Kings and Queens of the Mirror (2a/?)
anonymous
June 14 2011, 01:52:25 UTC
When Arthur woke in the morning, he was in a different room. Sunlight streamed through crystal-clear, often cleaned, and meticulously maintained windows into a pleasant looking guest room. The walls were a clean-cut blue, adorned with cheap prints of some religious paintings, probably Renaissance-era. There was an oak dresser, and a small bedside table with a drawer. As opposed to most parts of Alfred’s mind, this was completely normal. Picking up a suitcase that had, while he was asleep, manifested itself by his bed, Arthur opened the door and walked out of the room, down a flight of carpeted stairs, and into a main room. It was a typical suburban home, complete with a couch, a television set, and photos of the family on multiple vacations. In fact, this was more frightening than the accustomed bizarre, out-of-place settings. It wasn’t long before something strange presented itself, acting as a comfort to Arthur. The Englishman walked through a doorway, into a disproportionately large kitchen, where all the inhabitants of the pub reclined, eating breakfast or listening to the radio. There was a large wall of glass, reminiscent of those protecting museum exhibits, behind which the emaciated clerk from last night was diligently cooking breakfast. She was dressed like a housewife, and an obviously fake smile was plastered across her face. Arthur walked across the kitchen, to where the colonial school teacher was head-banging to a Bob Dylan song, which the man didn’t recognize until the refrain came around- ‘Ballad of a Thin Man.’ The woman had exchanged her Puritan dress for a skintight silver, wetsuit-esque piece of apparel. Occasionally, a wave of neon light coursed through it, illuminating a series of wires and circuit boards. “Excuse me,” Arthur said, with as much politeness as he could muster, “do you know of a man named Alfred F. Jones?” “Well, who is he?” the woman queried as a reply. “He’s… Alfred.” “What does he do?” “He’s a country.” “Does that mean he’s a king?” “No.” “What’s that phrase… For king and country? Or is it god and country? Or God and country- you know, with a capital ‘G’?” “You don’t know him, do you?” “Sure I do, but… Is he a god, if he isn’t a king?” “Vain as ever, Alfred.” “I’m truly just curious.” “Where is he?” The woman yawned. “Somewhere. On the dark side of the moon, maybe? No…. If he isn’t a king or a god or a country, he couldn’t be there…” Arthur growled, and turned away. It was useless talking to these people. They traveled in circles.
Kings and Queens of the Mirror (2b/?)
anonymous
June 14 2011, 01:54:57 UTC
“And we go in orbits,” the woman called after him. Arthur ignored her, aggravated that Alfred was looking into his thoughts. “Actually, I don’t think he’d be on the dark side of the moon. He must be through the looking-glass,” the woman said to the man’s back. Arthur kept walking, but the woman followed, and grabbed his shoulder, trying to turn him towards her. “What?” he exclaimed, not interested in being slowed down by this idiot. “I… I think that if you go through the looking-glass, you’ll find him. I’d go with you, too, but I don’t have a reflection.” Arthur walked away silently, no longer interested in this senseless babble. He stepped through a door, and he was outside. It was a place like the grounds of a mansion, excepting the arbitrary bundles of barbed wire scattered about, and the many dandelions growing among the pristine grass blades. The Englishman began walking among the gardens, idly appreciating the burble of unseen fountains and well-bred roses. There were paths to walk down, signs indicating which way to go (though they were mostly in Spanish), and a general presence of order. It really was uncommon- first this morning’s suburban house, now this regal garden. It was rather nice- it gave one the chance to think. And think Arthur did. Though his thoughts were a bit disordered by this place, he could still hold to a train of thought. He thought of his home, and rainy London afternoons. He thought of France and America and the others. He imagined going home to things that were real and solid, things that would still be there when you turned away for a moment. He meditated on the thought of honest-to-God food, or a hot cup of tea, or people without twanging American accents. He let his mind off it’s tethers, not caring what dirty or dark or fantastical places it went to. The steady sameness of each turn, each passage in this garden, was lulling him in time with the repeated, intruding smashing of boots against the ground. Looking up, Arthur could see through a gap in the well-groomed bushes a neat formation of soldiers marching. They came in the uniforms of all nations, and some not in uniform; rather, they wore only the uniform of the poor-man, or the migrant, or the businessman. The procession was seemingly without end. Two men broke off from the group, and came over to Arthur. “What are you doing here?” one snapped. Arthur didn’t bother answering; they grabbed his arms and began dragging him off to God-knew-where. Arthur wondered if the woman was right about Alfred being the god of this country. Hope that was okay~ I’m sorry for the wait; I lost my copy of Through the Looking Glass. XD Anyway. Anon out!
