[fic] happy happy happy
Title: happy happy happy
Genre: Poetry/Horror
Pairing/Characters: Amara, Crowley, various demons
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: Every day is Amara's birthday.
Notes: First-person plural POV. You can thank Melanie Martinez for this one. Spoilers for s11 so far, if you've still not seen it.
Think about it, sweet girl-
Every day's your birthday!
After all-
You were before were was;
Breathed before breath
And all of that nonsense.
What's time? Time doesn't even know
Your name. You ticked before tick tocked.
Now,
Know this-
And any time you like,
We will throw a grand old party
Just for you.
Now give her anything she wants.
So says the King. So we go like rats,
which he would say we are,
back and forth, up and down, looking for a gift
to make the little princess smile.
We've come to think of her this way;
the alternative is awful. We scatter,
scrabble, grab, nab,
scared out of our wits; if she hates
the things we bring her, the King won't hesitate
to serve us up on silver platters.
We don't want to go.
One of us, just once, was there
at just the perfect angle,
and described for all the rest
the awful yawning cavern of her throat,
a pit to put our own to shame,
and how he thinks, but isn't sure,
that he heard screaming from inside.
We don't want to die!
He sits her on his own throne, like
the daughter we're all glad he never had.
We recognise her dress: satin pink and slathered in
old blood.
We feel a gut punch-how we miss Her,
terrible as she was. At least she never ate us
in great handfuls.
We bring her things that make her
clap her hands in glee. Mein Kampf, first
print. Bouquets of innocents plucked
from far reaches where they landed by mistake;
they flower, wilt, and cry, and when they cry for God
she laughs . Oh silly! she says, and takes
a mouthful.
Someone finds the Head of John the Baptist- show-off.
And when she's bored
and drowning in wrapping paper
and tangled in ribbons,
we bring her cake, and sweets, and tarts,
and marzipan and castles made
of sugar, anything and everything
to keep her mind off us.
The newest-newest nanny tells us
how quickly she fell asleep,
holding her two-headed Demikhov dog
like the sweetest little thing you've ever seen.
Again? we ask, despairing.
Look, says the King, don't question me,
or would you rather show up to the party
in a catering dish?
Amara, little princess,
only smiles when gifts appear;
her lack of glee disturbs us.
We panic, rush for better things, stripping down
cathedrals of their jewels,
ossuaries of their bones,
humans of their souls.
We bring her crates, hat-boxes,
traveling chests and Tupperware,
anything that might delight her
and- relief- it does, although
we can't be sure the panic in our eyes
isn't what delights her most.
The cakes are bigger, richer, baked
in hellfire embers.
When her little face is smeared with crumbs,
and icing tangles in her hair,
and she's all worn out from tearing open
boxes, bodies, brains,
she claps her hands, commands us all
to dance for her.
We dance and dance until we break
our ankles, and finally
she hums her way to bed.
Again, again. The King stands in the hallways,
shouting, sweating. In her room
we know Amara's waiting
for parades of toys, balloons,
morbidities, diseases.
Nuclear warheads to ride like rocking horses,
half of the M ü tter and more;
in the last eight hours she's taken a liking
to the idea of dead nuns.
We bring a convent. She remarks
upon their bitterness. Insists we stuff
the Mother Superior as decoration
for her room.
She prances through the throne room
in Sister Ignatius' wimple.
(Up above, executives are panicking
as the owner of the Cake Boss bakery
tragically goes missing;
he's here, and working frantically,
on pain of worse-than-death.
Awful, honestly. We loved that show.)
This is the fifteenth birthday in a row.
We've stripped the world of almost every
awful thing that we could think of,
save ourselves. We worry
that there's not much left
to give her.
Again? we wheeze, too aware
of quotas and neglected souls,
empty crossroads. How can he
expect us to keep up like this?
Thirty-seven birthdays in,
she shows no signs of slowing.
Fresh infants that we bring her
are sweeter than our cakes.
She eats their hearts and eyes-
they pop like Pop Rocks.
Handful after handful.
We bring her angels, ghouls,
sour ghosts and screaming djinn,
anything and everything that we can snatch
or trap or grab. The little princess is
a connoisseur.
We have trampled bows and paper
so deep into the floor
that we no longer see the stones.
We will not mention
how the King looks caught
like deer in headlights.
This can't go on , we tell him. She'll eat us all
and you besides. You're spoiling her, we say.
What am I supposed to do? he snaps. Tell her
NO?
We shrink at that. He's right, we know.
Her mouth is big enough
to swallow all the universe.
One-hundred eighty birthdays down.
We're dwindling in numbers.
She eats great gorges of us,
hungry all the time,
tired of deformed skulls and
fetal cats. Nothing
entertains her. What do you get
for the girl who has everything?
Some of us go to her willingly-
anything for the birthdays to stop.
We hear them shrieking from inside her,
pounding at her belly,
screaming to be saved.
We can't go on like this.
Hell is stripped to studs.
Today we wait at the door to her room,
crowding, while newest-newest-newest nanny
rouses her from sleep amongst
her silken rompers, baby bones, her
rugs of human skin.
Good morning, Amara, she says,
her voice packed thick with nerves.
And what would you like
to do today?
We hold our breaths collectively,
hoping against hope,
praying to anyone and anything, regardless
of their feelings on us.
Oh, she says-we hear her stretching, little
bones cracking, her great throat yawning,
and raise our eyes to Heaven-
please, oh please, oh please,
let her tire of all these birthdays!
Oh, she says, today, I think,
I'd like to have a party!
With cake and presents, all of it.
Go tell my Uncle Crowley.
We want to cry, or break apart. We shuffle
from the door.
Hell is aptly named, we think,
since Crowley brought her home.
