Of all the things in the world that bring me annoyance, the greatest by far are frivolous women like that Lucie Manette. It's as though she expects that the events of the world turn around her own little emotions. Tears cloud her eyes so often, it's a wonder she can see at all.
Just today, she came into our wine shop to plead for the safety of her precious family. I looked up into those blue eyes and glared at her coldly, as I weaved their names into the tapestry.
Has noone told her that Madame Defarge shows no mercy on the weak and foolish?
In fact, it's something of a game of mine to target the ludicrous. Only the strong are worthy of my army of Revolutionists. Let us weed out the rest.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Thunder and Lightning
Every fiber of the list, every second that has passed before us, preludes to this very moment.
Swarms of flies buzz, and Jacques wait in carnivorous, bated breath as we close in around the Bastille.
A thousand fires burn.
The silence is so loud that I start to laugh. A deep rumbling from within, the start of a thunderstorm. Now the whole crowd is laughing too, with a mania that is unstoppable.
The lightning strikes.
Sinister weapons are lashed out of pockets, glinting silver in the moonlight and come back dripping crimson.
I lift my skirts as I step over the bodies of fallen insects, hardly sparing them a glance. My eyes have never swayed from my mission.
Find the governor. Let his blood flow over the raised flags of the revolutionists.
*****
The governor's head is off.
The flies buzz once more, and I sense that now they too can smell the reek of the blood as longingly as I do.
Swarms of flies buzz, and Jacques wait in carnivorous, bated breath as we close in around the Bastille.
A thousand fires burn.
The silence is so loud that I start to laugh. A deep rumbling from within, the start of a thunderstorm. Now the whole crowd is laughing too, with a mania that is unstoppable.
The lightning strikes.
Sinister weapons are lashed out of pockets, glinting silver in the moonlight and come back dripping crimson.
I lift my skirts as I step over the bodies of fallen insects, hardly sparing them a glance. My eyes have never swayed from my mission.
Find the governor. Let his blood flow over the raised flags of the revolutionists.
*****
The governor's head is off.
The flies buzz once more, and I sense that now they too can smell the reek of the blood as longingly as I do.
The Stabbing Needles
There is no greater pleasure in life than looking upon our betrayers and tyrants, as the light leaves thier eyes.
This gives me a great, welling euphoria that fills my black soul.
So I knit.
So I knit.
With every stich, I seal the fates of the blue flies and the miserable aristocrats.
The smell of the blood grows thicker, my needles weave and stab.
Everyday the list grows longer, and with every hour I smile at my work. But soon it fades. So many more names, yet it is never enough. The job is unending, so the blackness grows deeper and the red brighter.
Everyday my hunger for flesh rumbles like thunder and the thirst for blood makes my throat burn.
I have become a black monster.
Each name on the list I spin goes with a face that has is my prey, and the madness within does not allow them to escape.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Little Children
Tonight, my fingers knit with a frenzy I've never known.
The smell of blood hangs in the air, stronger than ever.
Around midnight, the Marquis shoots past the shop window in that fancy carriage of his like a wild Devil, and seconds later I hear a bone-shattering crunch and the horrible wailing of a young child.
I knit faster.
I hear the Devil Man speak outside the window with an air of infuriating indifference, and followed by the bitter laments of a man called Gaspard, who is evidently the miserable child's father.
The men step into the streetlight. The Devil Man, with his chin held high, is clad in a lavish gold coat that is splattered in dark, innocent blood. With a flick of his wrist, he hands Gaspard a meagar amount of coins, as though that should suffice for the boy lying dead at his wheels. This man is not just a haughty, apathetic aristocrat, he is no mere Devil.
The Marquis IS France.
I knit. My hands have separated from my body, my needles flying.
Without another word, the Devil Man sticks a curled golden toe back into the carriage, lifts himself in, and speeds his way through the town once more. But before he disappears, I swear I see a flash of a demented grin on his face.
And I smile too. Before the week is over, the Marquis will die. I'll have my way.
I close my eyes and see the red again, deeper still.
The smell of blood hangs in the air, stronger than ever.
Around midnight, the Marquis shoots past the shop window in that fancy carriage of his like a wild Devil, and seconds later I hear a bone-shattering crunch and the horrible wailing of a young child.
I knit faster.
I hear the Devil Man speak outside the window with an air of infuriating indifference, and followed by the bitter laments of a man called Gaspard, who is evidently the miserable child's father.
The men step into the streetlight. The Devil Man, with his chin held high, is clad in a lavish gold coat that is splattered in dark, innocent blood. With a flick of his wrist, he hands Gaspard a meagar amount of coins, as though that should suffice for the boy lying dead at his wheels. This man is not just a haughty, apathetic aristocrat, he is no mere Devil.
The Marquis IS France.
I knit. My hands have separated from my body, my needles flying.
Without another word, the Devil Man sticks a curled golden toe back into the carriage, lifts himself in, and speeds his way through the town once more. But before he disappears, I swear I see a flash of a demented grin on his face.
And I smile too. Before the week is over, the Marquis will die. I'll have my way.
I close my eyes and see the red again, deeper still.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Bloodlust
Blood.
Deep red seeps into my subconscious at night. The smell of it, fresh, drowns out the distractions that plague the emotionally-riddled people that irritate me so.
I can never escape from the blood. When I close my eyes, I see the red tarring my eyelids. I hunger for it, the taste lingering on my tongue.
Blood is what I knit. Fibers of it are woven into every strand, every moment, of the web that I've spun. Ensnaring the blue flies, trapping each one of my own personal annoyances.
Deep red seeps into my subconscious at night. The smell of it, fresh, drowns out the distractions that plague the emotionally-riddled people that irritate me so.
I can never escape from the blood. When I close my eyes, I see the red tarring my eyelids. I hunger for it, the taste lingering on my tongue.
Blood is what I knit. Fibers of it are woven into every strand, every moment, of the web that I've spun. Ensnaring the blue flies, trapping each one of my own personal annoyances.
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