Picking up a suitcase that had, while he was asleep, manifested itself by his bed, Arthur opened the door and walked out of the room, down a flight of carpeted stairs, and into a main room. It was a typical suburban home, complete with a couch, a television set, and photos of the family on multiple vacations. In fact, this was more frightening than the accustomed bizarre, out-of-place settings.
It wasn’t long before something strange presented itself, acting as a comfort to Arthur. The Englishman walked through a doorway, into a disproportionately large kitchen, where all the inhabitants of the pub reclined, eating breakfast or listening to the radio. There was a large wall of glass, reminiscent of those protecting museum exhibits, behind which the emaciated clerk from last night was diligently cooking breakfast. She was dressed like a housewife, and an obviously fake smile was plastered across her face.
Arthur walked across the kitchen, to where the colonial school teacher was head-banging to a Bob Dylan song, which the man didn’t recognize until the refrain came around- ‘Ballad of a Thin Man.’ The woman had exchanged her Puritan dress for a skintight silver, wetsuit-esque piece of apparel. Occasionally, a wave of neon light coursed through it, illuminating a series of wires and circuit boards.
“Excuse me,” Arthur said, with as much politeness as he could muster, “do you know of a man named Alfred F. Jones?”
“Well, who is he?” the woman queried as a reply.
“He’s… Alfred.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a country.”
“Does that mean he’s a king?”
“No.”
“What’s that phrase… For king and country? Or is it god and country? Or God and country- you know, with a capital ‘G’?”
“You don’t know him, do you?”
“Sure I do, but… Is he a god, if he isn’t a king?”
“Vain as ever, Alfred.”
“I’m truly just curious.”
“Where is he?”
The woman yawned. “Somewhere. On the dark side of the moon, maybe? No…. If he isn’t a king or a god or a country, he couldn’t be there…”
Arthur growled, and turned away. It was useless talking to these people. They traveled in circles.
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“What?” he exclaimed, not interested in being slowed down by this idiot.
“I… I think that if you go through the looking-glass, you’ll find him. I’d go with you, too, but I don’t have a reflection.”
Arthur walked away silently, no longer interested in this senseless babble. He stepped through a door, and he was outside. It was a place like the grounds of a mansion, excepting the arbitrary bundles of barbed wire scattered about, and the many dandelions growing among the pristine grass blades.
The Englishman began walking among the gardens, idly appreciating the burble of unseen fountains and well-bred roses. There were paths to walk down, signs indicating which way to go (though they were mostly in Spanish), and a general presence of order. It really was uncommon- first this morning’s suburban house, now this regal garden. It was rather nice- it gave one the chance to think.
And think Arthur did. Though his thoughts were a bit disordered by this place, he could still hold to a train of thought. He thought of his home, and rainy London afternoons. He thought of France and America and the others. He imagined going home to things that were real and solid, things that would still be there when you turned away for a moment. He meditated on the thought of honest-to-God food, or a hot cup of tea, or people without twanging American accents. He let his mind off it’s tethers, not caring what dirty or dark or fantastical places it went to. The steady sameness of each turn, each passage in this garden, was lulling him in time with the repeated, intruding smashing of boots against the ground.
Looking up, Arthur could see through a gap in the well-groomed bushes a neat formation of soldiers marching. They came in the uniforms of all nations, and some not in uniform; rather, they wore only the uniform of the poor-man, or the migrant, or the businessman. The procession was seemingly without end.
Two men broke off from the group, and came over to Arthur.
“What are you doing here?” one snapped.
Arthur didn’t bother answering; they grabbed his arms and began dragging him off to God-knew-where.
Arthur wondered if the woman was right about Alfred being the god of this country.
Hope that was okay~ I’m sorry for the wait; I lost my copy of Through the Looking Glass. XD Anyway. Anon out!
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