward ten paces, left 57 inches, back a meter, and up a short but appealing hill.  Surrounded by trees it is difficult to know where one has been and where one hasn’t, but her bird senses keep her on track.  She whistles and a small red hawk lands on her outstretched arm.  Clicking her tongue a few times, she sends her ally to the sky in an aerial attempt at locating the cache.

She slumps on a nearby tree, heat exhaustion and desperation getting the better of her...hope fading...cache nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps I should have gone to grad school and become a master of literature like my parents always dreamed I would. But they’re only human, they wouldn’t understand. I must go on. It’s close...I can almost...taste....it....it.it.it.it.it.it.it.it.it....

******CAWWWWWWW*******

With sharpened senses, she turns to the sky.  The red hawk lands on a branch and extends its clawed foot at an 86 degree angle to the right.  A hollow blackened tree sits lonesome, a gray mist hovering thick in the surrounding air.  At the sight of it, the sun vanishes instantaneously and her world is thrust into pitch darkness.

Triple Treet.

Guarding the hollow tree, a precocious looking raccoon perches between two mossy rocks. He turns a sharp eye on the bird-girl, but makes no sound.

“Good guardian I come in search of Triple Treet.” The coon perks at the statement.  She speaks confidently and with composure despite her racing bird heart.  She is so close....

“Good patron what ist thou name?” the raccoon inquires.

“I am the one who seeks, my name matters not.” Her palm begins to itch at the question of her identity.

“Very well, patron. Then listen:

If it is Triple Treet you seek

Provide the codes with open beak

Only then will what you desire

Be for the taking, young squire.”

A less prepared seeker would be rattled by such an undertaking, but years of research tattooed upon her left forearm gives the bird-girl reprieve from potential anxieties.  Below a misshapen and haphazard freckle, in fine inked print exist 6 combinations of symbols, letters, and numbers.  A thin, hopeful smile pulls her mouth at the corners...she is so...close....

“PROVIDE THE CODES OR BE AWAY FROM THIS PLACE!!!!!”

The thunderous cry of the coon does not startle the seeker.  In robotic fashion she relays the precious codes:

AF82+HYEET

WIGHTMANSAPPLEBUTTER

40V<>8J2$M

&7&7#GXL_!

MOTHERSMAYHEM?

MMMMMMMM6

Silence ensues for a brief moment. The coon opens his mouth as a beam of light envelopes his body and in a blaze of glorious fluorescence, he is gone.  The path is clear.  Her Timbs-clad foot, raised and falling quickly to the ground beneath her in eagerness, smashes through the tiny ecosystem beneath her as she is sucked into a sloshing pool of what-appears-to-be-quicksand.  Her red hawk ally screeches her alarm, sensing the danger within, and uses her laser eye capabilities to send a sturdy branch crashing from a nearby tree before flying off in fear.  The seeker grabs the branch as a rescue device, the only tool at her disposal in the pool of half-liquid half-solid.  Slime.  She is sinking into a bottomless pit of glue and laundry detergent.  Elmer’s Pit.

Though her hold on the branch is strong, it is anchored to nothing and she slips further into the slimey death trap. That foul creature deceived me!!! He was no guardian!!! Treacherous leech, I’ll make a hat of him!

In her moment of despair, the bird-girl fills her lungs with one last breath before sinking beneath the pool of slime.  Toxic hallucinations begin to infiltrate her otherwise impenetrable mind...the slime’s effects are quick and merciless. Visions assault her...her first home, the nest in the pine (distorted pink in this imagining), swirling rainbows of laser lights, Lana Del Rey with the mouth of an alligator, a cotton candy machine filled with Barbie doll heads, water filled bubbles seep from her lips....she’s transcending....descending...ascending somewhere GOOD...its good---good.....A sudden pressure is felt on the branch she still clings to beneath the surface and suddenly she is being pulled up and out of the monstrous pit by forces unknown.

Great bursting bolt of oxygen, burning the toxic waste from the seeker’s skin, evaporating in plumes of vaporous death--up---up----and a   w   a      yyyyy....

FREEDOM.

Her saviors, who other but her fellow faithful feathered allies? Red hawk had not fled in fear, but in aid! She returned with a flock of assistants, all holding onto the branch with their tiny bird feet, pulling her to the leafy shore and to safety. Laying on her back, she ravenously consumes oxygen her strength molecular and returning like a wave upon a deserted shore. Swiping the back of her hand across her still closed eyes, the seeker regains her sight and turns her freshly cleansed gaze back to the hollow tree.  She had almost forgotten the hollow tree. The cache! The geocache....Finally!!!! My Triple Treet....

