Read Online Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations by Eric J. Guignard (Editor) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eric J. Guignard (Editor)
Ads: Link
respectful voice, ask me, “Dear Good Witch of the North,” (for, indeed, they always referred to me as a Good Witch,) “dear Good Witch of the North, could you please, pretty please, rid us of our evil tormentor, the Wicked Witch of the East?” And then, batting at me with coy and hopeful eyes, the same small person always added one last “Please?,” more a hope than a request, as if that was the reason I had done so little to help them before, as if the reason I had done nothing to alleviate their suffering and their torment was that this one, small person had not said “please” to me already a dozen hundred times before.
And what do I do, when some small person asks me this? I smile. I smile as benevolently and sweetly and kindly as I can, because I know that that smile is the only help I can give. I cannot explain to them the diminutive power of sweetness, the relative feebleness of kindness; nor could I tell them the formidable power of my evil sisters, who reign over me with appalling ease. I could not tell them that kindness only has power in the hearts of good men and women, and every child in Oz; kindness was light and truth and honesty and honor and square dealings with kith and kin and stranger alike. Kindness was all I had to give; and they took it, took it wrapped up in a pretty pink bow and a sugary smile, a helpful spoonful of sucrose to ease the passage of the vile cod liver that was always sure to follow. But my kindness was nothing compared to the power each of my sisters wielded. They who knew no kindness and possessed strength far greater than I; they who depended on no one, who cared not to be loved, who had no need to be so needed, they had true strength. I could not explain to these small people that I was powerless against them; that my ministrations did no real good. Oh, I had my tricks; I offered my protection, and my sisters, perhaps out of some sympathy deep in their black hearts, they let that pass. But my starlit wand knew no true magic; it knew nothing of transfiguration or transubstantiation. Why else must I be kind? I want to explain it to them; I want to grab their small necks and shake and squeeze so hard they gasp for air, they choke, feel as constricted as I feel day in and day out, constricted with kindness and goodness and sweetness and caring and understanding. I wanted to wring their small necks and explain to them the true power of the witches of Oz. But I couldn’t do that; I needed them as much as they needed me. And so I only smiled. Pat their little small heads and tell them I shall do the best I can. Let them think the fault lies within them, that they did not ask kindly enough, or sweetly enough. Let them blame themselves. For they cannot blame me. Then no power would I have at all.
And so I sit and wait. I smile, and wave, and smile, and wave. This is what I have become. A symbol of light, rather than the light itself. A symbol of kindness, but impotent to act. Soon I shall fade away, become the statue in the square I so longed that they would build for me. And I will forever look kindly on them, their benevolent goddess, smiling and helpless, and useless, as useless as I am now. I was their perfection, their sweet confection of sugar and light and pink chiffon and white riffles and blond curls and starlit wand all balled up into one fading figure, slowly getting smaller, softer, kinder in this light, only now waving, and smiling, and smiling, and waving.
It was they who killed me; their love, their need.
They killed me with kindness.
East
It wasn’t a house.
That’s not how I pictured my death.
I mean, seriously. A house, falling from the heavens, dropped by a torrent of magic wind right onto my head. Who in their right mind ever believes that they will die by having a house dropped on them? Surely there is no imagination fertile or twisted enough to conceive such a possibility. And yet, here I lie, part of the foundation, proof that truth is, indeed,
And what do I do, when some small person asks me this? I smile. I smile as benevolently and sweetly and kindly as I can, because I know that that smile is the only help I can give. I cannot explain to them the diminutive power of sweetness, the relative feebleness of kindness; nor could I tell them the formidable power of my evil sisters, who reign over me with appalling ease. I could not tell them that kindness only has power in the hearts of good men and women, and every child in Oz; kindness was light and truth and honesty and honor and square dealings with kith and kin and stranger alike. Kindness was all I had to give; and they took it, took it wrapped up in a pretty pink bow and a sugary smile, a helpful spoonful of sucrose to ease the passage of the vile cod liver that was always sure to follow. But my kindness was nothing compared to the power each of my sisters wielded. They who knew no kindness and possessed strength far greater than I; they who depended on no one, who cared not to be loved, who had no need to be so needed, they had true strength. I could not explain to these small people that I was powerless against them; that my ministrations did no real good. Oh, I had my tricks; I offered my protection, and my sisters, perhaps out of some sympathy deep in their black hearts, they let that pass. But my starlit wand knew no true magic; it knew nothing of transfiguration or transubstantiation. Why else must I be kind? I want to explain it to them; I want to grab their small necks and shake and squeeze so hard they gasp for air, they choke, feel as constricted as I feel day in and day out, constricted with kindness and goodness and sweetness and caring and understanding. I wanted to wring their small necks and explain to them the true power of the witches of Oz. But I couldn’t do that; I needed them as much as they needed me. And so I only smiled. Pat their little small heads and tell them I shall do the best I can. Let them think the fault lies within them, that they did not ask kindly enough, or sweetly enough. Let them blame themselves. For they cannot blame me. Then no power would I have at all.
And so I sit and wait. I smile, and wave, and smile, and wave. This is what I have become. A symbol of light, rather than the light itself. A symbol of kindness, but impotent to act. Soon I shall fade away, become the statue in the square I so longed that they would build for me. And I will forever look kindly on them, their benevolent goddess, smiling and helpless, and useless, as useless as I am now. I was their perfection, their sweet confection of sugar and light and pink chiffon and white riffles and blond curls and starlit wand all balled up into one fading figure, slowly getting smaller, softer, kinder in this light, only now waving, and smiling, and smiling, and waving.
It was they who killed me; their love, their need.
They killed me with kindness.
East
It wasn’t a house.
That’s not how I pictured my death.
I mean, seriously. A house, falling from the heavens, dropped by a torrent of magic wind right onto my head. Who in their right mind ever believes that they will die by having a house dropped on them? Surely there is no imagination fertile or twisted enough to conceive such a possibility. And yet, here I lie, part of the foundation, proof that truth is, indeed,
Similar Books
