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Theatrical Muse 370; Flu Season.
Jan. 19th, 2011 01:51 amThe signs of plague ain’t what they used to be. There are no bonfires flaring on the corners of the main streets, (none set by the authorities, at least.) He remembers those flames; fires set to scorch away the contaminated air (and perhaps, just perhaps, they deterred a few of the mosquitoes that carried death in their sucking jaws.)
He hadn’t known that mosquitoes carried the disease when Bronze John haunted New Orleans. He’d avoided foul water from fastidiousness when the bodies floated unregarded and cholera stalked the docks. The humans didn’t know what caused the spreading death, and they could only sing what they believed. They rang blessed bells to drive away the contagion and they tried to fight the stink with perfumed flowers. He remembers when everyone knew that malaria was caused by evil air.
He’s supposed to bring the happy ending so he’s been called to plagues more often than he cares to remember, listening to songs that get hotter as the fever flares. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about any of it, then or now. (Sometimes he remembers too much for comfort, but he knows now that a brain is like a computer - “Garbage in = garbage out”. He’s rather glad that he’s reached an age when some of the customers can sing about GIGO. Sometimes truth cuts, sometimes it burns its way out – and sometimes it’s the one painkiller that fits all.)
Now, though, he’s got a head that throbs with the beat, a throat that he doesn’t want to think about and a voice with a one octave range. The word “Dizzy” is an obscenity in his language; right now he’d put “Nauseated” in the same category. He aches in places he’d forgotten he had.
Even the lead Minion tried to refuse to come on this one,
“Master – do you know what it’s like to sneeze in that mask?”
The signs of plague ain’t what they used to be. There are no doors marked with crosses in red paint or lambs' blood. Nobody has scrawled, “God have mercy on us” on the walls. There are no bells, no cries of,
“Bring out your dead!” The songs of the city are bright with fever, but nobody sings about repentance – not yet, anyway.
All he wants to do is go home and lie down. He doesn’t even care whether the Summoner can sing or dance, not this time. If she qualifies to be taken he just hopes she knows a cure for this one, because he doesn’t.
Muse; "Sweet" the singing demon.
Fandom; BTVS
Words, 400
He hadn’t known that mosquitoes carried the disease when Bronze John haunted New Orleans. He’d avoided foul water from fastidiousness when the bodies floated unregarded and cholera stalked the docks. The humans didn’t know what caused the spreading death, and they could only sing what they believed. They rang blessed bells to drive away the contagion and they tried to fight the stink with perfumed flowers. He remembers when everyone knew that malaria was caused by evil air.
He’s supposed to bring the happy ending so he’s been called to plagues more often than he cares to remember, listening to songs that get hotter as the fever flares. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about any of it, then or now. (Sometimes he remembers too much for comfort, but he knows now that a brain is like a computer - “Garbage in = garbage out”. He’s rather glad that he’s reached an age when some of the customers can sing about GIGO. Sometimes truth cuts, sometimes it burns its way out – and sometimes it’s the one painkiller that fits all.)
Now, though, he’s got a head that throbs with the beat, a throat that he doesn’t want to think about and a voice with a one octave range. The word “Dizzy” is an obscenity in his language; right now he’d put “Nauseated” in the same category. He aches in places he’d forgotten he had.
Even the lead Minion tried to refuse to come on this one,
“Master – do you know what it’s like to sneeze in that mask?”
The signs of plague ain’t what they used to be. There are no doors marked with crosses in red paint or lambs' blood. Nobody has scrawled, “God have mercy on us” on the walls. There are no bells, no cries of,
“Bring out your dead!” The songs of the city are bright with fever, but nobody sings about repentance – not yet, anyway.
All he wants to do is go home and lie down. He doesn’t even care whether the Summoner can sing or dance, not this time. If she qualifies to be taken he just hopes she knows a cure for this one, because he doesn’t.
Muse; "Sweet" the singing demon.
Fandom; BTVS
Words, 400
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