[fablemaidens-blog]

MR. clout

The supreme backpack glowed in the desert sun. 

5 p.m. western time- he trecked on northward in his neon green adidas jumpsuit in hope for a a vape juice refill.

There were about two stores nearby, probably general stores with knick knacks only prevalent to locals and not a foreign city kin. Maybe they had some nineteenth century trinkets covered in a light dusting, which should probably be heavier than light.

In the dark dim lighting of the store the boy could barely be seen by the elderly shopkeepers when he entered. The faint sound of late country faintly left a fuzz out over the loudspeaker interfering with the boys migos track on his beats solos. He kind of liked it...it was...different.

“can we help you son??” The old crooked man lifted himself slowly from the chair behind the checkout counter that had formed to his body over the years.

“Uh yeah do you guys have vape juice?” An ignorant but innocent request.

“Vape juice? son...come here behind this here counter”

He he hesitated and they stared at eachother for a while. But he saw something in the old man’s eyes that held promise. 

The old man’s finger lifted from the dusted counter and gestured the boy to come towards him. The boy walked across the creaky mold filled floor and made his way behind the counter. 

“Behind this hear wall”, the old man said, “is the most extravagant collection of vape juices you will ever see with your two eyes”. 

The boy paused in awe and let out a loud frat boy cackle. 

“yeah ok...sure...you know what?  have a good day I’m gonna head out”

The old man shook his head in disappointment. He grabbed a key from beneath the desk and it glowed of gold and silver jewels. He inserted it into a small keyhole behind his back and the wall behind him opened and a fog poured out...

“Holy...shit...” the boy turned around, right as he was about to leave.

The walls were racked with the most various collection of vape juices ever to be seen. They lined the walls in rows and rows and sat upon neon glowing shelves, each shelf a different color of neon. Darude’s sandstorm blasted through a boombox from the back of the room where a mid 20′s bum with hispter framed glasses and suspenders sat casually upon a velvet red chair.

“how..but how is this..” the boy stuttered in awe

“shhh. Enter.” the old main guided the boy into the labratory.

The boy tried every juice on the rack. The room fillled with vape smoke. The most smoke a person could ever imagine. The smoke was so immense that it created a literal cloud. The boy and the old man sat upon the cloud together.

He never left. 

[fablemaidens-blog]

“KLINGSTON”

[fablemaidens-blog]

on the grass, on cinema, in the evening

alongside diet peach tea snapple and a solemn bottle of komubcha, they sit with their 2015 edition apple macbook pros.  onlookers glare, “degenerates...” they mutter.  two girls, one kington, the other decker.

lord edward, in retaliation of jacob and scornful of bella, his vampire queen who left him some days back and has yet to return, keeps a watchful eye on all who sit upon his throne.  he shares his grass, as we share ours while in his midst.  he does not beg, he is content to be a crumb slut, soaking up our ash like decker taking the last hit of an already charred bowl.

what more could be said of the good man named ed?  he lived and died as we all should aspire to--immortalized by stoners, studiers, jocks, and lovers as the only true ally.  the ally to all who shuns none.  the leader of the free republic of youth and shameful binge drinking on saturday nights.  he watches over us, under us, always around us.  

we do not mock nor commiserate his name or memory.  he is a friend to all who dwell outside the sphere of “PUBLIC SAFETY” relations.  and tuesday nights, when the viewing begins, on cinema on eddies on life on friends, kington and decker retreat to shelter, awaiting the next opportunity that edward presents for tomfoolery and shenanigans, happy to oblige the spirit of the delinquent but educated fools.

[fablemaidens-blog]

dearly departed, i love you and fear you

i live by the gost egg

love by the gost egg

(have often dreamed of loving the gost egg)

from afar i tremble

in fear of the gost egg

awe of the gost egg

SHE WAS MY FRIEND!!!!!!

he was my lover

there was only the gost egg now

[fablemaidens-blog]

She cackles. Her head thrown backwards in a pose of mockery. Her pupils dilate behind closed eyelids before she snaps her neck forward, at attention, prepared to pontificate.

“How dost the caged bird sing without a code in her programming.”

