Outwitted

I'm a businessman. I'm fair. So I'll put the slut's fate in your hands.

How about a contest you all know and love?

One some of you have entered before.

One that's easy.

One that really shows off your true colors.

One that's fair.

If a predetermined number of people post OFF WITH HER HEAD in the comments,

Emma's life will end posthaste.

If a predetermined number of people post SUPERPOSITION OF STATES in the comments,

Emma will live on as is.

If a predetermined number of people post L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. in the comments,

Emma's former condition will be restored and all memory of Master wiped.

Cast your vote below. You have three days.

-Cheshire

Because Jellicles would, and Jellicles can
Jellicles can, and Jellicles do...

Fuego

It was a nice place. I wish it hadn't gone like it did.

 

The motel wasn't exactly a fortress, but it was out in the middle of nowhere, and that single fact gave off a sense of security like nothing else could. But senses don't translate well into reality.

 

At something like one in the morning, someone in the lobby, probably the receptionist, started screaming on the intercom system about a fire. We had known something could have happened at any time, so we were up and out the door within minutes. There were maybe two other occupied rooms in the whole building, and as there was only one floor everyone got out safely. There was more than one ridge of flame spreading across the building. The first fire had started on the opposite end from where we had been, but it wasn't long before more lit up, consuming all that was visible of the once-proud motel. The manager was the last out, carrying a registry, and he did his own headcount; I guess baked customers are bad for business.

 

He counted twice, nodded to himself, and sagged against a car. I was about to go over and comfort the poor man when I realized there was one head missing. A very furry one.

 

Frankenstein was nowhere to be seen.

 

I know I made a bad decision. I know cats can often take care of themselves, and get out of the worst situations. I know I could have gotten hurt - worse than I was, anyway. Or killed. But Frank was just barely not a kitten. And he was my last memory of Francis. I couldn't let him perish. I dashed back through the shattered revolving door and started to run in the direction of the room. I heard his mewling before I had even got my hand on the knob, and once I was back inside I saw him again. He looked fine, if a little scared. I ran to him and cradled him in my arms, whispering what I hoped to be calming words, soothing lullabies. Frank leaped from my grasp, clawed his way up the curtains, and tumbled out of the window. Then fire collapsed on my back.

 

Not a beam, not a plank of wood, but just pure fire landed on top of me, forcing me to my hands and knees and subsequently the floor, where I began to choke and cough from the smoke inhalation. It didn't take long for me to pass out.

 

When I woke up Elaine was looking down at me, and there were stars behind her head, or maybe in her eyes, or maybe there weren't any stars at all. It hurt to move at all for a while, but when the manager offered to call an ambulance I refused. When time enough had passed and I forgot how to feel the pain, I stood up, and Frankenstein barreled into me, almost knocking me back down. In the ashes of the motel, a dark, bulky figure was sweeping at the ashes. When he turned, he saw me looking at him, and in a strange twist of movement and with the slightest spark as if at a campfire, disappeared.

 

When we were out of sight of the ruined motel, Cheshire's voice came to me again. "Three left," it said.

 

Oh well. At least the cat's safe.

Because I Don't Know What He Does With His Half

Bala

Balan

Balance.

You get out of the theater early.

A spotlight burned out,

and it won't be repaired for at least a week.

You get home two hours before you normally do.

You knock on the door,

get buzzed in by the receptionist,

take the elevator up to your apartment.

It takes you a little while

to find the proper key.

You can hear people talking from inside.

You wonder if there's a party.

Could it be yours?

No, your birthday was two months ago.

Could it be his?

No, his birthday isn't for another two months.

You shove the key into the door

and drag yourself inside.

There he is, sitting on the couch,

kissing some girl you've never seen before.

It takes you mere seconds to understand the scene.

You drop your bags and run,

tears running down your face

nearly as fast

as you run from the wreckage of your heart.

You run and run and run and run

until you can't run anymore.

You run so long and so hard and so fast

that you get to the end of the Earth.

You stand there at the edge,

staring over the brink,

waiting at the place

where the sidewalk ends.

You trip,

you fall,

you tumble.

