Post by The Marquis on Sept 17, 2014 9:48:44 GMT -8
“What? Impossible.” The Marquis is lying in a coffin, arms crossed. Upon his exclamation his eyes snap open and he begins to arise, straight-backed, like a child’s inflatable punching-toy.
“You posted it to the BBS main page! It’s just there in the cyberspace equivalent of the town square.” The voice on the speakerphone is female, young, annoyed.
“But when I made a poetry book on the … eh, cyber … “ he licks his lips and grimaces. “Well, someone slapped me with a large trout. Which I assumed was bad. So I have cast the contraption into the abyss.”
“Une ombre dans une valée de marguerites,” begins the voice.
“NO! I cannot bear to hear it. Cease your sorcery. That is the wrong poem. That is ... a different ... sort of poem.” The Marquis keens and writhes with agony.
“I used a dictionary on the next part and all I could come up with was ‘my spade is solid diamond.’ - what is this?”
“Noooooooooooooooo” echoes throughout the fetid tunnel like the howl of a wolf. The phone call ends abruptly.
