The Feast

The fire is what catches your eye. Its roaring, aggressive girth dwarfs anything inside or outside the hall. During the blustery winter months, men only dream of having a blaze that provides the same sense of assurance and safety. It took hours to fuel, and now spits and fumes determinedly,contented in its maturity.

The eve has been glorious. Song broke out even before the spindly trees had swallowed up the falling sun, and I remain unaware of how long we've hunkered around this great fire, yelling, chanting, and consuming.

I can see the storyteller is still enjoying himself. It matters not one way or the other whether he stays that way. I'm sure the crowd will listen to his story as long as he tells it, and not hesitate to beat a better story out of him if the current one should become lacking. In his fortunate case, the threat of death is out of the question. The Chief might not be able to take the stress of having to find another replacement storyman.

Chief is older. Still competent, though. Still enthusiastically stabbing and ripping through the deer meat with his fantastic dagger. I doubt any of us will ever learn how he came by that particular utensil. Capable braggart as he is, the Chief somehow forgot to ever reveal the origins of the ancient, jewelled knife that spends most of its time strapped conveniently to his thigh.

I'm not that drunk. Yet. As far as I can tell, thinking is still as effortless as I like it. After all, the longer one stays sober, the more enjoyment one can glean from the tussling of the warriors lacking similar restraint. Hmm, it seems that the grimy Easterner is engaged. Forget the bards, there's no better accompaniment to such things than the voracious brutes that surround them and cheer them on.

Ahh, good hit.

Sophie's Ode

Alas, poor cat!
Your life was grand!
You would have made a wonderful hat
I like sand

When thence you shuffled off thine mortal coil
My lifelong dreams of friendship were foiled
One tends to plant daisies in the soil
And robots work better when fuelled by oil

Ahem! *tear*

Fabulous feline, awash with poise
Your farts make far too much noise
You look like an idiot when you play with your toys
Constantly pursuing them hot feline boys
Oh, joys!

How now shall I function, deprived of my pet?
Bottomless, teary waves my glands do beget
And so I write this poem so I will not forget
That most glorious of eves on which we first met

*more tears*

I recall those days when you and your bro
Would frolic and leap and play in the snow
Forever I'll be jealous of yo' crazy sweet flow
Your litterbox will stay dirty foreva mo

Fin

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A silly poem written on a Thursday afternoon
Coauthored by Marsha Marzouca