[Diamond18]

Deep in a dusty, duskily dark den down below the dank, dreary halls of the Daily Floss (Minus Teeth’s oldest, most widely read—and only—newspaper) a slender, lithesome figure bent over a ream of parchment. In one hand he held a large, ostentatious and gaudy peacock feather pen, which, in theory, he was using to write upon the aforementioned parchment. In actuality, he held the quill immobile over the paper, while staring glassy-eyed at the cinnamon bun scented votive candle to his right upon the desk. While the candle was very fragrant, it did not cast much light, which contributed to the previously detailed darkness of the den. Or—as Vogonwë Brownbark, only son of Geppettuil the Elven Party-king of Workmud, third cousin of Throngduil, thrice removed, thought of it—his “poet’s corner”. It was really more like a “poet’s pantry”, or a “bard’s basement”, or even a “wordweaver’s wicker wastebasket”, but when the Daily Floss went to press, Vogonwë titled his column “The Poet’s Corner”. It could be found on the 19th page, down in the right hand corner next to the ad for Eeyoreth’s Athelas-Mint Gum.

As has been gone over well enough already, it was dark down where Vogonwë nested in his niche. The Daily Floss ran on a tight budget, and so its columnists were granted differing modicums of light, depending on which page their articles appeared on. Those who wrote cover stories were granted great blooming torches for their workspaces, and page by page, the lights decreased to middling torches, small torches, various sizes of unwieldy candlesticks, smoldering oil rags, jars of fireflies, and a glowworm farm. At Vogonwë’s level, one could expect one or two votive candles, but the votive to Vogonwë’s left had gone out about half an hour ago. He wasn’t about to complain, however, since the last time he had complained about his fireflies dying of asphyxiation, he had been demoted two pages. And he knew that on the 20th page (the last), all one received for illumination, was twenty matchboxes. Twenty empty matchboxes. Vogonwë wasn’t crazy (though he was starting to feel a little unwell, and was getting rather tired of staring at the ceiling, making friends with shadows on his wall) so he knew when to keep his mouth shut and switch over to staring at his one remaining candle.

Vogonwë had writer’s block. He couldn’t think of a rhyming sentence to save his half-elven life, though if he had been in a less befuddled state, he could have easily seen that “flickering” rings well with “wickering”, and so a tie-in between “wicker wastebasket” and “flickering candle” was waiting just around the poet’s corner.

His mind turned wistfully to Pimpi. Pretty Pimpi. My flickering mind turned wistfully to pretty Pimpi, purveyor of wicker wastebaskets… Nah, no good. His dear Pimpiowyn was well acquainted with bedpans and broomsticks, but he knew for a fact that the wastebaskets in the Houses of Bettifordeth were made out of metal. Anyway. It was all for his darling Pimpiowyn that he was down there, huddled over a scroll of woefully empty parchment, blinding himself by the sickly flickering glow of a single votive candle. It was her great wish to tag along after Merisuwyniel wherever that blasted…er, blessed… beautiful Elf went. And so she spent her days working in the Healing Houses, where she divided her time between odd menial tasks involving cleaning supplies, and cleaning up her own messes, for poor Pimpi was something of a klutzie cutie. She had spent most of her life as a small, petite little half-halfling, but a run in with magic beans had caused her to grow considerably taller. She made a fair and fetching figure, but she felt rather more like an awkward collection of elbows and knees in all the wrong places. Broken pottery followed in her wake, and she had grown accustomed to tripping over furniture. And bruising.

But she was happy, more or less, with her work, and Vogonwë was happy that she was happy. So he tried to think as little as possible about the great rolling plains and deep woodland forests that beckoned to him out there in the great big grand world of Muddled-Mirth. Ah, when was the last time he had hunted skwerlz in the forest? When was the last time he had skipped along through a sunlit glade, poetry flying from his lips like a fine spray of spittle? When was the last time he had mounted a horse with an inverted pas de chat, and gone galloping across the rolling hills with the wind whipping through his long, silky brown hair and satin hairbow? When was the last time he’d shot down a bevy of Orcs with a handful of well-aimed arrows? But he wasn’t complaining. Pimpi was happy, and when Pimpi was happy, he was happy.

(Review – Vogonwë was not unhappy, dratit!)

The two of them—half-elf and half-halfling—were engaged to be married. Sometime. Sooner or later. Pimpi was planning a non-canonical ceremony. Or something. He wasn’t really paying attention to the wedding plans. Vogonwë was quite content just being trothplighted, for the time being. Plighting their troth had been quite fun. So was subsequently trothing their plight. Trighting their ploth and plothing their tright every now and then wasn’t bad, either. It would be better in a sunlit glade, of course. But life isn’t perfect, even when you’re trothplighting (or a variation thereof).

When he had first arrived in Minus Teeth, Vogonwë had immediately found work as a reporter with the Daily Floss. There was an opening as a recorder of Lord Denimthor’s speeches, and so he had begun to follow the Steward of Grundor around with pen and paper. He quickly learned why there was an opening, as the man was a colossal bore. He yammered and yawed in the most torpid way, about the most insipid things, and Vogonwë had found himself tearing his hairbow out and yearning to write a line of poetry which included the words “yammer” “yaw” and “yearn”. One day, as Denimthor addressed the Wight Society on the subject of gingivitis, Vogonwë had nearly succumbed to a dark urge to affix an Aim-Well spell to his quill pen, and send it flying in the direction of the Steward’s throat. He had suppressed this urge. But that day, instead of publishing the speech on the front page (Denimthor’s speeches always went on the first page, and it is a testament to their dullness that many reporters passed up the blooming torches to avoid having to work that beat) Vogonwë had ditched all his notes on gum disease, in favor of writing a florid poem in honor of Pimpiowyn’s willowy figure. He was fired. But Merisuwyniel, bless her, sort of, had taken it upon her dear heart to talk the editor into letting Vogonwë have his own poetry column.

With a sickly fizzle, the right-hand votive candle finally flickered out. Vogonwë dropped his quill pen and jumped up happily, hitting his head on a low overhanging shelf. He said a few things in Simian which I’d rather not repeat, but it did not dampen his enthusiasm permanently. He made his way more carefully out of his corner, and headed toward the Houses of Bettifordeth. Today’s malady—a headache. Goodie.

[ July 13, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]