The Journey To Hell – 12

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It’s been a while since I wrote “The Journey To Hell”. Now that the brain is unclogging somewhat, I think I shall resume this, as well as some other writing

So, here goes. For those of you who don’t know, Puss in Boots goes down to Hell, and starts a long conversation with Lucifer on the topics of love, hate and desire.

In the end, this will be in 3 parts. Part 1 is “The Journey To Hell”. As it resumes, Lucifer encourages Puss to tell her story, and this is the beginning

“A black sun rose in the colourless sky,                                                                                                        Puss stretched her body, and rose with a sigh.                                                                                        Lucifer was waiting, his eyes were on fire.                                                                                            She mockingly asked, “Where shall I start, Oh Sire?’                                                                           ‘Start at the beginning, start at your birth,                                                                                                 There’s no time for waiting, no time for mirth.’

Her pretty blood froze, and her head was cold,                                                                                         No more did she dare, to make jokes so bold.                                                                                                Lucifer’s power was there, for her to behold,                                                                                          Yet she kept a kernel within her, one he could not mould.                                                                  Still, she had no power to stall him further,                                                                                          A fear grew within her, that he would curse her.

‘I was born in a barn, this is no lie;                                                                                                            My parents were minstrels, and soon were to die.                                                                                   They sang songs of romance, of mysteries too;                                                                                          Of dark tales, of Gods, and Demons they knew.                                                                                     These were of Kings, of Queens, Priests and liars,                                                                                Of warriors, of traders, and wandering friars. ‘

‘Their voices were bold, their songs had no fear,                                                                                    Yet enemies they had, in lands far and near.                                                                                                       People with secrets, and smiles on their faces;                                                                                       Their dark souls lived in the highest of places.                                                                                        They minions lived in the gutters below,                                                                                                  For their masters and mistresses, they struck the death blow.’

‘So one day when my parents were singing a song,                                                                                 Their voices were clear, their tunes true and strong.                                                                            Then an arrow did fly, and another one flew,                                                                                        From the crowds that did listen, to the songs of these two.                                                                Down they fell, on the stage where they stood,                                                                                       Their voices were stilled, and the killers felt good.’

‘A baby I was, with no thoughts nor resources,                                                                               In the madness that followed, I was found on a horse.                                                                 Yes, I was taken, by a wench from the gutter,                                                                                        A mouth with no teeth, and a voice that would stutter.                                                                                 Yet she rode that horse, as fast as a breeze                                                                                             That came from High Heaven, and intended to freeze.’

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