You wake up.

You look around.

Just a bad dream.

Just a bad nightmare.

Just a bad memory.

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

Balance.

You're being interviewed for a job.

You're not in it for the money,

but for the experience.

The interviewer is a short man with a bushy beard

and a dimpled smile.

He looks like he'd be a nice guy to work with.

While you're waiting,

a man dressed in rags and Mardi Gras beads

enters the room.

He's muttering to himself.

Something about aliens or demons or -

or something.

He gets called in first,

since they're going by alphabetical order.

He's only in there for about ten minutes,

and then you get called in.

Over the course of an hour,

you feel like you've impressed the interviewer

with your extensive resume

and interesting personal skills.

Your great shining smile seems like it encourages him,

and he smiles back.

You really feel like you've got this interview down pat.

When all's said and done, you leave the building,

thinking you'll get the job.

After all, there are only a few applicants,

and you're pretty confident in yourself.

Eventually you receive a letter in the mail with the news.

No, you didn't get the job.

Guess who did?

Being a Tale of Danger and Fear Involving the Evasion of a Very Slender Man

Herpin'

anna derpin'.

Balance.

You're on a camping trip.

You're all sitting around a campfire,

at midnight,

roasting s'mores

and telling ghost stories.

Then you step up,

and you volunteer to tell the tale

of Cap'n Gorehook,

the ghost pirate.

And it goes a little something like -

but then a terrible roar comes from the forest.

A sound like a cannon shot rips apart your ears.

Arrrrrr!

screams a gravelly voice.

Laaaaaand hoooooo!

screams a...

squeakier voice.

And then a squawking parrot

flies in and pecks at the others!

A big man with a matted beard and strange outfit

moving like a whisper,

so silent among the pine needles,

walks into your circle

and starts digging up the fire,

looking for something underground.

Eventually he finds a huge chest,

that he opens and inside

are coins.

The whole time,

your campfire mates are just watching,

giggling,

whispering,

but then the pirate screams at them,

and they all run -

but not you.

You walk up to the pirate

and high-five him.

You take one of the coins,

unwrap it

and pop it into your mouth -

delicious chocolate.

And you giggle

and he chuckles,

and all the others

are hiding under the beds

in the RV.

Schrödinger

 nononononono NO!

I'm sinking like a stone in the sea

I'm burning like a bridge for your body

Where strange things and shenanigans happen.

R.I.P.

to all who we have lost.

Balance.

You're at a magic show.

The magician is a new one,

but he looks like he'll put on a promising show.

You settle down in your seat,

quietly eating your cotton candy.

He gestures wildly.

He says some silly magic words

and waves his hat in the air,

and guess what shows up?

A huge elephant takes the stage,

and he's riding on top of it!

Applause fills the air.

Then,

he calls for a volunteer from the audience.

No one raises their hand.

Suddenly he lifts his arm

and points right at you.

You stand up quickly.

He hands you a huge basket.

You open it.

There's nothing inside.

He snaps his fingers,

claps three times,

waves his hands over the basket,

and says some more magic words.

Suddenly, it begins shuddering.

You hear something shrieking,

coming from inside it.

The man opens it again,

and out fly a dozen pure, snow-white doves.

They flutter around you,

and for a moment you look up into the air

waiting for them to fly away - 

but they don't.

They perch on your head, your arms,

anywhere they can reach.

They love you.

They know you're a kind person.

That you're a friend

to all.

Love you all, people.

but not myself

Today I don't feel like doing anything

I just wanna lay in my bed

Altum videtur

Fly away, little birdie,

fly far into the sky!

Balance.

They're everywhere.

Dead rats.

Mauled,

as if by a dog.
 

But I know who did this.

It's him.

Cheshire.

These -

these cuts

they can only be from his sword.

The sword in his cane.

The one he used to

to

well, you know.

Every day,

another dead rat,

eviscerated,

disemboweled,

at my doorstep.

I thought it was Sierra or Mab at first -

they are cats, after all.

But the consistency and the nature of their injuries...

He has no remorse.

Cheshire was sweet when I knew him,

when he was still Lewis Jacobs Lyman.