Genre: Poetry/Horror
Pairing/Characters: Amara, Crowley, various demons
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: Every day is Amara's birthday.
Notes: First-person plural POV. You can thank Melanie Martinez for this one. Spoilers for s11 so far, if you've still not seen it.
Think about it, sweet girl-
Every day's your birthday!
After all-
You were before were was;
Breathed before breath
And all of that nonsense.
What's time? Time doesn't even know
Your name. You ticked before tick tocked.
Now,
Know this-
And any time you like,
We will throw a grand old party
Just for you.
Now give her anything she wants.
So says the King. So we go like rats,
which he would say we are,
back and forth, up and down, looking for a gift
to make the little princess smile.
We've come to think of her this way;
the alternative is awful. We scatter,
scrabble, grab, nab,
scared out of our wits; if she hates
the things we bring her, the King won't hesitate
to serve us up on silver platters.
We don't want to go.
One of us, just once, was there
at just the perfect angle,
and described for all the rest
the awful yawning cavern of her throat,
a pit to put our own to shame,
and how he thinks, but isn't sure,
that he heard screaming from inside.
We don't want to die!
He sits her on his own throne, like
the daughter we're all glad he never had.
We recognise her dress: satin pink and slathered in
old blood.
We feel a gut punch-how we miss Her,
terrible as she was. At least she never ate us
in great handfuls.
We bring her things that make her
clap her hands in glee. Mein Kampf, first
print. Bouquets of innocents plucked
from far reaches where they landed by mistake;
they flower, wilt, and cry, and when they cry for God
she laughs . Oh silly! she says, and takes
a mouthful.
Someone finds the Head of John the Baptist- show-off.
And when she's bored
and drowning in wrapping paper
and tangled in ribbons,
we bring her cake, and sweets, and tarts,
and marzipan and castles made
of sugar, anything and everything
to keep her mind off us.
The newest-newest nanny tells us
how quickly she fell asleep,
holding her two-headed Demikhov dog
like the sweetest little thing you've ever seen.
Again? we ask, despairing.
Look, says the King, don't question me,
or would you rather show up to the party
in a catering dish?
Amara, little princess,
only smiles when gifts appear;
her lack of glee disturbs us.
We panic, rush for better things, stripping down
cathedrals of their jewels,
ossuaries of their bones,
humans of their souls.
We bring her crates, hat-boxes,
traveling chests and Tupperware,
anything that might delight her
and- relief- it does, although
we can't be sure the panic in our eyes
isn't what delights her most.
The cakes are bigger, richer, baked
in hellfire embers.
When her little face is smeared with crumbs,
and icing tangles in her hair,
and she's all worn out from tearing open
boxes, bodies, brains,
she claps her hands, commands us all
to dance for her.
We dance and dance until we break
our ankles, and finally
she hums her way to bed.
Again, again. The King stands in the hallways,
shouting, sweating. In her room
we know Amara's waiting
for parades of toys, balloons,
morbidities, diseases.
Nuclear warheads to ride like rocking horses,
half of the M ü tter and more;
in the last eight hours she's taken a liking
to the idea of dead nuns.
We bring a convent. She remarks
upon their bitterness. Insists we stuff
the Mother Superior as decoration
for her room.
She prances through the throne room
in Sister Ignatius' wimple.
(Up above, executives are panicking
as the owner of the Cake Boss bakery
tragically goes missing;
he's here, and working frantically,
on pain of worse-than-death.
Awful, honestly. We loved that show.)
This is the fifteenth birthday in a row.
We've stripped the world of almost every
awful thing that we could think of,
save ourselves. We worry
that there's not much left
to give her.
Again? we wheeze, too aware
of quotas and neglected souls,
empty crossroads. How can he
expect us to keep up like this?
Thirty-seven birthdays in,
she shows no signs of slowing.
Fresh infants that we bring her
are sweeter than our cakes.
She eats their hearts and eyes-
they pop like Pop Rocks.
Handful after handful.
We bring her angels, ghouls,
sour ghosts and screaming djinn,
anything and everything that we can snatch
or trap or grab. The little princess is
a connoisseur.
We have trampled bows and paper
so deep into the floor
that we no longer see the stones.
We will not mention
how the King looks caught
like deer in headlights.
This can't go on , we tell him. She'll eat us all
and you besides. You're spoiling her, we say.
What am I supposed to do? he snaps. Tell her
NO?
We shrink at that. He's right, we know.
Her mouth is big enough
to swallow all the universe.
One-hundred eighty birthdays down.
We're dwindling in numbers.
She eats great gorges of us,
hungry all the time,
tired of deformed skulls and
fetal cats. Nothing
entertains her. What do you get
for the girl who has everything?
Some of us go to her willingly-
anything for the birthdays to stop.
We hear them shrieking from inside her,
pounding at her belly,
screaming to be saved.
We can't go on like this.
Hell is stripped to studs.
Today we wait at the door to her room,
crowding, while newest-newest-newest nanny
rouses her from sleep amongst
her silken rompers, baby bones, her
rugs of human skin.
Good morning, Amara, she says,
her voice packed thick with nerves.
And what would you like
to do today?
We hold our breaths collectively,
hoping against hope,
praying to anyone and anything, regardless
of their feelings on us.
Oh, she says-we hear her stretching, little
bones cracking, her great throat yawning,
and raise our eyes to Heaven-
please, oh please, oh please,
let her tire of all these birthdays!
Oh, she says, today, I think,
I'd like to have a party!
With cake and presents, all of it.
Go tell my Uncle Crowley.
We want to cry, or break apart. We shuffle
from the door.
Hell is aptly named, we think,
since Crowley brought her home.