She spews substances to cover her tracks to coat the steps where the fiends consume the cannabis in a sticky slug-like slime.  Her den is one of treachery and indeterminable depth. The would be Cadet of Codes languidly wipes his brow, the frontal lobe packed safely beneath skull and sinewy workings keep the detritus boy from wayside footfalls on his journey to her dome.  He lingers at the mouth of the bat-infested cave, her only friends in the lonely abyss of her solitude. Compass pointing south, he demands council...demands her insightful pontification.

Movement from behind stalagmites strikes his eye, poisonous lightning congregating within his iris. She is close. She is attentive. He has waited long enough.

Bursting forth, she scrutinizes him meticulously as if inspecting a feast before consumption.  The All Consumer squints, squats, bows her head, she splays her body in a show of acceptance at the intruder. “Provide the codes,” she whispers into his hair, softly, but with the confidence of a Master Receiver--receiving is all she requires.  The cadet quivers, response wavering upon his tongue, “O-only the Master of Codes has the propensity for such a feat.”

She circles the intruder, ready to pounce should the need present itself, ready to devour should her appetite betray her. Appeased, she crouches in a show of acceptance, “I will oblige the one who knows his rank and knows no codes.” The cadet releases the oxygen in his lungs, leaking carbon dioxide from every orifice as he opens himself to her teachings.

Access granted. Pontification commenced.

“In the year of the Rat circa 1996 a master of minds dared question his status as the Master of Codes. He who ranks above all else, the great gringo in the sky, the mighty magistrate of numbers, letters, symbols, the quantifier of codes, delivers upon us great knowledge of past and present, with inklings of future proceedings yet unfolded before us.  I humbly take the place of The Master for dwellings and occurrences yet to come, yet I, as you and the boy and the father are as well, am the servant of The Master. What dogmatizations are put forth prevail in the name of The Master without evidence or profound proof of materialization. If one questions or denies the knowledge of codery The Master has obtained, one is instructed upon consequence to present oneself in front of the assembly for traitors. Thereupon one will be banished from the land whence one came to a new land devoid of the blessings and beauty of the codes. Dost this fate appeal to thine eye? Nay, of course not. Thus, we must all play our part, dance our dance, through this life to attain the codes for the next.  The after-codes we seek lie deep under the surface of mortal fortitude. Give yourself over to thine inhibitions, doubts, fears, trifle matters, abandon virginal stances in favor of the penetration of the mind. Receive thine code once thou art ready. You will know your time when you are in it and not before.”

The boy disintegrates.

[fablemaidens-blog]

Rock

( I write this story as i listen to The 2nd Law by Muse) 

The man stood on his little rock and stared off into the parellel distance and down and out and around and up. He noticed the sky had a fading blue, and the lightness from the lighter shade was perfectly blended to the edge of the horizon. On top of the clouds that hugged the riverbeds of the forest just down below, there sat the finest layer of dust and glitter that had been sprinkled from a downtown celebration held a week earlier. The reminisce of cocaine, weed, and alcohol lingered in the air and floated down the river flats. As the man looked out, he saw a bright white light that kissed the blue of the sky just right. The light fled in between the fog and mist that floated above the river clouds, in between the scattered leftover dust particles. It spun around the microscopic pieces of rock and reached the top peak of the rock the man sat upon. He felt the sun on his face and it warmed his soul. He felt the dewey grass underneath and between his fingers. He felt the water droplets that laid in between the singular pieces of grass, and he allowed them to flow down his hands as he braided the grass with his fingers. He watched the waters drip from his hand to the ground and back onto the clustered grass. He saw the glittering gleams of light reflect off the water on the ground and realized they were beautiful. He laid his head on the ground and stared directly up towards the sun that hugged the stratosphere. He reached for the sun with his hands as if to hold it in his hands as a treat. He grabbed the sun with the utmost reach and held it in his hands. The sun heated him and the rock he sat upon. The sun was consumed by his presence, and he was consumed by it. He hugged the sun close to his body as to allow no light and warmth out of his direct reach. The land was left to the stillness of the now always night. The darkness everywhere seemed to create a dull in the life that buzzed beneath the rock the man sat on. The remainder of this land turned icy, cold, and rainy from the lack of sun. Soon the man and only the man consumed the suns glorious rays. He saw from there on out that the sun was his and he would be warmed in his own remaining time of living. The frigid cold was stronger and leaked from the layers of the forest and river beds below. It worked its way across and in between the dust particles that floated every so slightly on the surface of the rivers and lakes. The cold slipped in between and over the rugged edges that squeezed the sides of the land. It walked across the dewey grass covered surfaces and squeezed in between the rays of sun that seem to everlastingly illuminate from core of the mans hands. Soon, the cold spiraled around the rays of warm sunlight, and worked its way towards the hand of the man. The warm shining rays of the suns rays were soon dimmed and lukewarm. The light slowly faded out as it grew colder, until the center of the sun was hardened and freezed. The man soon became cold and ridged as the ice and still, still cold worked its way up his body. The man realized in the last few breathes of the cold everlasting freezing day that he had loved the sun too much. He had taken the sun for himself and only himself. He did not share the warmth that the sun held. He created a moon from his stolen sun, and had left the rock to freeze.