When he was still my Jack.

Jack wouldn't do this.

Jack would try to nurse them back to health,

no matter how bad they looked.

Jack would have given them a proper funeral,

and I would have been right by his side.

I'm scared, yes.

But I'm also strong.

I don't have to let fear consume me.

Into the gala, now's the time

We're ready and we look divine

Helping you help yourself

Let those who worship evil's might

beware my love -

my glorious light!

Balance.

You're walking down a street,

on a hot summer's day.

Joggers run by.

Cyclists race their triathlons.

And you

are taking in the sun.

But then

you hear a scream.

A man's scream,

gurgling and horrible.

It's coming from that alleyway.

You rush in.

A police officer is on the ground,

and an angry-looking man

is standing over him 

with a knife.

The man runs away before you can get to him,

but you make it to the dying officer.

You whip out your phone and dial 911.

You grasp his hand,

telling him it'll be alright.

You can't know,

of course,

but you can hope,

and you can pray,

and you can believe.

The ambulance arrives.

They pick him up.

They take him to the hospital.

It takes weeks

but eventually you get a call.

Asking you out to dinner.

Someone wants to repay a debt.

You go.

There,

waiting,

is the police officer.

He looks great.

Full of life.

And smiling.

That's the true reward,

his smile.

Schrödinger

i'm so confused

I was gonna be rich, no matter how much it cost

And I was gonna win no matter how much I'd lost

A place where I talk about music and random life stuff. :D

Marching all around,

marching up and down.

Balance.

You're at opening night.

The opening number is ending.

Your heart is pounding.

You're about to go on stage

when you're hit

with a wave of fear.

You can't go on!

You'll embarrass yourself!

You'll damage your reputation!

You'll lose all your friends!

Oh, dear, oh, dear,

oh, dear.

What will you do?

But the song comes to an end.

You have two choices:

fight

or flight.

With the knowledge

that at least you'll have tried,

you go on.

You begin your solo.

You have shut your own ears,

hoping beyond hope

that you won't have to hear yourself.

That nobody else will.

But when you finish that first song,

when you open your eyes

and look out at the crowd,

they're not cringing

or booing.

They're applauding.

They're standing.

They're cheering.

And all you can think is,

How did I get here?

K.S.
nonononononono

If it fell over, would it make a sound?

And if it did, would it be the sound that you like? 

Rome's ashes mix with those unwilling to fight back.

Teetering,

tottering,

and...

Balance.

You're in the park.

To your right,

hundreds upon thousands of trees.

To your left,

hundreds upon thousands of people.

But there is one person,

a tattered,

worn-out,

poor man laying on a bench.

You walk up to him.

He waves you away,

but you won't go.

Why are you lying on that bench?

you ask.

Got nothing better to do,

 he says.

You try to pull him onto his feet,

but he struggles and wrenches free.

He doesn't want to live a happy life.

He just wants to be left alone,

on his bench,

to die.

But you won't have that.

Eventually,

you get him up.

You show him the beauty of the park.

You remind him of the glory of life.

You finally manage

to bring a smile to his face.

He spits it all out.

He tells you his story.

He confesses to all his sins.

He takes credit for all his triumphs.

He smiles.

He laughs.

He thanks you.

And he goes off into the day,

happy,

with the will to live again.

//SCHRÖDINGER 

i think

Look into my eyes, and it's easy to see
One and one make two, two and one make three

I just deliver the news

Can't see me!

Ooh, look at this!

How strange.

Balance.

You're walking down the street.

It's cold and foggy outside.

Eventually,

you happen upon an old,

dilapidated,

crumbling library.

It's barely a library anymore.

It's just a shadowed, empty stone box.

You duck in for a moment,

to get out of the cold

and catch your breath.

You hear someone

call out,

Who's there?

You turn and look.

It's a young boy,

coming in behind you.

He's wearing rags

and pushing a cart,

half-full of newspapers.

Why are you here?

you ask.

He tells you.

He lives in that broken-down library.

You're shocked.

You take him home with you.

You take care of him.

He grows stronger.

