Eddie and the Green Lady of the Enchanted Forest of Absinthe: The First Rising Star(1)
Eddie and the Lady in Green: Part 1 – The Bottle and the Pub
It was a dark and(2) star filled night(3). Well, how could
it not be? I, of course, filled the obsidian black haze with a blaze of
triumphant glory, a comet streaking across the sky(4). But then again, the majesty
of the forests offered the perfect backdrop, a magnificent stage, a colourless
hue of whirling… (5)
*The bottle looked back at me.*
‘Twas true. The bottle was staring back at me, with a
vicious glint in its one good eye. I knew what I was seeking. Her: Ma Belle. I
had made the worst mistake of my unlife (6) and now I must pay the price. Even
if I could find her, there wasn’t the slenderest hope that she would want to
love me like she once loved to love me after I had loved her sister like she
had once loved me and then eaten her soul. (7)
Oh Abi… Gabi. How does my soulless void long for you? Both
of you. (8) Two beautiful sisters, one lost without the other. How would
Christmas go? Two empty seats… mine and hers. This wouldn’t ever do. I needed a
drink. I had to make things right. (9)
That taste. It was like the elixir of the gods. Better than
my own blood. The ichor of life. The green spangly magical, sparkling nectar
that made purple sound like orange and made turquoise smell like finest beige.
I wanted to snort nuts. Ground almonds mixed with tea so green it made Envy
lilac with yellow jealousy. I asked the barkeep for some but he assured me that
such heady drugs were not within his licensing remit. Shit. I was stuck with
the dried, chopped tarragon again. I remembered my promise from the last time:
tree stumps should never be barkeeps and taverns must never be manned by
gnome-eating mushrooms that grew below the roots of Sanity River.
(10)
I was wasted. Now I remembered why I had loved dear Abi
Absinthe as dearly as I had loved dear Abi Absinthe, which was quite a lot
actually. She turned my world green and my legs upside down. She was the asylum
I wandered into, the glassy walled prison, the sliding escape, as everything
poured out, washing away in a wave of tidal green…
I still remembered Abi’s green shiny face staring at me like
some demented oompa loompa escaped from the chocolate factory of my mind (11). I
recall with emerald clarity the first grassy words that fell from her
peppermint tongue (My, she was minty with a hint of aniseed … I wonder if she
had been contaminated with the rancid remnants of a glass of crème de menthe!)
Those first words have haunted me every day of my not life. They haunt me
still. I am so haunted I think I know who I’m gunna call … girl.
My head hurts.
Those words that haunted me so (12) profoundly that I can
still remember it, even now. (13) Do you want to hear what she said? (14)
“Oh dear, poor little mite. You do look sorry for yourself
sitting there, staring through leaf tinted spectacles at the world.”
I looked up. Without the absinthe bottle as a filter, she
was a much more normal colour and her face was face shaped. Her eyes were as
green as the sumptuous liquor though … greener. But her wings were still the
same. Sparkling, translucent webbing like that big, glowing silver sun behind
her, throwing rainbows off in all directions. (15)
The mirror ball shone through my absinthe-induced trance,
shaking me back to a semblance of reality … bastard. I gazed into its
glittering eyes. It made me see spots for a while but eventually I forgot to
blink and I was drawn into its soul … or did it draw my soul into it? I can’t
remember.
All I know is that the next thing I knew, I awoke in a
strange bed and I had no idea how I got there. (16)
My fingers crept along my face as my eyes creaked open.
Fuck. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Fuck cakes. My skin creaked, I could feel… wrinkles! What
had happened to my perfect complexion? (17)
Igor's Comments:
(1) I don’t care, Stardust. I can’t tolerate your stupidity.
As your ghostwriter, I am exercising my powers as ‘editor’. We’re changing the
title.
(2) No, just no.
(3) Moron.
(4) Streaking? Ugh. The only streaks you ever produce are in
your pants, you vile creature, you pustule of rancid filth.
(5) You were staring into your absinthe bottle. This
‘poetry’ of yours has to stop. I’m removing this section. See: *edit*.
(6) Your entire unlife has been one long and sodding painful
mistake. When will it end? You can’t go on like this, Stardust. You must put an
end to the madness before it’s too late. I only say this because I care,
dearest Eddie – I care deeply … FOR MY OWN FUCKING SANITY!!!
(7) You mean your ‘ménage à trois’ fantasy, or your
appalling grammar?
(8) Both of them? Really? I’m pretty certain that in your
last post, you wanted Abi and you regretted viciously slaying her sister Gabi,
only once you knew that she was your only link to your beloved. Give up the
bullshit, Stardust … or if you can’t, at least read your own past work to keep
your story a bit consistent. Oh, I despair! *raises hand to brow in mock agony.*
(9) Doesn’t sound like you. Are you sick? Should I call an
evil doctor out to your evil petting zoo to take your temperature in that …
method you so enjoy?
(10) What?
(11) I’m astounded, Stardust … that metaphor was dangerously
close to being … dare I say it? … O … o … original? *faints*
(12) GET ON WITH IT!
(13) Stardust, do you realise that you’re only describing
the memory of being off your tits on
Absinthe? You aren’t actually pissed now, so stop writing as if you are. Take
off your diva pants and get back in the real world.
(14) Please, I am just dying as I sit on the edge of my seat
getting my knickers in a twist. Tell me … I beg you … GET ON WITH IT! Some of
your readers have lives to live.
(15) Why do you think something as mundane as a mirror ball
deserves such a hyperbolic metaphor? It’s only a light effect tool, after all.
(16) It amazes me that ‘bed’ isn’t a euphemism for ‘gutter’;
you’re actually being literal.
(17) That’s it. I’m calling it. New drinking game readers:
one shot for each time the words ‘rancid’, ‘green’, ‘god’ and a failed metaphor
or cliché are used by any persons involved in this preposterous excuse for a
literary phenomenon. Double shot if the metaphor actually works.
