I also have some notion about the Yuletide assignment, and adore both the requested canon and character, so that ought to be good.
(lilliburlero this is the story you were kind enough to read and review)
Standing in the pouring rain
In the mud to their ankles
To their calves to their knees
To their ankles in the mud
And the rain pissing down
Piss running down their legs
And windows chorusing shut
To keep out storm and (in)sanity.
Somewhere a witch cackles.
Or maybe it's just a madwoman.
I never used any, so it's not that great a loss--
But I have lost them all,
And it bothers me--
Nobody believes I have OCD, but I do, about words--
To have lost all those words
That I was keeping for you.
I have lost you, too--
Are you happy? Will you stop calling me, please?--
But that hurts rather less;
You were honestly lost--
Are you getting married soon-ish? Will you invite me?--
But those words still
Rattle around my mind.
I have lost the meaning--
The coherence, as it were, the very sense of them--
But the letters themselves,
In strange combinations--
A phrase, a query that must once have had meaning--
Recall their old selves
And mine so safely lost.
( to my son, on his sixteenth birthday, from his father, a gift. )
This is the first section of the story.
if all the world’s a stage,
(and one must believe the Bard,
though he steal this line from a hoarding)
who’s watching us perform?
god, you say? or the gods?
but whose gods and which gods?
(and have they nothing better to do?
and who’s watching them?)
or are we all stuck in a rehearsal
(I have never played, but am told
That rehearsals are a needful evil)
laughing at each other’s flubbed lines?