Post by Mury 6.0 on Oct 26, 2007 0:20:04 GMT -5
Here's the 'prologue' to a poem I'm working on for my Creative Writing class; in the end, it should be in the form of the Canterbury Tales, except, instead of being a simple frame for a bunch of unrelated stories, the stories here will all relate to the same thing.
Basic background info: it's thirteen years after the end of the war between the Veggie Empire and Fruitopia over control of Tomatoa. In the last few years, a pea rose up and united some folks in a last stand effort to topple the now-evil Veggie Empire. He became a hero, and so was sainted; his name was Larry. Here, five travelers are on their way to his shrine in an annual pilgrimage, and on the way, they will share their stories of the war. It's still extremely rough - this "prologue" part is actually a writing project for my English class, but I'm killing two lolbirds with one stone by using this for Creative Writing as well. It's due tomorrow (well... today), and I just started/finished it ^.^
And now.....
A Chronicle on the Great War of the Veggie Empire,
Fruitopia, and the Tomatoan Republic
Prologue
It was an April morn when,
in the dewy part of dawn,
a group of travelers would set out
and walk upon a beaten path
which lead, as it had always lead,
through dusky vale, along the shore,
and into deep and darkened woods.
This day would mark the thirteenth year
of all wars’ end, the death of strife,
the honored anniversary of victory
and petal showers thrown upon
the marching heroes – their return.
This war, now long years past,
had, unlike most of such a style,
no bloody legacy – no hatred,
no contempt, no bitter feeling;
it was perfect, in a sense,
as it had done its dreaded deed
and, through the ruthless slaughter of
a countless number of brave souls,
had brought on peace, prosperity,
in full, unlike the glamorous
attacks of elder days; it truly was
a glorious war; and being so,
the only perfect way to treat
its story is, with care, to chronicle
the tellings of the common ones –
ascended heroes of great cause.
This day, a crossroad town would serve
a start for such a common group;
this Bygurny, for years a fort,
now stood uniting three great lands,
and from it, stemmed the winding road
which lead to great a warrior’s shrine.
For, in the days of honored ones,
amidst matured hostilities,
a grumpy farmer had set out
from this same town, on this same path,
and through great hardship, with a cause,
had conquered the impossible.
Yes, this great hero, to whose shrine
a legion flocks each year with pride,
had toppled evil, an empire
that lived off strife and brutal war.
It may be known, though likely not,
for this tale is to us unsung,
that here, in this green, fertile land,
the hero, almost deity,
is great St. Larry, lancer and,
by royal standards, Marquis Pea.
This tale begins long after noon,
long after traffic had dispersed,
and five old travelers remained
before the gates of Byrugny.
Today, a pilgrimage began
as it had done so every year,
to great St. Larry’s amber shrine,
in honor of his saintly deeds.
These five had all been in the war,
and all had served with St. Larry;
each had their own story to tell –
it had been years since such a meeting
could occur, and so it had.
The five had once, in ways, been foes,
attacking from opposing sides,
but now, with newer times in play,
to none could such a bond compare.
The first of them, a bright, red fellow,
who had, of course, been on the side
of oppressed Tomatoa, and,
as such, had much of that to tell.
The tuft of green upon his head
was groomed in hearty fashion,
and like all, the ‘mato wore a smock
of simple, humble, undyed weave.
At his side, a dagger, which,
by looks of it, had seen some fights,
its nicked old blade had sheen, and on
the dented hilt were stones of red –
no doubt the hearty ‘mato had,
in older years, put it to use.
His face was full, his eyes had shine,
and wrinkles on his cheeks that grew
whenever he would smile – and so
they creased with every hearty laugh.
A jolly farmer; he was George.
Beside him stood a great Goodwife
who rapped him lightly on the head
whenever saucy comments came
and they were rarely ever few.
She had a smile to match her man’s,
and cooked like none had ever known;
of course, she was a celery,
her tall, thin stalks waved gently in
the light Spring breeze which carried off
the smell of spices in her pouch.
Her apron, thin like basil leaf,
and similar in smell and feel,
had in it many pockets for
the smaller bits of cooking needs.
She, Tabetha, could hold command,
indeed, an officer was she
back in the harsher days of war;
no matter; now, her duty was
to cook and entertain the guests
and smack poor George across the head.
An older veteran had joined
who, like the rest, had fought the war,
a shriveled grape with quite a taste –
with him, he carried aged wine.
The man, Old Willard, had a cane
which served him as a walking stick.
