Entry #78 – Pixie and the Angels

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What happens to an angel if you rip off his wings and shatter his golden halo? Will he still be an angel, or just a fallen being? Will he sprout new wings? And what will those wings be like – feathery, or bat-like wings? Skeleton wings, perhaps? What determines that? Is it the angel’s choice, or is there a superior – or inferior – being choosing for him?

Anyway, why do angels have wings? That’s rather weird, don’t you think, sweetie? They are supposed to fly with those wings, I think. That’s what wings are for, right? Oh, but I don’t know if I really like feathery wings. One day, I’ll capture an angel and find out what lies under all those feathers. Pluck them out, one by one. Does that hurt? Oh, I’m sorry, dearest. Pluck them out, one by one…

And why do they wear halos? It’s just a freaking hoop. And golden, by the way. I know of a few colors which would be much more appealing. The halo is a waste of metal – but wait, how can it be wrought out of metal? It hovers above the head of the angel, so it cannot be metallic. If it were, the halo would not levitate – that’s only reasonable, simple laws of Physics. The halo would fall, circling the head, going down to the neck. Hey, a collar! Golden collars require silver leashes. Who wouldn’t like to have a leashed angel guarding his home? Angelic guards, indeed.

But what if the collar keeps going down and down, falling across the angel’s shoulder, torso and legs, falling into oblivion – what then? What do you have? What is left of the celestial being, wings gone, halo gone? What if every angel loses his soul?

…Do you have Lost Angels?

Lock.

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Entry #77 – Pixie and the Downpour

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It’s raining. Again. It never stops raining, nowadays. I hate rain; my solar panels don’t produce a single drop of energy. I should create something to produce energy from those rain drops. Swart could get me the stuff I need, he’s such a darling… Always willing to help. Sweet kid.

I’m bored. Working on batteries sucks, I can’t do anything worth it. I could create a program to count the rain drops, but that’s stupid. See? Not worth it, I told you.

It’s still raining. Wait – oh, cool! I’m a genius! Wait until I tell you – imagine the rain is never going to stop. What will we do then? There’s no Noah’s Ark to save us all. We will drown! *Cackle* No, we won’t. Sweet Pixie can save the Tribes. The question is: does she want to save them? Are they worth it? Tell me, sweetling: what’s funnier to do, to save the Tribes or to create that count-rain-drops program? Hmm, let me think about it.

I’ll call it Pixie’s Ark. Original, ain’t it? Yes, of course it has a surname – Naglfar. I told you, my ship made of nails would have its value! Now it will never stop raining, and the Tribes will thank me for my thoughtfulness and kindness on saving them from the downpour. Naglfar will have its crew, with pink and purple livery. Oh, it’s going to be so funny!

Incy wincy spider climbing up the spout
Down came the rain, and washed poor incy out…

Lock.

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Entry #76 – Pixie and the Soloists

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They roam over the earth, singing their joyous opera; their fiendish cackle hovers in the wind long after they have left for different realities. They are prickly actors, who must have every last detail to their liking or else…

Burn it… Burn it all…

What if there are no ashes left when we are gone? What if the singers don’t leave their cloaks behind, and else take the whole theater down in cheers? No trace left of it? What stays behind them? The lone spectator, insistently clapping his hands to a cast too arrogant to return once more to the stage? That one, that lonely one, is burnt down – to ashes. He leaves a trail behind him, a trail that tells how the opera soloists raged upon him. They do not honor him – they would stand as low as him if they did. And those artists never stand low. How could them? Who would dare them? Who would approach the singing soloist, in her pure soprano voice that gives you shivers up your spine? Who would approach her, challenge her for a duel? Oh, but she’d look down the one who affected so; her ember gaze would tear his will down to a rant of crazed emotions, the fury of her wondrous song corrupting his being for all time. He would be left behind. But those who honor the flames never leave a trail – they are taken with the singers, they are part of the song itself. The song leaves no trace, but lingers for all eternity.

Lock.

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Entry #75 – Pixie and the Song

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If a tree falls in a forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

Well, let’s analyze this problem. Coherently. *Chuckle* I like that word. C-O-H-E-R-E-N-T-L-Y. Cool.

Why would the tree fall, in the first place? I think that’s because she feels sad. She doesn’t wear pink and purple, just drab green and brown. Ugh. Ugly. Who wouldn’t be sad? Poor tree.

