It was terrible.
It was horrible.
It was the most agonizing thing a single human being could endure.
Worse than the scold's bridle.
Worse than being sawed upside down.600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC0VJIIOure
Worse than being fed copious amounts of sugar and honey and then being sent down river in a log for bugs to feast upon you.
Her ears bled.
Her eyes went white.
The very atoms that came together to make up the identity known as Miriam Summers were torn asunder.
It was that which had crawled from the lowest layer of a fiery underworld and spread across the land, claiming more victims than even the worse blights throughout history have.
Poetry.
My shadow behind me, the sun before me,600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2dq0ZiCkzy
I see but the cobblestone road into the horizon.
In my hand I hold that which'll hold me forward.
And should from my hand it's lost, in my soul I'll hold.
It's another beautiful morning.
Begrudgingly.
Mireh fell to her knees. The world was trembling. It felt like invisible hands were ripping her heart in two. She started coughing up blood. It was too much to bare.
But it was going to be okay.
Because she was being a drama queen and only needed to listen to the readings until she found Temera, who, of course, was nowhere in sight.
Of all the times you can appear out of nowhere, Temera, now would be a great time. Mireh circled the crowd gathered before the stage, but she still didn't see her. She thought about shouting for her, but with poets still poeting, she was afraid the crowd was going to turn on her and start spouting A-A-B-B-A-B-C rhyme schemes at her. And if it turned out she had already left, she was going to rip that girl's little book of curses from her hands and slap her with it.
The crowd clapped, and the poet took a bow, and Mireh regretted not buying those two menos earplugs she saw at one stand near a local rock band playing. Seriously, they were only two menos. Two! That was a bargain compared to what she was willing to pay to never hear or see another poem as long as she lived.
Another poet took to the stage, and it felt like Mireh was in a race against the clock. She had to find Temera, grab her, and get out of there before the earth split open and more poems spewed forth. Time was of the essence, and Mireh weaved her way through the congregation of masochists, hoping to catch a glimpse of that long black hair and liberate her from this cult.
And yet despite her best efforts, despite the sweat pouring down her temple, and despite her pulse tripling its speed, it was a race she was destined to lose, because poets, they couldn't wait to share their poems with strangers, especially if their name was Miriam Summers.
Wherever, oh wherever, has my poor baby tooth gone?600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYBwKIkwFkb
That one, in front there, that I saw every time I looked in the mirror.
It's vanished, like it was never there.
It didn't say goodbye, it didn't say so long.
My tooth, it's gone, and I fear it's gone for good.
There are no words to describe it: the pain...the agony...the agony Mireh suffered at the hands of this cultist so devoted to her craft that she cast a hex on Mireh that drained her of her strength to stand and her will to live.
Her life flashed before her eyes. Shishiruians don't see a light at the end of the tunnel, but they do see this giant hunk of black hurdle toward them, like someone pitched a giant baseball at them in the dead of the night, and Mireh saw that giant black baseball fly at her
faster
faster
until...
She was okay.
It was all right.
She was given a second chance at life. But there might not be a third chance, so she had to find Temera, and she had to find her fast. Like, really fast. Seriously, the next poet was already walking on stage while the other hadn't even left yet. How rude.
Time was against Mireh, who threaded her way between the cultists, sweat pouring, heart racing, hoping to find Temera before—
Ahh, no need to build suspense. We all know she didn't find her in time.
I met on the street a questionable sir,600Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFATA1BbbTw
Wearing a scarf of too much fur,
He said, “Good dame,
Please tell me your name.”
So I showed him my favorite boot spur.
“......” Mireh was beginning to resign to the fact that she wasn't going to make it out of here without being diagnosed with PTSD afterwards.
“I like the rhyme scheme on this one.”
The existence known as Miriam Summers ceased to be. Cause of death: sudden trauma induced by the random appearance of an apparition.
As promised, there were no third chances. There might've been for someone else, but not for Mireh. Rest in peace, girly. You're (probably) in a better place now.
“Where's Retta?”
Retta...
Hearing the familiar name knocked Mireh's soul back into her body, and she realized it was just Temera holding Schildkröte/Nathan/Beelzebub. “Retta? Oh, she's off giving away a bunch of toys she won.”
“That's nice of her.” She noticed the bag in her hands. “What'd you get?”
“Some CDs, and Retta won me these headphones,” she said, showing off her bag of goodies.
“Neat,” she said. “How long have you been here?”
Too long. “A few minutes. I came to get you, because Retta wants us to make our Aims next.”
“Oh. Then you missed me perform.”
“Did you, now?”
She nodded, her face aglow. “Would you like me to share what I read to the crowd?”
NO! “Maybe some other time.” She noticed another poet taking the stage in her peripheral. Weren't these guys supposed to be done ten minutes ago? “Let's hurry and rendezvous with Retta, yeah? We don't wanna keep her waiting,” she said, pushing Temera far, far away from the reading.
“I guess not...” she said, looking over her shoulder at the stage like a child being dragged out of the toy aisle.
The poet started chanting, but Mireh couldn't make out the words.
Safe at last...
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