Upon his head, there was a hat
with medals, emblems, all the lot;
indeed, a strategist he’d been,
behind the scenes, he’d no real threat
from bombs and picks and flying things,
and cocky he had grown from this;
he took great care to find amiss
the smallest fault among the crowd.
But still, his taste was quite refined,
for, with the wine, he had a trunk
of ironed clothes and folded socks
and handkerchiefs with patterns; seven
different decorative berets
with which to flaunt his old-age style
like some fat tabby on his sill
who’d hiss, but never start to fight.
And yet, with all his flash and flare,
this old one was as weak as straw;
so, with him strode his youngest son,
a springy man, despite his shape –
a grape he was, of course, just like
his wrinkly father, same in size.
This one was Christopher the Third,
less wimpy than his father; he’d
taken on a fitter look
and served as guardsman of a keep.
Though, from his father he had got
a skill in tongues, and learned man’s speech;
his taste, however, was for seeds,
and shells would litter at his feet.
He never had enough to eat.
The young man’s face, quite stern, yet soft,
had sunken soldier’s eyes, which made
his gallant looks more bold and firm.
Besides his pike, the grape would have
a massive bag with food and clothes
and all of this was to supply
all of the party – he was like a mule
and yet, a proud old beast he was
and had a simple soldier’s shirt.
The fifth to join this fine old group
was Herbert Charn, a smith (of sorts);
his work these days was making tools,
though tips and points were once his craft.
A beet he was, quite large and red,
though none had taken him for George,
for he was darker, though in looks –
just as jolly was his demeanor,
and at a joke he laughed the most.
He carried bags and bags of tools,
an errand that he’d mentioned once,
something about a long-time friend
who needed things – “He’s on the way.”
A helpful man, this Herbert was,
he had a lisp, a wondrous trait
that accented his rugged looks,
for he had skin like crafting leather,
and quite a hand to swipe you with.
And so, this party had set out
along the path, behind the rest,
for they left late, preferring peace
to louder chats, but chat they would.
For here, young Chris came out and asked
about their memories of the war,
for, near the end, he knew, they had
all given in and stood before
the banner of the Marquis Pea
and Legionary Strawberry,
the Regiment of Lettuce Spears,
the Blueberry Battalion;
all groups that fought against the might
of zealous Veggie royal troops
before their fall to Larry Pea,
the sainted man they went to see.
And so, the five of them would go
and give accounts of what they’d done
those years before, when war was life;
the tale of Marquis Larry would,
in bits, become a chronicle,
and, later on, take written verse.
Basic background info: it's thirteen years after the end of the war between the Veggie Empire and Fruitopia over control of Tomatoa. In the last few years, a pea rose up and united some folks in a last stand effort to topple the now-evil Veggie Empire. He became a hero, and so was sainted; his name was Larry. Here, five travelers are on their way to his shrine in an annual pilgrimage, and on the way, they will share their stories of the war. It's still extremely rough - this "prologue" part is actually a writing project for my English class, but I'm killing two lolbirds with one stone by using this for Creative Writing as well. It's due tomorrow (well... today), and I just started/finished it ^.^
And now.....
A Chronicle on the Great War of the Veggie Empire,
Fruitopia, and the Tomatoan Republic
Prologue
It was an April morn when,
in the dewy part of dawn,
a group of travelers would set out
and walk upon a beaten path
which lead, as it had always lead,
through dusky vale, along the shore,
and into deep and darkened woods.
This day would mark the thirteenth year
of all wars’ end, the death of strife,
the honored anniversary of victory
and petal showers thrown upon
the marching heroes – their return.
This war, now long years past,
had, unlike most of such a style,
no bloody legacy – no hatred,
no contempt, no bitter feeling;
it was perfect, in a sense,
as it had done its dreaded deed
and, through the ruthless slaughter of
a countless number of brave souls,
had brought on peace, prosperity,
in full, unlike the glamorous
attacks of elder days; it truly was
a glorious war; and being so,
the only perfect way to treat
its story is, with care, to chronicle
the tellings of the common ones –
ascended heroes of great cause.
This day, a crossroad town would serve
a start for such a common group;
this Bygurny, for years a fort,
now stood uniting three great lands,
and from it, stemmed the winding road
which lead to great a warrior’s shrine.
For, in the days of honored ones,
amidst matured hostilities,
a grumpy farmer had set out
from this same town, on this same path,
and through great hardship, with a cause,
had conquered the impossible.
Yes, this great hero, to whose shrine
a legion flocks each year with pride,
had toppled evil, an empire
that lived off strife and brutal war.