One day,

a couple shows up at your door.

They look very well-to-do,

but are sad,

distraught.

They ask if you've seen their son.

The boy comes forward.

They see him,

and they nearly tackle him

out of joy.

They take him home,

and you live happily,

knowing you've reunited a family.

-Don't Shoot the Cat-

Kisses like cocaine, hits me like a freight train
I can't tell her no

The past is filled with pain and suffering, but all is well if you have fun living.

One, two, three, four,

you won't hurt me anymore!

Balance.

You're at an amusement park.

Your friend's father died recently.

You,

and her,

and so many other friends

are there,

with you,

trying to cheer her up.

She isn't being very cooperative.

She's sniffling

and crying,

and moaning

and lying -

I feel great.

I'm okay.

I don't need anything.

But then,

then you see that one ride,

the huge,

twisting,

looping,

incredibly fast ride.

You know how to cheer up your friend.

You cover their eyes,

and lead them to the entrance of the ride.

You slowly guide them into a seat.

The ride starts.

You chug away,

slowly,

slowly.

You reach the top

of the highest peak

on the ride.

You take your hands

off her eyes.

She looks.

She sees.

She gasps.

The sheer height,

the warmth of the sun,

the rushing wind

makes her smile

like nothing before.

When the ride is over,

she looks into your eyes.

You know that she knows -

pain doesn't go away;

pain can't be eliminated;

pain can get worse;

but you can overcome it.

You know that she knows -

pain is just weakness leaving the body.

If you can overcome that

without losing your heart

you'll be invincible.

Schrödinger

yes? no? i'm not sure anymore

Well, you blame me, and I blame the viking

And I'm pretty sure that answer must not be to your liking

Explanation

His name was Lewis Jacobs Lyman.

He loved nothing more than Alice in Wonderland,

The Wizard of Oz,

The Chronicles of Narnia,

and The Lion King.

One year ago,

we met at an audition for a play.

He was funny,

cute,

and he really made me feel balanced.

It didn't take long for that to go away.

Three months after we had met,

he left.

He told me it was over,

and disappeared.

My strongest memory of him

from those days

is the smile he always wore.

The smile he would flash at passerby on the street,

the smile that immediately brightens your day.

The smile that

that haunts me in my dreams, now.

In my nightmares.

It was hard for a while,

living without him.

But I managed.

I had friends to help me through it.

He showed up at my flat the day after I saw him again.

He was prepared. He was alone,

but prepared.

I was unconscious before I realized it was the same man I had seen in the theater.

In his cruelty,

he was almost kind,

tender,

loving.

Then he gave me the notebook

the

I still have it.

I don't want it,

but I'm going to keep it.

In case I may need it again.

Then he gave me the notebook.

He told me to write in it.

I didn't want to.

So he took my finger.

And I wrote for all I was worth.

And then

The days after are a blur until today, I

I woke up in the small place Sir Thighpiece had rented.

He was sitting there, by the small cot,

looking as if he hadn't slept in days.

(From what he says, he hasn't slept in a long time.)

His dog, too,

Rocinante,

she's ever so sweet.

And she gets along wonderfully with Sierra and Mab.

Speaking of whom,

they are both fine.

A neighbor watched over them while I was

while I was

away.

I'm

I'm okay.

I'm getting better.

I'll be on my feet tomorrow, and then

then I'll be ready to smile again.

I hope.

He told me one last thing, before Sir Thighpiece showed up

He reminded me

He reminded me of the cat

Curiosity killed the cat

Satisfaction brought it back

He warned me

"Eight left,"

he said

but I'll make it through.

I have Sierra.

I have Mab.

I have my friends.

I have you,

whoever you are, reading.
This is me:
Kathleen Schrödinger.
That is me.
That's me.
no it's not
is it?

I'm a thousand miles away, but girl,

Tonight you look so pretty, yes, you do

Qui tacet consentit

One two three four -

we will walk right through that door!

Five six seven eight -

who do we appreciate?

Balance.

Sierra is growing so fast.

He's much better now

than he was when I found him.

And he and Mab are so cute when they play.

I'm so glad I could help them.