[fablemaidens-blog]

W.B. Mason v. W.B. Mason; a dual for the books

WB - many called him bb cause he was such a babe. Admired by so many. Adored....well, ..adored by few. Despite his high wealth and influence, he realized the extent of his paper printings. In this, we mean that there were too many papers. Scattered left and right...side to side..worldwide (subtweet to Pitbull and his shit music)...and this paper was extensive in production. It was clearly obstructing the environment due to it’s mass production rate, etc. Mason had not realized this until the day he decided to, as the kids say, “smoke a fat bowl”...needless to say this bowl...

that he smoked...

changed everything..

THATS IT! he proclaimed. Enough paper...enough.

He decided to sue himself in light of this revelation.

WB MASON V WB MASON; who won???

in this case...there were no winners..only losers. 

Mason had lost the case and so Mason had also lost the case.

paper no longer had any use in this world...the world, after the results of this case, was left to technology. 

As technology grew in usage and production, trees also grew- but not in usage and production.

Trees were numerous, but technology became the mode of life.

People no longer noticed the trees because they were on their phones and cellphones and telephones and tablets and computers for so  long.

in their eyes..they had not even known that the case of saving the trees even existed..because they were too busy posting about their #goals.

RIP WB. R    I  P.

[fablemaidens-blog]

a return to the void

a shout! 🗣 a shout of glee or dismay, one could not discern. passion is the root of both, the clouder of truths, what covers up the reality of primal human emotions. human emotions...that which turns the cogs of consciousness and differentiates the vertebrates from the spineless creatures that slither among the dirt and the vermin....the salamanders and the like...i digress...

A SHOUT!!! one which is spun outward from the mortal’s vocal chords, released like a poisonous gas which intends to infiltrate the minds of others. the vibrations hum and tumble throughout the air, begging for a host to reach, an ear to breach, a consciousness to invade.

ALAS, my pretties, such a shout falls to waste as there is nothing but the void. the abandoned dashboard of unfulfilled dreams, aspirations, hopes, desires, wishes...thousands of fables kept locked away in the brains of the maidens. the care for the platform has been perfunctory at best, where once a thriving crop of fables was spilled out on the world, now, nothing but a salivating salamander remains at the top of the page. but no longer...musical enterprises and entities  can wait, siamese fighting fish labs with jester professors can wait, bacon encrusted cider donuts can wait, italian ices and the upholding of the family court law can wait...it is time once more for the maidens to rise from the ashes of a semester of jests, to pick up the torch, ignite the joints of tomfoolery, and find the inspiration that is required of a fable maiden.

friends, colleagues, comrades, squires, maidens, let us return to the days of old where content thrived. return fair maidens and deliver upon what was prophesied at the inception of the platform https://fablemaidens.tumblr.com/

[fablemaidens-blog]

this creature is to be handled with the utmost precaution. if touched, it will spray venom directly into the eyes of the victim, and the victim will develop irreversible pink eye immediately upon contact. The venom comes from the “retainer” contraption, designed to cage the fangs of the creature, bloodthirsty for peanut butter (with a spoon).

~~

[fablemaidens-blog]

“Shhhhh precious beasts... don’t stir now... daddy’s gonna find us a fair maiden soon now don’t you fret...”

