Beware King Crass. Lover of anything those particular shades of dead and dying leaves, bruised knees, the russet hues captured in those final waning rays of our eternally setting sun. Which leads to his rather queer practices, acts designed to rid his kingdom of any particular new growth shoots of a particular pink or violet dew hue. He roasts them, until they are the color of perfectly ripened marshmallows–toasted. Chocolate-flaked and oat-coated.
Arianas house sits on the edge of Crass Kingdom. The women who come through her house are lovers of music, glass, paint, spirit and laughter–and all kinds of pleasure. This house is planted in a grove of rare and wild Violets, Lilly’s, Lavender and Rose. Hydrangea and Jasmine, Bleeding-heart vines wrap and tangle Arianas eaves. She wakes with terrible petals stuck lovingly in her curly amber, gold and umber locks of wild unruly mane. Rain clouds converge upon them each and every moonrise gathering their perfume with the icy tendrils of Crass’ hatefully enchanted winds–wafting her rare and flower-filthy stench to him by midday.
After a particularly long and pleasing drought, Crass sends his generals to look upon Her. He wants to be certain that the lack of rain and scent are caused in fact by her aging in his Autumn, if not her eternal and even more pleasing to him: Death. Ariana hadn’t seen Crass in years. Not since they had played together as children, just before her own parents had death, from which Ariana was left. Alone. In this waning purple kingdom of her very own. She had heard stories. Plans which drifted throughout the birds and bees of the songs of his coming reign. And then it happened.
Ariana tried to remember Michael Crass as his generals guided her one by each wrist to his tall ivory throne, nestled within his ebony castle. It was her custom to curtsy into the kiss of a noble wrist, temple or bridge of nose. He gives her his ring instead and on it she presses her lips until his kind generals give her uprising at their King’s command. Ariana is frightened. Quivering in heart, but stands deathly still. Crass is as unconventional a King as he’d been torturous as a youth: pulling upon her hair until it popped out in patches. Setting her paper, then cloth dolls ablaze. Forcing her to actually eat her mud and worm pies. All in their parents back yard. His affections went on for days.
I want you to tell me a story–the King commands.
I’m bored. And you should be dead.
Save your self… I have no interest in drama. In fact, my interests are sterile, precise and as follows:
Your story will be oral.
It will be comprised of no more than 28 pauses, containing precisely 119 letters and no happy ending.
You have 33 seconds to prepare.
Arianas eyes flash with the particular Violet rage that only Crass has ever bred in her. She blinks, then dashes her bare and dirty feet up on his throne. Orchid shades of organza and turquoise silks tattered from the night’s dancing fluttering around his ear as she whispers calmly:
The Terrier silently hosts her worm in her heart. This noble little creature of God–eats her heart out daily. Until that little pup is nice and dead.
The King cries out like a baby–thumb in mouth whimpering for Mother. Ariana turns to storm from his castle. King Crass thunders after her.
He orders her head.
On a stick.
Her heart.
Pierced by his sword.