Also,

at rehearsal today,

I saw a man in the audience.

I couldn't make out his face,

since he was sitting way in the back,

in the dark.

I don't think anyone else noticed him.

He didn't say anything,

he didn't wave when I did,

and by the time we were done and leaving,

he had gone.

The way he walked

seemed almost familiar.

Almost doglike.

But I only saw it for a moment,

as the tails of his coat

swished out the door.

I was so intrigued,

I checked the security footage.

He only showed up for a few seconds,

and seemed out of place.

In fact,

he seemed like he belonged in the play.

The way he moved,

it was almost as if

he wanted me to memorize what he looked like.

Well, I did.

A long tailcoat,

and pants so dark

you couldn't see the creases.

A dark bow-tie,

and a top hat,

with something tucked into the ribbon.

He even had a monocle

 and cane,

and a thick, gold pocket-watch and chain.

The strangest thing about him

was that he had a cigar in his mouth,

but not lit -

he was just chewing on it.

He was a bit heavy-looking,

but mostly very athletic-looking.

Then he tipped his hat to the camera,

and disappeared.

I asked some of the other cast members

if they knew anyone like that.

Something was bugging me.

I knew him.

The way he walked,

the way he moved,

even the way he stood.

The next time I see him,

I won't wait.

I'll rush after him.

I'll remember who he is.

Maybe

I'll even get an outfit like his.

It was simply fabulous.

I loved it.

Are they wondering what we might be?

Are they thinking of you or of me?

This is who I am. This is what I've done. Now who wants to take on the champ?

Can't see me if I'm here!

But I'm still here!

Can't see me!

Never mind.

Balance.

You're auditioning for a Broadway play.

You're last in line,

after a long assortment

of famous singers

and gorgeous actors.

The readings are first.

There's the part of Amanda,

the overworked step-mom.

There's the part of Bruce,

the imprisoned stylist.

There's even the part of Corey,

a bird that makes friends with the cat trying to eat him.

Then, the singing.

They sing about how they love the theater,

they sing about how their lover deserted them.

They sing about how much worse their life is than anyone else's,

they sing about how much better it is.

A thousand songs,

all beautiful,

all wonderfully sung,

all meaningless.

Finally,

it's your turn.

You trudge up the stairs,

knowing you won't get a part,

hoping beyond hope that you will.

You whisper at first.

You begin to stutter,

you stop.

You think that if you say one more thing,

you'll ruin your chances

forever.

But then you close your eyes,

and you sing.

You sing,

you sing the most amazing song any of the people in that room

had ever heard.

You belt it out as if you couldn't hold it in anymore,

and even as you take a peek at your captive audience,

you grin,

because it's your song,

something you wrote,

something you composed.

When you finish,

some of the other actors

scoff.

They boo.

They ask you who you think you are

to come and upstage them like that.

You ignore them almost the whole way out the door,

when you turn,

you shout back,

I'm the champ.

The next day,

you get a call

from the casting director.

You got the lead.

-/|\-

No one can change your life except you

Don't ever let anyone step all over you

I find myself about to peer into an abyss... Will it stare back when I examine it?

Can they see me over here?

They can if I go

back over here!

Balance.

You're in a hospital.

Your grandmother is dying.

She has cancer or heart disease or some other horrible thing -

but you're young. All you know is she's dying.

You stay by her side,

day and night,

rain and shine,

hunger and sleep.

You never leave,

always hoping,

always praying,

that she'll get better.

The doctors tell you that you have to leave.

Your parents tell you that you have to move on.

Your teachers tell you that you have to come back to school.

With a great deal of crying,

you go,

knowing she has no chance,

hating yourself for not being there.

After watching her suffer for so long,

you suffer.

It's almost as if you had traded places.

Now you feel as bad as she does,

you're in as much pain,

you feel as helpless as she must.

Weeks pass.

Weeks turn into months.

Maybe months even turn into years.

Then, one day,

when you're least expecting it,

you get the news:

she's made a full recovery.

Signing off. (Comfort)

Trading in who I've been for shiny celebrity skin

I like to push it and push it until my luck is over