It may be known, though likely not,
for this tale is to us unsung,
that here, in this green, fertile land,
the hero, almost deity,
is great St. Larry, lancer and,
by royal standards, Marquis Pea.
This tale begins long after noon,
long after traffic had dispersed,
and five old travelers remained
before the gates of Byrugny.
Today, a pilgrimage began
as it had done so every year,
to great St. Larry’s amber shrine,
in honor of his saintly deeds.
These five had all been in the war,
and all had served with St. Larry;
each had their own story to tell –
it had been years since such a meeting
could occur, and so it had.
The five had once, in ways, been foes,
attacking from opposing sides,
but now, with newer times in play,
to none could such a bond compare.
The first of them, a bright, red fellow,
who had, of course, been on the side
of oppressed Tomatoa, and,
as such, had much of that to tell.
The tuft of green upon his head
was groomed in hearty fashion,
and like all, the ‘mato wore a smock
of simple, humble, undyed weave.
At his side, a dagger, which,
by looks of it, had seen some fights,
its nicked old blade had sheen, and on
the dented hilt were stones of red –
no doubt the hearty ‘mato had,
in older years, put it to use.
His face was full, his eyes had shine,
and wrinkles on his cheeks that grew
whenever he would smile – and so
they creased with every hearty laugh.
A jolly farmer; he was George.
Beside him stood a great Goodwife
who rapped him lightly on the head
whenever saucy comments came
and they were rarely ever few.
She had a smile to match her man’s,
and cooked like none had ever known;
of course, she was a celery,
her tall, thin stalks waved gently in
the light Spring breeze which carried off
the smell of spices in her pouch.
Her apron, thin like basil leaf,
and similar in smell and feel,
had in it many pockets for
the smaller bits of cooking needs.
She, Tabetha, could hold command,
indeed, an officer was she
back in the harsher days of war;
no matter; now, her duty was
to cook and entertain the guests
and smack poor George across the head.
An older veteran had joined
who, like the rest, had fought the war,
a shriveled grape with quite a taste –
with him, he carried aged wine.
The man, Old Willard, had a cane
which served him as a walking stick.
Upon his head, there was a hat
with medals, emblems, all the lot;
indeed, a strategist he’d been,
behind the scenes, he’d no real threat
from bombs and picks and flying things,
and cocky he had grown from this;
he took great care to find amiss
the smallest fault among the crowd.
But still, his taste was quite refined,
for, with the wine, he had a trunk
of ironed clothes and folded socks
and handkerchiefs with patterns; seven
different decorative berets
with which to flaunt his old-age style
like some fat tabby on his sill
who’d hiss, but never start to fight.
And yet, with all his flash and flare,
this old one was as weak as straw;
so, with him strode his youngest son,
a springy man, despite his shape –
a grape he was, of course, just like
his wrinkly father, same in size.
This one was Christopher the Third,
less wimpy than his father; he’d
taken on a fitter look
and served as guardsman of a keep.
Though, from his father he had got
a skill in tongues, and learned man’s speech;
his taste, however, was for seeds,
and shells would litter at his feet.
He never had enough to eat.
The young man’s face, quite stern, yet soft,
had sunken soldier’s eyes, which made
his gallant looks more bold and firm.
Besides his pike, the grape would have
a massive bag with food and clothes
and all of this was to supply
all of the party – he was like a mule
and yet, a proud old beast he was
and had a simple soldier’s shirt.
The fifth to join this fine old group
was Herbert Charn, a smith (of sorts);
his work these days was making tools,
though tips and points were once his craft.
A beet he was, quite large and red,
though none had taken him for George,
for he was darker, though in looks –
just as jolly was his demeanor,
and at a joke he laughed the most.
He carried bags and bags of tools,
an errand that he’d mentioned once,
something about a long-time friend
who needed things – “He’s on the way.”
A helpful man, this Herbert was,
he had a lisp, a wondrous trait
that accented his rugged looks,
for he had skin like crafting leather,
and quite a hand to swipe you with.
And so, this party had set out
along the path, behind the rest,
for they left late, preferring peace
to louder chats, but chat they would.
For here, young Chris came out and asked
about their memories of the war,
for, near the end, he knew, they had
all given in and stood before
the banner of the Marquis Pea
and Legionary Strawberry,
the Regiment of Lettuce Spears,
the Blueberry Battalion;
all groups that fought against the might
of zealous Veggie royal troops
before their fall to Larry Pea,
the sainted man they went to see.
And so, the five of them would go
and give accounts of what they’d done
those years before, when war was life;
the tale of Marquis Larry would,
in bits, become a chronicle,
and, later on, take written verse.