The broom-closet of doom

This one was last seen being carried by two overly large men going down the fire escape...

The untapped source of what everyone was here for was tapping the source of what everyone was doing with not a lot happening and not getting very far. So, much beer was sent out for and a jolly good time was had drinking it until the cows came tapping home to be milked.

Blue-Jane was always a good sport and never stopped talking, even when her mouth was shut and so found herself the centre of attention most times and seemed to need it.

The curse of doom on the other hand was always asking for too much and gave nothing away but knew how to tap the source better than anyone that anyone knew which is what everyone wanted to know and so paid it lots for its formula that didn’t work for anyone but it, and so everyone blamed themselves and kept going back to it and giving it more money hoping something would rub off onto them, but who can look in the face of doom and not shrivel up.

Behind the gates of this where the cobwebs talked to themselves and the shadows on the wall kept them company where too nothing could be said that made any sense the thin line of the morning sun was being drawn in the sand to stand behind to make a stand against all that could be stood against that was left to stand against notwithstanding the veil that was barely standing and was about to lift to let in the light and show everyone the way home, that is if there was anyone left standing by then; anyway, behind the gates of this understanding no more could be said which is not saying much but a lot can be made up if you tap hard enough.

And so with this Blue-Jane ran off as fast as her legs would go and disappeared forever from the curse of doom; but the cords of attachment were long and not broken so easily. And so the curse of doom found her hiding in the vault where the rich kept their money and blowing bubbles to her heart’s content.

“Splendid, I’ve found you,” said the curse of doom and heaved the heavy sack of all her troubles from off his shoulder and dumped it on the floor by her feet where it began to inch back into her life without so much as a by your leave or a written invitation.

Far away and down below in the dungeon that was closer to hell but further from the truth by design the unborn again was practicing being grateful for all his troubles which was a long shot in anyone’s game but was worth a try, and what else was there to do anyway; and so began wailing for all he was worth.

When sound of the wailing reached the king’s ears a decree was immediately made by royal command that from now on all wailing must be done in silence so as not to offend the king in his castle.

“Some people have no respect,” said the king and made it so.

Day and night tongues were cut out until all the wailing in the castle became silent and the king could finally get a good night’s sleep.

A Bavarian monk passing by on his way to find a quiet cave on a mountain top liked the quiet of the castle so much he moved in and became the most silent there, but as he didn’t speak no one ever knew.

Because Blue-Jane wouldn’t marry the king and had run off, her brother and most of her family were being tortured to death for the king’s amusement, but the king had grown bored as kings do and had taken to his bed to utter nonsense in his sleep which was all written down by the truth tellers who never slept.

Over in the coal mine big Ming was executing his escape routine and had too much on his mind to give a comment at this time and so was let off the hook and given a parking ticket instead.

Not to be outdone by any of this the creased face of an old stamp without a hope in hell and boring the legs off of anyone who came close tried hard to say more of what couldn’t be said more of and all things considered said quite a bit: “Do I ask for so much in my existing and am I as worthless as the dust? And defeated at last in the asking where so much is not given not a word more can be uttered or it will seem that I am ungrateful for my lot.”

And with that no more was said.

The broom in the corner that was not so squeamish picked up on this and began to recite its litany of regret: “So much effort and asking and so many, many days long and short, remembered and lost to get past the breaking point of the heart in pain only to become another wayward wanderer no longer wandering and so lost in the losing to give up all hope and mark time until in the dust of passing all striving ceases and life is gone.”

The basket weaver wasn’t listening and perhaps it was for the best, for who knows what a broom would become if it rose above its station to become something else.

End of part four

Image from Pixabay

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