Read Online Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations by Eric J. Guignard (Editor) - Free Book Online
Authors: Eric J. Guignard (Editor)
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powers more wisely, more judiciously, more as he has? Oh yes, I could see that, see the great and powerful Oz shed a tear over my passage, even as he stood amongst the hundreds and hundreds of dead bodies my rancor had created. And I hated him for it, hated the very thought of it. I prefer to picture him as I like him best, his visage crossed with such deep anger, splattered with the green blood of my fallen body, grabbing at my haunch to tear my leg from my torso. His hair is matted with my gore, but his fury is such that he barely notices; one last indignity, and he spits at me, spits into the crushed canyon of my face, and watches as his spittle mingles with my blood and creeps slowly down my countenance, following the trail my tears would go if I were capable of expressing such thoughts or feelings. Oh yes, the irony of that ending, of my blood tears as my dead form cried over what I myself had wrought with girlish, impish glee. That pleased me. That gave me hope. That was how I was to die.
Not like this. Not through her . Where is he? In my last moments as I leave this world, as my hopes and ambitions and beautiful evil melt away, where is he, where is my Wizard, come for his revenge at last? Only he can kill me; only he can be the cause of my destruction. This is not my story; this is not my end. The cruelty of this moment, the reckless loss of life she has spared through her actions . . . what a world.
What a world.
North
It wasn’t sweetness.
That’s not how I pictured my death.
Truth be told, I never had a stock answer for my end. I pictured it, yes, but in a hundred different ways, in a hundred different times. I was old, that I knew, old but not enfeebled. I was still radiant, still beautiful, my hair still shone, my breasts still heaved, my smile still expressed the benevolent power of my heart. There was still time for accolades; still time for parades; time for mercies and gratitude and time for me. Time to sleep, time to rest, time to be alone with this world. But that time has slipped on by, so fast, so fast, and now I find myself here at the end, and I wonder where it has all gone, where it all went.
It all started off with such promise. I was beloved, a vision in white and gold, luminescent even against the sunniest of skies. I was the breath of stale air everyone needed, the voice who always said what everyone wanted to hear, no surprises, no missed expectations, just the same, stale, saccharine goodness everyone wanted from me. I wasn’t mercurial, aloof, tempestuous like my sisters; I wasn’t—well—a witch . I was me, or better yet, me to the tenth power, smiling, always smiling, always happy, always pleasing everyone, always sensible. The Good One. That’s what they called me. The Good Witch of the North. As if to be Good was simple, was natural, as if to be always Good, always mild and always pleasant, always just too-darn-nice, was easy. And the sad truth is, it is. It is easy, it is simple, if you don’t mind being phony, being plastic, being a cookie-cutter vision in white crinoline and chiffon frosting swirls. It is easy to be perfect, as long as you don’t mind not being yourself anymore.
And I didn’t mind. Really. I was loved. Beloved. What need had I for freedom? I had bliss. Bliss, I thought, is better. And so I came when they called. I kissed foreheads, I smiled benevolently, I bestowed luck and good tidings. I came to bless the births of every child in Oz; came to toast the retirement of grand ladies and gentlemen; came to celebrate the opening of a new Munchkin bakery or shoe repair shop. I came to their parties, I came to their parades, I came to their celebrations, always smiling, always waving. They expected me to come; they depended upon it. And so I came.
And sometimes, sometimes, in the lull of a celebration, in a quiet moment between an Ozian minuet, or before the main course was served, someone, some small person, would turn to me, and in a quiet and always
Not like this. Not through her . Where is he? In my last moments as I leave this world, as my hopes and ambitions and beautiful evil melt away, where is he, where is my Wizard, come for his revenge at last? Only he can kill me; only he can be the cause of my destruction. This is not my story; this is not my end. The cruelty of this moment, the reckless loss of life she has spared through her actions . . . what a world.
What a world.
North
It wasn’t sweetness.
That’s not how I pictured my death.
Truth be told, I never had a stock answer for my end. I pictured it, yes, but in a hundred different ways, in a hundred different times. I was old, that I knew, old but not enfeebled. I was still radiant, still beautiful, my hair still shone, my breasts still heaved, my smile still expressed the benevolent power of my heart. There was still time for accolades; still time for parades; time for mercies and gratitude and time for me. Time to sleep, time to rest, time to be alone with this world. But that time has slipped on by, so fast, so fast, and now I find myself here at the end, and I wonder where it has all gone, where it all went.
It all started off with such promise. I was beloved, a vision in white and gold, luminescent even against the sunniest of skies. I was the breath of stale air everyone needed, the voice who always said what everyone wanted to hear, no surprises, no missed expectations, just the same, stale, saccharine goodness everyone wanted from me. I wasn’t mercurial, aloof, tempestuous like my sisters; I wasn’t—well—a witch . I was me, or better yet, me to the tenth power, smiling, always smiling, always happy, always pleasing everyone, always sensible. The Good One. That’s what they called me. The Good Witch of the North. As if to be Good was simple, was natural, as if to be always Good, always mild and always pleasant, always just too-darn-nice, was easy. And the sad truth is, it is. It is easy, it is simple, if you don’t mind being phony, being plastic, being a cookie-cutter vision in white crinoline and chiffon frosting swirls. It is easy to be perfect, as long as you don’t mind not being yourself anymore.
And I didn’t mind. Really. I was loved. Beloved. What need had I for freedom? I had bliss. Bliss, I thought, is better. And so I came when they called. I kissed foreheads, I smiled benevolently, I bestowed luck and good tidings. I came to bless the births of every child in Oz; came to toast the retirement of grand ladies and gentlemen; came to celebrate the opening of a new Munchkin bakery or shoe repair shop. I came to their parties, I came to their parades, I came to their celebrations, always smiling, always waving. They expected me to come; they depended upon it. And so I came.
And sometimes, sometimes, in the lull of a celebration, in a quiet moment between an Ozian minuet, or before the main course was served, someone, some small person, would turn to me, and in a quiet and always
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