“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.
“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.
“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?
I slipped into the role quite comfortably. Some people are of the opinion (read the muse) that I am a drama queen, but I am merely capable of playing different roles superbly. Perhaps my imagination is just a tad overly dramatic and visually inclined, but what on earth is wrong with that?
“Hnnnhhhh….help me,” I groaned. I had my arms outstretched in front of me and my feet were dragging on the floor. I allowed my head to slump onto my shoulders and groaned convincingly. The Lexicon Dragon peered around the wall of her cave.
“What kind of language is hnnnhhh? It does not compute and I cannot find it in any of the dictionaries I have consulted.”
“Zzzzooommmbie ssssppeeeaaakkk,” I said, slurring the words.
“Are you quite allright?” she asked solicitously.
“Nooooo,” I answered, “I am decomposing and have the distinct urge to eat your brain, scooping it from your skull with a soup ladle.”
The Lexicon Dragon’s eyes went wide as she scurried back to her library, speed dialling the muse. The lady in question appeared within seconds, her hair covered in a zebra striped shower cap, her body wrapped in a voluminous bright orange towel. The ensemble almost turned me into a real zombie.
“Hhhnnnhhhh, a fatty brain,” I groaned as I lurched towards her. I fashioned my fingers into claws and grinned at her manically.
“Smell my decomposing flesh and quake in your boots, woman,” I added.
“As if,” she snorted. I felt quite disheartened at her blasé attitude towards my superb drama skills.
“Cotard’s Syndrome?” she asked and my bubble burst. She knew way too much, damn the woman. I kept forgetting that she could not be fooled- she was part of me after all.
“Cows are such placid creatures and would run from the likes of you,” I said, trying to persuade her to love at least one of Nature’s many creatures.
“Does placid equal dumb?”
“What the hell was that!” my fanciful muse had taken a step backwards, her hand upon her beating heart.
“That was a Drakensberger,” I said, managing not to guffaw.
“What the hell is a Drakensberger?” she asked.
“A cow, turn around and look at it will you?” She turned ever so slowly, only to find that the dreaded creature had sidled up to her and was about to rub its snout against her Neiman Marcus mohair sweater. Its tongue was lollygagging about. The words that came out of her mouth were not fit for the tender, sculpted ear. She swatted at the poor animal, screeching at the top of her voice.
“Get it off me!”
“It’s just a cow, for goodness’ sake.”
“It has teeth, it will eat me! Those eyes, I am likely to drown in them!” She was hysterical. I was deciding whether a good slap to the face might be appropriate when she took to her heels and ran for the hills. The hand reared cow, thinking this was a new game, set off bravely after the retreating fat figure. She ran, turning around sporadically to hurl blistering cuss words at the docile creature.
To tell the truth, I had never seen the lady run as fast before and I am likely to never witness such an event again. I was laughing so hard that tears ran down my face.
The fragility of life lies in the gossamer wings of a white butterfly.
“Prepare yourself I am going to wax philosophical,” I warned the muse.
“Wax on, wax off,” she answered rolling her eyes which were sporting false eyelashes and yellow and blue eye shadow. She looked as if someone had punched her in the face repeatedly. It was best to ignore her when she was in such a mood as this, because pretty soon, I would be the one who wanted to punch her.
“I was standing in a grass field at nine this morning. In the blink of an eye I was surrounded by thousands of tiny white butterflies. One landed fleetingly on my arm before taking off for parts unknown. I had the overwhelming feeling of being truly blessed.”
“Shall I play the theme song to Titanic now or are you through?” she asked, glaring at me.
“Their life span is so short that their beauty should be appreciated. It reminded me of how short my time on earth truly is and how I needed to transform myself and allow my soul to metamorphose, to grow, become translucent and fragile as their wings,” I continued, wilfully ignoring the hundred yard stare.
“Channelling Plato are we?”
“You did not experience it,” I reminded her, “simply because you refused to embrace Nature. I went outside and got more than I bargained for.”
“Mmmm hmmmm, it’s dangerous out there. Have you seen the size of those cows? That would be more than I bargained for. Actually trees are more,” she said shivering dramatically.
“We are going to a game farm for two weeks. I know you heard exactly what I said. This is just more of your divaliscious antics,” I said indignantly.
“I am just not cut out for the farming life. What do you think I will do there? I am a city girl, used to the comforts of modern living. What the hell were you thinking?” She paced furiously, wearing a hole in the carpet. I could see tiny wisps of smoke coming from her Christian Louboutins.
“It’s an adventure, a time to create, away from the hustle and bustle. I could write the next Man Booker prize winning novel.”
