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Please do not tell me that the following story belongs in the poem section. It is a poem-story and thus should belong under both. But in my decision it stood as a story due to the length and the flow.
THE DIARY OF RUTHER B. EISE
~~ Please excuse my writing, however bad it may be. I must tell you my only friend what my eyes did see. It was not long ago when I set sail to sea. That my gaze caught a glimpse of something not meant to see. I remember it well, yes I do, my only friend. I remember its twists, its curves, and its bends. Its golden splendor, its horns that no bender, no however good bender, could bend with more splendor. Yes I do. Yes I do. It’s fringed face, solemn grace, curve-cut eyes, graced like the bird flies- oh yes I do. What was it I did saw you might wonder in awe, what was it I did see? What could it possibly be? You, my friend, could never guess. No matter how you flip the chess. My checkers are drawn tight, for this thing in my sight that burns forever more, so now I may implore. The thing I saw, but should not have seen, was a golden treasure of sights, trim and preen. It ‘twas a golden beast of likely jest, its eyes the colour of its armored chest. A beastly serpent long as my ship, flipping about, taut as a whip.
~~ I goggled and guessed, but this sight only pressed, upon my eyes, as though white lies- but truly there, oh so truly real. A surreal, but forever real. Forever in my eyes, forever carved, engraved, enlisted. This sight of the gods- who ever would miss it? But now we come to my problem, my friend, the problem that I cast a gaze of solemn. My eyes burn, and churn at the thought that I saw and learned of this beast’s, this wondrous beat’s existence. Now I throw myself against the fence, an iron fence, drawn and pence. I cut my heart out in fear for sin, fear for what I’ve seen, and where I’ve been. I’m cursed, I’m cut, I’m forever smeared. Mine soul now seared with flames so golden, so wondrously golden, that I can not hold them, and I am burned. What my friend shall I do? Should I curse my ship, torch my eyes, cover myself where light never lies? Where should I go? Or what should I do? How should I correct- this blemish, this tear, this horror of all horrors that bores into me, like the mightiest wave cutting through the poor sea? I have not a clue, and now I break down in somber grief, the grief caused shortly, by the luminous reef.
~~ What is that my friend you say? A cut of the thing that hides in the bray? The sea salts spray in glee and joy, to your wondrous idea, however coy. Now let us plan, let us plan the beseech that rides far past lengths, and tumbling beach. Let us pray now for your ideas grace, let us wipe our grimace from our face, let us plunder the high sea and search for the beast, let us search and search, however may the boat lurch- let us look, let us look, until we find, my eye sore, my heart bore, forever cut in mind. Let us not turn around as we set our sights high. Let the merry of loss cast us not shy. We shall find the beast, we shall I assure you, then your idea- your wondrous idea- shall fly as the doves do, however they coo, and follow them high- far to the sky, where the gods watch us by, and hope for our success. With my poon, you, and me, we’ll find him at sea, wherever he be, and throw my poon at he, then laugh once, no twice with glee, as we pull him from the sea. His scales will loose their glimmer and gold, his eyes will wither, with Death’s old, he’ll lie still and still he shall, and I stab at his eyes and loose my sin’s shy.
~~ We’ll take him then home, my friend, but it ends not here, we’ll ride up his carcass to old Domenere. He’ll gobble and croak, his heart at a choke, as his eyes set sight on what used to sin, but now lies still, he’ll faint in a wither at our rightful kill. We’ll ask for the ‘ole knife, and he’ll nod slow but sure, then hand us the knife. I’ll snicker as I hold it tight, then plunge it into Old Golden’s strife. I’ll sigh while I move it side to side, through the beastly, ghastly hide. Old Domenere will flinch in fright, and drop his job and hat, he’ll wish to never see a meat, or food, or fish cut like that. I’ll only laugh and cut and cut and cut until I’m done, and separate and contemplate what my poon has won. The horns I shall lay atop my mantel, and look upon with lust. The beast's two sets of claws I’ll wear ‘round my neck, in just. His head, eyes plunged, shall stay here in the shop, so as to remember the largest head gone chop. His heart, so evil and red and black, so swamped and slack, I shall rap up nicely in iron steel, iron steel that will never peel, It’ll rest in this iron case, the iron case cut-short and laced, with his own golden scales, however gone pale, and closed tight with the largest scale. This heart, so broken and dead and lost, shall I give to my sweet however crossed. She’ll open the box, with shivering hands, I’ll hold them still to make amends. She’ll open it slowly, then peak inside, then shriek with glee at what she will find. She will forget of every wrong, she’ll remember our old song, she’ll hold me tight, and not want to let go, and keep the heart forever, a tidbit to show. She’ll remark on my bravery, my kindness, and I’ll deny, then she’ll look me strait in the eye. Don’t deny, don’t even jest, she’ll say with a huff then hug at my chest. I’ll pet her hair and tell her how much I care, she’ll just say I know, and we’ll end it there. The rest will be better, more splendid and still, and forever and forever she’ll love me till.