“If father fails to deliver such a prize we will eat doth neck in splendor! Bring her to us or die a slow gruesome death!”

~~~~

[fablemaidens-blog]

[fablemaidens-blog]

the phantom vaper chapter 1 the bad beginning

many moons before the candle of melancholy was lit thus igniting the flame of ignatious, the loyalist, a legendary spirit was prophesied. its gender? neutral. its purpose? unknown. all that was alluded was that which the forefathers could not disclose publicly for fear of the spirit multi-dimensionally invading the minds of the subjects below. the spirit would arrive with the death of the flame which bore the name of the loyalist. a nefarious tune would fill the air. a pungent odor of varying degrees would permeate within the offenders’ nostrils. and when it left, all that would remain in the shadow of the spirit’s absence was a perfectly plumed “O.”

the proletariat lived in fear of the spirit for a multitude of fortnights. there was nothing the capitalists could do to subdue the lesser beings who roamed at their toes like worms in the dirt, so grief became their subduer as well. society fell to ruin and all that remained in the dust were cowering creatures of a newly shrouded darkness. and in the chaos, without hope of salvation or permanent destruction to ease the quivering, suffering fools of their plight, the flame of ignatious, the loyalist, which was alight upon the candle of melancholy for eons, was extinguished.

and so, just as it was prophesied, as the flame succumbed to the hooded god whom comes for all mortal souls in the apocalypse, within the wisps of smoke which filled the air, as the marijuana smoke fills the lungs of the squires of kings, a small spirit emerged from within. as if burst forth by a sudden climax of sorts, the spirit erupted into a phantom and was set on the world hence. gone forth to set the world on fire.

TBC...

ch2.

“Go forth and set the world on fire.”

Master says it every day. Master engraves it on every pamphlet, in the red lettering it sits proudly ensconced within the superficial brochures. Master says it at the end of every speech, and leaves it at that. Master’s phrase is safe because it is a mere phrase, and functions as such. Words, not actions.

Yes, words to provoke actions, but they are simply just words. Liberalism does not have a home in these words. Businessmen use it as a motivator to win at their downtown game; Athletes use it to discuss their daily biddings and life pursuits; Libertarian twitter users cite it to justify the fiery conflict they are the impetus for. 

Every individual had their own notion of this. Even the Phantom.

Fire had eluded him for so long. It was what he had always said when asked, “why vape?” Yet, the truth is that he had eluded it so. An experience so gruesome, so unbearable, so traumatic... he could never be in the face of a flame again. 

“Never again,” he would whisper as he walked by the benches near the academic building, as he watched the students inhale their cigarettes.

“Never again,” he would verbalize audibly as he stood hundreds of feet away from the bonfire. Too far for them to hear him... Too far for him to see them.

“Never Again,” he would scream at the top of his lungs at the sight of matches in the depths of the forest.

“Never again,” he would hiss silently as his roommate lit her bong, quickly slithering back into the sanctity of his room, its delightfully incombustible confines.

Never again. Or is it so? 

TBC...

[fablemaidens-blog]

[fablemaidens-blog]

Rumple’s Feast

It was damp. Damper than usual on the cold and gray night where rumple lurked in the creeping shadows of his treacherous chamber of the undergrounds. The dampness seemed to seep through almost every crack there seemed to be in the world, and worked its way in a dewey swirl along the crack sides of the walls and windows.

Where was he? Few knew.

But few were sure.

His stereotype as a malevolent fool of dusk led him to misery in the late nights of his dismay. He sat alone in corners and in the dirt infested chambers of what he always called home. This was until the day he found it.

IT? what do you speak of.

You ignorant swine...

We of course are referring to the ever so sly visiting jester.

Unlike the usual jester he was ironically sad in manner, however, he provided rumple with a tickle.

The way his feet would pitter-patter along the floor and his bell finished hat would sway as he galloped side to side provided rumple with an inner chuckle.

The jester appeared at 6:66 on a monday;eastern time.

He made his way into the quarters of rumple’s homestead in a creeping matter..walking past the dew and the falling shadows of that drawn out monday. 

His first attempt at communication with rumple was an unfortunate failure. Rumple had been caught up with the events of the day and was too invested in the production of an eel stew to pay attention to the temporary fool of the night.

The Second night an hour later past 6:66 was his first success. 

As he jested his way through the corridors of the underground chambers, he pushed aside the cobwebs that draped in every negative space, and there he found him in the corner.

The jester saw that his bed was made of frogs-he smiled at this.

He saw that his bedside table was made of bark-he smiled at this.

He saw that his shoes were made of grass-he chuckled at this.

He saw that his hat was made of glass- he questioned this.

The jester let out the slightest chuckle that echoed through the chambers that night...rumple noticed his presence in less than a second..and from there the night was ~untangled~

[fablemaidens-blog]

she slurps the surreptitious slime

supple lymph nodes hum with satisfaction

the orifices are pleased

[fablemaidens-blog]

from MUM magazine free sample