“In your dreams, dear. Your writing will be interspersed with cows lowing, zebras yipping and the feathery flamboyance of ostriches. Last time I checked, that was not something the average reader would be interested in. Do you see this awesomeness going to waste amidst the grassy slopes and mountains of the Free State?” She was gesturing at her voluptuousness of which I had had more than an eyeful. I wondered how she could not see what we all so clearly saw when she looked in the mirror. Perhaps she had one of those magical mirrors which proclaimed her the most beautiful in the land. Sadly, I do not have the confidence our delectable muse has.
“You should not go near a game farm, but rather straight to the bloody funny farm. Strait jackets are in your future, I predict,” she sneered.
“IT WILL BE FUN!” I insisted.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifted to incredible heights.
“We’ll definitely see,” I said, not about to be undone.
Nevertheless, Rodney braved all the obstacles and laid his case before the Circle cum triangle. He would be the bunnies’ spokesperson. The magicians listened intently; a few heads were even nodding as Rodney explained that what was happening was an affront to all living things as well as the art of magic. He stated that he believed the magician in question should be punished severely and an example set. A young, female magician, who was transcribing the whole affair, abruptly left the building. Later, Rodney would learn that she was the Juliet to Bunny Bane’s Romeo. Normally what happened within the Circle, stayed in the Circle, but the lady in question had loose lips, quite literally as Rodney had seen her blowing raspberries when she thought no one was looking. The sight of her flapping, vibrating lips made him feel quite ill. Spittle flew everywhere and he had to open his umbrella indoors and chance the bad luck that would soon come his way.
As fate would have it, Magician Bunny Bane received a slap on the wrist and was ordered to do children’s parties for a year. He was banned from using high magic and would have to make do with sleight of hand. Children saw through his act and the ridicule stung. He hated Rodney and proclaimed that the trouble starter would soon suffer the bane of Bunny Bane, very vain this Bane. Without thinking twice, Bane had turned him into the disgusting creature he now was, cleverly disguising the fact that he had used high magic by merely bouncing Barmy Butterfinger’s uncontrollable spell off a magical shield and onto long suffering Rodney. Barmy’s spells were unpredictable at best and unhinged at worst.
The poor bunnies were tearful after each show and refused to come out of their warren for even the slightest bite of juicy carrot. Rodney decided to take the case of the perverted magician to the Magic Circle. Said Circle faintly resembled a disproportionate triangle. You see, the magicians had conjured the Bermuda Triangle to within their midst and could not get rid of it, no matter what incantations and lamentations they tried. The darn thing had stuck to them like chewing gum to a shoe. They tried to shoo it away like a worrisome fly, but it refused to budge. They even sent old Mrs. Hubbard to admonish it sharply. Her children said she had a wicked tongue and some of the words she used made the plants curl up and die. The Bermuda Triangle just folded its arms and shook its head. Their next brilliant plan was to fill it with miscellaneous items, such as old freezers, broken stoves, tyres and bicycle parts. They even went so far as conjuring a fleet of ships to pour down its gullet. It succeeded in giving the triangle indigestion and a gaseous cloud hung over the Circle for months afterwards. Unlike skunk, tomato juice did nothing for the odour that seeped into their robes and the only option was to burn them which in turn set several magical explosions loose. Rainbows and unicorns were running amuck.
Novel writing was taking its toll and I had a headache that would stop an elephant in its tracks. I knew that somewhere, in a hidden, convoluted part of my brain an angry troll had taken up residence. He had an enormous hammer which he was now using to take out his frustration on the world. Yes, he was ugly as sin. He cracked mirrors and exploded smooth pond surfaces, shiny objects scuttled away from him and hid in dark corners. His body was covered in an assortment of hair which, even he, was hard pressed to provide an origin for. He looked mangy and unkempt. He never smiled and had serious anger and control issues, which was understandable, I suppose. I had as yet not called in a psychiatrist.
Fugly (this was not his given name, but a nickname that had attached itself to him once his trollness became apparent) had not started his life in this manner. He was once, before he decided to run and take up residence in my head, a magician’s apprentice; a handsome boy with blue eyes and a mane of dark, curly hair. The magician, Sir Bunny Bane, was a perverted soul. He preferred to entice hats out of bunnies instead of the other way around. Fugly, who was then known as Rodney could not stand the singing piles that would pop out as soon as the top hats had made their appearance. They were false and only knew one song: “Ouch, ouch, ouch par de dum, ouch, ouch, ouch, par de dum, we all stand together dum, dum…”