~~ But the rest of the corpse, of what was once my sin, will not be thrown out, or lost tin a whim. No, no, my friend, I know you too well, you and me have an idea to use it all quite well. Sell we shall each scale of gold. Our fortune shall grow, to amounts untold. We’ll cackle with glee, at how rich we’ll be, and then they will see, each eye will see what wonders we’ll be. The smallest, but roundest will ask every boy, The cheapest, but largest, will ask the rest with joy. And for the rich, who need not a price; The one the shines like glittering ice. But no matter how much we sell, there will always be one golden shell, for too many has the beast, oh to many to gobble an feast. But still out plan, our tale ends not here, for this will take many a ‘year. The chest plate of a purer kind shall be given to mother, and give her riches to find. She’ll laugh with pleasure at her new treasure, and forget my bad posture, and take it with culture, then sell it for a fortune without a question. My brother, the mayor, shall have eyes wide to this. His heart shall turn to a black list. But I fear not for this, for the gold tipped tail, with a waving fringe shall be a gift to he, and then our kin hood shall set sail in glee. He’ll scruff my hair as he used to do, and praise me like a younger me used to knew.
~~ We’ll be better off, all of us shall, hand in hand, friends to Earth’s end. Nothing shall rip us, nothing shall tear us, we shall be whole however unknown to wholeness so. Then with the beast, mounted, owned, sold many times over, and stories told from here to Dover. We’ll each own a piece of the golden beast of the sea, just think, my friend, of how happy we’ll be. Perhaps I’ll even slip a scale below your cover, then you too can own Eise’s treasure. For I am sorry, my friend, the beast shall be named after I, for I am the one that carries your cover, your pages, my friend, my journal, and you own me not. So now I ask that we stop this quarrel, that we just let our plan unfurl. So now my friend, I ask if you will help, if you’ll reach beyond the kelp? Will you please, journey with me, past the farthest brink of the sea? Will you end my sin’s keep, and carve our name in this golden sheep? Please, I beg of you now my friend, please do not end it here. Just now, however now, do not let it end here. I beg of you, please let us reach our goal, let us pass this caper’s toll. Will you not? Are you sure? You wish me not whole and pure? Then my friend, I bid you ado, and I end this plan once and for all- the secondary way, the way in which I am the one to pay. Just don’t forget, one I thought as my friend, that without me your pages now end.
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- Title: The Diary of Ruther B. Eise
- Artist: Epans
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Description:
They that see what no-one spies, find stories spun upon white lies.
I hope none mind the length. I tried cutting it into sections but it is quite hard you must know, it is one piece after all.
And please no slurring on the rhyming of ever sentence, or so, I made it as so for a reason. - Date: 10/02/2008
- Tags: diary ruther eise strange weird
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Comments (5 Comments)
- Nikon Revolver - 04/02/2009
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Ummm. I'm a bit dum I guess. I tired to make a link but it didnt work. Copy an paste I guess? LOL! Here :3
http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/writing-arena-discussion/the-epans-reviews-we-heart-epans/t.48645875/
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- Nikon Revolver - 04/02/2009
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WOW! This is awesome!!! 5/5 for you :3 ! I wish I could write like that. I wanna make a bigger comment but there's no room. Um...OH! Yeah! Here's a link to a forum tpoic, there's more room there k? Loves ya!
link => We heart Epans! - Report As Spam