"The Balalaikaist"
This is a short story I wrote a while back.
Seeing as this section is for the worst writing in the universe, I think I'll fit right in.
Good luck, and apologies in advance, reader.
The Toledo doctor cures the zodiacal valedictorian: it's a name I gave myself; I write the horoscope in the newspaper. I graduated before you and you're sure you're not the only one envious about that. The Toledo doctor cures the zodiacal valedictorian though I myself never knew what ailed me. When I was lying on the table cut open, Yadani, you and three men sat by it eagerly, and you frankly thought I was dead and when the breath of life hit me like a balalaika, you didn't know what to say for yourselves, so you said nothing as the doctor sent me away. He pushed me down a flight of stairs, Yadani. How do you feel about that?
You asked yourself “Pope or font? Balalaika or rosin? Venom or robe?” You, as an assistant, an accessory to murder, no doubt, drove ire's proud daughter about gates and eggs benedict, a breakfast you would recommend to anybody with any taste in food. The rosy Baba Yaga, in the innocent guise of something more sinister, oiled fair Hanni, the disheartened girl, down with perfume. The eau de toilette: you believed they called it that in France, was smelling something like crushed irises or a balalaikaist's rosin, fresh on his bow, although he never uses it. Without a dot or a line to defend her, or a word in her defense, for the pen is mightier than the sword, and the sword is mightier than the bow, she smelled something like a charcoal bouquet.
The sons mount their carriages without the tinkling bell, a wind chime, actually, of rising prostitution, and the red banner of oppression- Trotsky told me himself before nobility escaped her grasp, though she was a lot cause after all.
Yet you sit off in the shade, under an oak tree, and you realize for yourself, that your irises are new, surrounded by dice and grasses and without any flowers, except for irises; two radiant purple blossoms next to a stump in the ground. It's a bare patch that you inhabit, and before you, a game is beginning; it looked like croquet as you had seen it before.
They play croquet with neither mail nor hay; plate mail was never a requirement after all, but the hay rightfully belonged to you and you wanted it back, because you paid good money for it and you're damned sure you earned it. You saw him shoot a wicket and it was as if he didn't even care, and who would blame him?
The sun crosses the sky and moves you with it, while out in the street, the saxophone player distracts you from the lively game, she was playing Bartok and had quite a crowd, gathered around her feet, in a position of worship, and you wondered why they flocked to her instead of you. You heard the faint sound of a balalaikaist behind her instrument, strumming contentedly.
The three wise men never visited her, Yadani, for while she was no virgin, her husband certainly was. She had found a lover; a balalaikaist, who brought her pilsner ale daily, it kept her happy and subdue, although you personally held yourself in such high regard you wouldn't drink anything but whiskey.
Three men never visited her at midnight with their spices, for her child was no messiah, in fact, he never lived at all, yet the blue mama lima sold you her grim stillbirth's anise, for she was expecting myrrh, but didn't have any left, and had to use bath salts instead, and she still couldn't rinse the wine from her silken skirt, nor could she rinse it with iodine; as she cleaned herself, she only dirtied herself further and ruined it, the violet red dripping down like bloodstains after a murder.
She had the faint scent about her of a balalaikaist's rosin, and you recognized it as saffron, anise, and coriander. You took it reluctantly as a gift for me, and were no better off for it, and it fetched a hell of a price on the black market. So you let him push me down the stairs, Yadani, and under his arm, Yadani, was a balalaika and a rosin, and you knew at once who he was, and he looked back at you, Yadani, with a contemplative expression, knowing he had done what needed to be done, and not wondering if it was necessary, but wondering if it had to be necessary.
Seeing as this section is for the worst writing in the universe, I think I'll fit right in.
Good luck, and apologies in advance, reader.
The Balalaikaist
The Toledo doctor cures the zodiacal valedictorian: it's a name I gave myself; I write the horoscope in the newspaper. I graduated before you and you're sure you're not the only one envious about that. The Toledo doctor cures the zodiacal valedictorian though I myself never knew what ailed me. When I was lying on the table cut open, Yadani, you and three men sat by it eagerly, and you frankly thought I was dead and when the breath of life hit me like a balalaika, you didn't know what to say for yourselves, so you said nothing as the doctor sent me away. He pushed me down a flight of stairs, Yadani. How do you feel about that?
You asked yourself “Pope or font? Balalaika or rosin? Venom or robe?” You, as an assistant, an accessory to murder, no doubt, drove ire's proud daughter about gates and eggs benedict, a breakfast you would recommend to anybody with any taste in food. The rosy Baba Yaga, in the innocent guise of something more sinister, oiled fair Hanni, the disheartened girl, down with perfume. The eau de toilette: you believed they called it that in France, was smelling something like crushed irises or a balalaikaist's rosin, fresh on his bow, although he never uses it. Without a dot or a line to defend her, or a word in her defense, for the pen is mightier than the sword, and the sword is mightier than the bow, she smelled something like a charcoal bouquet.
The sons mount their carriages without the tinkling bell, a wind chime, actually, of rising prostitution, and the red banner of oppression- Trotsky told me himself before nobility escaped her grasp, though she was a lot cause after all.
Yet you sit off in the shade, under an oak tree, and you realize for yourself, that your irises are new, surrounded by dice and grasses and without any flowers, except for irises; two radiant purple blossoms next to a stump in the ground. It's a bare patch that you inhabit, and before you, a game is beginning; it looked like croquet as you had seen it before.
They play croquet with neither mail nor hay; plate mail was never a requirement after all, but the hay rightfully belonged to you and you wanted it back, because you paid good money for it and you're damned sure you earned it. You saw him shoot a wicket and it was as if he didn't even care, and who would blame him?
The sun crosses the sky and moves you with it, while out in the street, the saxophone player distracts you from the lively game, she was playing Bartok and had quite a crowd, gathered around her feet, in a position of worship, and you wondered why they flocked to her instead of you. You heard the faint sound of a balalaikaist behind her instrument, strumming contentedly.
The three wise men never visited her, Yadani, for while she was no virgin, her husband certainly was. She had found a lover; a balalaikaist, who brought her pilsner ale daily, it kept her happy and subdue, although you personally held yourself in such high regard you wouldn't drink anything but whiskey.
Three men never visited her at midnight with their spices, for her child was no messiah, in fact, he never lived at all, yet the blue mama lima sold you her grim stillbirth's anise, for she was expecting myrrh, but didn't have any left, and had to use bath salts instead, and she still couldn't rinse the wine from her silken skirt, nor could she rinse it with iodine; as she cleaned herself, she only dirtied herself further and ruined it, the violet red dripping down like bloodstains after a murder.
She had the faint scent about her of a balalaikaist's rosin, and you recognized it as saffron, anise, and coriander. You took it reluctantly as a gift for me, and were no better off for it, and it fetched a hell of a price on the black market. So you let him push me down the stairs, Yadani, and under his arm, Yadani, was a balalaika and a rosin, and you knew at once who he was, and he looked back at you, Yadani, with a contemplative expression, knowing he had done what needed to be done, and not wondering if it was necessary, but wondering if it had to be necessary.