If the tree falls, she’s dead, right? Oooh. She kills herself for not having nice clothes. I bet her mum was terrible. Bad mum. My mum is not like that. She loves me. She’s nice. *Giggle*

Oh, right, the sound! But you should know it’s not nice to interrupt people when they’re talking. Not polite at all. But I’ll let it pass now. You’re my friend, I can’t be mad at you, can I?

The birds chirp because they want to be heard. I like to hear them. I sing because I like hearing my voice. That’s alright. But who would want to hear a tree? You don’t sing if no one can hear you. The tree falls silently. No one hears her, so she just keeps quiet. She doesn’t like to waste her voice. Good choice, tree.

“TIMBEEEEER!!!”

*Giggle*

Lock.

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Entry #74 – Pixie and the Peaches

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I miss them. Not that I have ever tasted them – not the real ones, not the ones untouched by mankind. Not the ones ripening under the sun on rolling hills, bursting with sugar and juice. But even those artificial copies were better than none. That acrid-sweet flavor, the stinging emotion rolling down your throat. They are gone, now. Only empty cans left. No trees left either. None left where you can sit in its shadow and wait for the peaches to ripe, grow and ripe until they fall on your open hands. Sweeter than honey. Bitter than honey. Gone. Burnt down, dead. Empty cans. The juice and life gone – to where? Where have all the peaches gone?

Beyond the fences, the trees grow still…

Lock.

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Entry #73 – Pixie and the Mask

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Trick or treat! *Giggle*

What do you hide behind the mask, my dear? Who do you hide, and why? Does the mask make it less real, or more? And what for? Does it bring you any gain? Fame, glory, a new name? Is it worth it? Is it worth losing your identity? Do you use it to lose yourself, to break your shell, to reveal the inside? The mask covers your own mask, lets through the very core of your being – is it so, dearest? Freedom? The mask allows you to act as you would, but have not the courage to when you set it down? If so, you are not yourself – you are the mask. The mask is you. You are truly a puppet of your own desires, of your own passions. You cannot control them, but the mask can. You use it over and over again; it drains you of your very soul, it corrupts your mind. You are the mask. Nothing more. It drains your soul – and mind.

So why is it so funny? Trick or treat!

Lock.

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Entry #72 – Pixie and the Bells

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Can you hear them? Can you, my dear? I hear them. Their jig is so happy and sorrowful at the same time… It makes sense, right? The reaper is joy itself. His dance follows the rhythm of the bells, the song of the mourning widows. His scythe is the reflection of the conductor’s baton, his smile the laughter of children. The grim revels on the battlefield, claps his hands to the opera of the blood, the requiem of the blades, the tingle of failing life. He feeds onto the blood of the living, watches demon, bird, cat and jewel with the same unconditional love, the same tender care. Isn’t that adorable? What a lovely creature he is, how enticing the lure of the bells, the oath of eternity… The reaper is life made flesh, the hatred that drags love by the hand, that hand that shelters children, that shelters us, that dooms us…

The bells are calling…

Lock.

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Entry #71 – Pixie and the Logic

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If you live, you wake.
If you wake, you love.
If you love, you play.
If you play, you smile.
If you smile, you learn.
If you learn, you wait.
If you wait, you run.
If you run, you laugh.
If you laugh, you burn.
If you burn, you rage.
If you rage, you hope.
If you hope, you cry.
If you cry, you dream.
If you dream, you kill.
If you kill, you sing.
If you sing, you bleed.
If you bleed, you scream.
If you scream, you die.

Lock.

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Entry #70 – Pixie and the Blood

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Hey… You cut me! Don’t lie, it was you! I know it! I know! That was evil! I’ll never talk to you again! Don’t pout, that was your fault!

*Sobs*

You’re gone… Please, don’t leave me… I know you didn’t mean it… Please, come back! I’m your friend, don’t leave me alone… Come back! Come back! Come back!!!

You’re not returning. You left. You’re evil. I’m not your friend anymore. I’ll never talk to you again, never, never, never! Look, look at what you’ve done! I’m bleeding, I’m going to lose my finger, I’m going to bleed to death, and then you’ll be sorry! You’ll be sorry for what you did, you’ll be sorry for killing me! You’re a murderer! I hate you!

Oh, I can’t believe it! Look at it! Now you’ve stained my purple shirt! My favorite shirt! You’ve done it! You cut me, and now you made the blood fall on my shirt and stain it! Now I can never, ever, ever use it again, it’s ruined! Oh, I hate you so much! Go away! Go away! I hate you!!

Lock. Lock, stupid thing! Leave me alone!

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Entry #69 – Pixie and the Binary

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Decoder