Artist: Touch Tone
Album: Get Your Wonk On
Tracklist :
- Ammo
Beginnings of my FF story. Please read?
Right, so before I posted up the first few paragraphs of my story here to see what people thought. Basically, it was a farce. So I fixed it up so that it has an actual purpose and makes some sense. Would someone please read and help an amateur 15 year old out?
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My life has always been boring, and since as far back as I can remember, I wanted to make it an adventure. I didn't want to experience the ordinary, I wanted to experience the extraordinary! I wanted to take risks, play with fire, and test my limits! I wanted to know all cultures and be a part of them too! I wanted to grab my future like I would a chocolate brownie, and slam it right into my face to face it head on!
Well, this really didn't go exactly the way I saw it, but it happened, which explains why my wrists are handcuffed together, and my right leg shackled to the leg of a chair. Not to mention the fact that I'm bruised nearly everywhere and my shin has a cut the size of my English teacher's behind. Did I mention the fact that the moron sitting on this God-forsaken chair is the God-forsaken king of the God-forsaken Unseelie Court?
He looks like a fox. His skin is white and transluscent, with hints of blue and purple underneath, but it's taught and wrinkle free. His squinty violet eyes almost look lit upc, like lightning lights them up from behind, and long silver hair that cascades down his shoulders in layers, lay underneath a crown of rose stems. I watch him turn to me.
"Cheer up Anushri," he says, his long spider-like fingers reach out to touch my arm gently. "You should be honored that you're spending such quality time with Unseelie royalty."
"I'm chained to a chair like a dog." I spit.
"Now, now," he says, "You humans are entirely churlish creatures."
I want to hit him. I want to allow my rage to spread throughout my body like wild fire, allowing it to overthrow any sort of humanity I have left in me, so that I don't feel guilty when I make him beg at the mercy of my hands. I want to see some semblance of fear etch across his face, watch as his patronizing eyes become stricken when his air supply is cut off. I want to feel his body tremble, his fingers claw at my hands as he tries to tear them away fro m his throat. I want to hear that deep, supercilious voice slowly melt into a remorseful one, when he begs for my forgiveness.
I snap out of my little day dream. There's no way I can preform such a heroic and reckless act. I can't be the heroine, like Wonder Woman or Lady Hawk, who fights evil head on. I am not that type of hero at all, more like a tragic one. I think we're all tragic heroes -- embedded with a tragic flaw that will lead us to our own demise. Romeo's happens to be passion. Oedipus's happens to be pride. Antigone's happens to be her strong distinction between right and wrong. Mine happens to be ambition.
I knew what I wanted, and I knew that I would earn it with every fiber of my being, sacrificing anything and everything that had to be sacrificed to make my dream come true. I knew that this ambition could take over my body if I hesitated to tame it, that it would either doom me to a horrible fate or bring me up from the deepest valley of despair.
They say that ambition is a good thing. They say that because they've never taken it as far as I have.
A tiny, grungy looking creature, adorned in a soiled and ripped tunic hobbles over to the king. He bows, kneeling down to the floor and touching the mosaic tile with his pointer and middle finger, and then bringing them up to his lips. He does not look at the king when he says, "The feast is ready, ma-lord," in his raspy voice. I sense a touch of agony, grief and hopelessness underneath this voice, and I begin to wonder how such a tone could ever exist.
The king turns to me, his beautiful face smirking up at mine. "Come my pet," he says, "Join me for dinner."
Like I could turn down the invitation.
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