jabberwocky
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
olive
He picked up the cold silver spoon, balancing it between his two
forefingers and contemplated what would come next. Slowly the spoon
began to gain momentum, moving faster and faster until it connected
with the egg and the white flesh was exposed. He paused for a moment
then began.
Olive believed that there were many things in life
that often went unappreciated, things of great beauty that were not
noticed by the average man, but Olive was not the average man. He lived
his life by the philosophy that he should find beauty in everything he
did. Now that is not to say that Olive enjoyed the feeling of grief he
experienced when his faithful Labrador was run over by a clients
Mercedes-Benz, but he appreciated that he could feel grief and it was a
beautiful thing.
After consuming his breakfast he placed his
plate in the sink then carried himself and his briefcase out the front
door. He made his way down the garden path, stopping to tap his foot on
the surface of a puddle, and then promptly continued on his way. He had
an appointment which he was anxious to keep. A walk, a tram ride,
followed by a few leaps down stairs and he was on the train, sitting
next to a stranger.
“Fancy that rain in the middle of August!” exclaimed the old man beside him.
“Well it’s actually not that unheard of but lovely all the same!” He said to the man with a sincere smile.
Walking
down the cold concrete lane that led to his final destination he
glanced up at the sky, past the heavily painted walls to see murky
clouds floating overhead. He let his eyes roll over and fall onto a
highly polished car bonnet and watched the reflection of the clouds
glide over the gleaming surface. A moment later and he had turned to
his left and paused. Lining up the tips of his shoes with the bottom of
the step, Olive knocked on the heavy metal door. He pulled up the edge
of his jacket slightly and glanced at his watch and with a moment to
spare the door was opened.
A tall thin man stood before him and
swiftly welcomed him and pulled him inside, throwing an uneasy glance
around Olive’s knees, unable to meet his eyes, he closed the door
behind dear Olive with a loud thud. He had stepped into an old office
building that had been transformed into a cosy town house, filled with
plump arm chairs and wooden tables, Persian rugs and beautiful
paintings; he knew every corner of this house and the history of every
piece of furniture and art that lived inside. He spent hours and hours
looking for just the right wallpaper or the perfect doorframe, hours of
his life which he enjoyed thoroughly. Olive took off his hat and placed
it on the hatstand he knew to reside just inside the door on his left.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and his hair out of his eyes in the
one movement, and then proceeded to sit down into an overstuffed
armchair. He was just about to ask for a cup of tea when he was
interrupted by a disturbance on the mantelpiece. A candle stick fell
off the holder and rolled across the carpet and a grey cat with misty
powder-blue eyes leapt onto Olives lap. He reclined back into the chair
and he began to stroke the animal. The tall thin man sat down and
twiddled his thumbs glancing slightly over Olive’s shoulder. He had a
feeling that the man was not at all at ease in his presence.
“Is everything alright?” Olive asked.
“Oh,
quite alright,” said the man. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He asked
after a considerable pause, it was clear both men had noted. Olive
nodded.
The man leapt up and walked quickly in the direction of what
Olive knew to be the kitchen. Olive followed, though he paused at the
fireplace, his hand resting on a fire stoke. He glanced up at the man
and Olive saw that the steam from the kettle had risen and condensed on
the window, obscuring the view of the backyard and the rain. Olive
stood for a moment observing this. He moved his hand along the cold
metal of the fire stoke and let his fingers rest on the bright brass
handle it was lifted out of the holder by his calm and purposeful
hands; swinging the object back and forth, gaining momentum moving
faster and faster Olive ensured it connected with the grey cat with
misty blue eyes.
Olive sat down on a hard wooden chair and let
the spoke slide gently from his grasp, it fell upon the floor, the dull
thud out of place in the quiet air, the sound not unlike the sound of a
car hitting a dog. A sound both men were familiar with
forefingers and contemplated what would come next. Slowly the spoon
began to gain momentum, moving faster and faster until it connected
with the egg and the white flesh was exposed. He paused for a moment
then began.
Olive believed that there were many things in life
that often went unappreciated, things of great beauty that were not
noticed by the average man, but Olive was not the average man. He lived
his life by the philosophy that he should find beauty in everything he
did. Now that is not to say that Olive enjoyed the feeling of grief he
experienced when his faithful Labrador was run over by a clients
Mercedes-Benz, but he appreciated that he could feel grief and it was a
beautiful thing.
After consuming his breakfast he placed his
plate in the sink then carried himself and his briefcase out the front
door. He made his way down the garden path, stopping to tap his foot on
the surface of a puddle, and then promptly continued on his way. He had
an appointment which he was anxious to keep. A walk, a tram ride,
followed by a few leaps down stairs and he was on the train, sitting
next to a stranger.
“Fancy that rain in the middle of August!” exclaimed the old man beside him.
“Well it’s actually not that unheard of but lovely all the same!” He said to the man with a sincere smile.
Walking
down the cold concrete lane that led to his final destination he
glanced up at the sky, past the heavily painted walls to see murky
clouds floating overhead. He let his eyes roll over and fall onto a
highly polished car bonnet and watched the reflection of the clouds
glide over the gleaming surface. A moment later and he had turned to
his left and paused. Lining up the tips of his shoes with the bottom of
the step, Olive knocked on the heavy metal door. He pulled up the edge
of his jacket slightly and glanced at his watch and with a moment to
spare the door was opened.
A tall thin man stood before him and
swiftly welcomed him and pulled him inside, throwing an uneasy glance
around Olive’s knees, unable to meet his eyes, he closed the door
behind dear Olive with a loud thud. He had stepped into an old office
building that had been transformed into a cosy town house, filled with
plump arm chairs and wooden tables, Persian rugs and beautiful
paintings; he knew every corner of this house and the history of every
piece of furniture and art that lived inside. He spent hours and hours
looking for just the right wallpaper or the perfect doorframe, hours of
his life which he enjoyed thoroughly. Olive took off his hat and placed
it on the hatstand he knew to reside just inside the door on his left.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and his hair out of his eyes in the
one movement, and then proceeded to sit down into an overstuffed
armchair. He was just about to ask for a cup of tea when he was
interrupted by a disturbance on the mantelpiece. A candle stick fell
off the holder and rolled across the carpet and a grey cat with misty
powder-blue eyes leapt onto Olives lap. He reclined back into the chair
and he began to stroke the animal. The tall thin man sat down and
twiddled his thumbs glancing slightly over Olive’s shoulder. He had a
feeling that the man was not at all at ease in his presence.
“Is everything alright?” Olive asked.
“Oh,
quite alright,” said the man. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He asked
after a considerable pause, it was clear both men had noted. Olive
nodded.
The man leapt up and walked quickly in the direction of what
Olive knew to be the kitchen. Olive followed, though he paused at the
fireplace, his hand resting on a fire stoke. He glanced up at the man
and Olive saw that the steam from the kettle had risen and condensed on
the window, obscuring the view of the backyard and the rain. Olive
stood for a moment observing this. He moved his hand along the cold
metal of the fire stoke and let his fingers rest on the bright brass
handle it was lifted out of the holder by his calm and purposeful
hands; swinging the object back and forth, gaining momentum moving
faster and faster Olive ensured it connected with the grey cat with
misty blue eyes.
Olive sat down on a hard wooden chair and let
the spoke slide gently from his grasp, it fell upon the floor, the dull
thud out of place in the quiet air, the sound not unlike the sound of a
car hitting a dog. A sound both men were familiar with
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