The Skowbo Swamp Prose Competition
It came to pass that another Prose Competition was held at the CariElf Temple on Skowbo.
The Viscountess CariElf had been feeling lonely since the Pres. MM77 left temporarily for the Galactic Peace Ball, and in his absence she saw a window of opportunity for some dramatic adulation.
The Viscountess also missed ‘my Gerrakitten’ as she called him. Gerakken was a busy man, what with his spying duties and Galadriel being his wife and all. There were other reasons why Gerakken hadn’t visited the Viscountess on Skowbo for some time, but that is another story.
It is fair to say that the Viscountess had a particular softspot for Gerakken and of course the very young Pres. of the CariElf Fan Club. To be honest, the measure of her love and respect for those adulators was probably equal to the distaste she held for Vice Pres. Killa Koala and his tantrums. Nonetheless, Momzilla had often advised her daughter, “Elfie, sweetie, when you’re a Goddess you’ve got to take the bad adulators with the good”. She probably used slightly different words. Still, that is the gist of her advice.
The Viscountess, through her Publicity Officer, announced the Prose Competition and word of the event was broadcast throughout the human galaxy. Special invites were sent to all of the sophisticated and artsy empires. Although, a horrible miscommunication led to the ANZACs also being notified of this special occasion.
The prizes were rather special and created a certain air of expectation. Third prize was to be CariElf’s Sash of Even Integers, second prize was a CariElf Badge of Computing Deftness, and as always, first prize was an evening with the Viscountess.
The competitors gathered on Skowbo from across the galaxy.
The arrival
The battleaxe landed at the Skowbo Swamp Spaceport. Killa stepped from his ship, The CariElf, and sniffed the breeze. The feculent swamp stench caressed his nostrils. It was good to be back. He swaggered to the Prose Competitors Registration table and winked at the clerk.
“I’m back and I’m lean and mean. Register me at numero uno, clerk.”
The clerk flicked his fingers a couple of times and then pointed at a queue of would-be participants. “Go to the end of the queue and wait yer turn.”
Killa swelled with indignation and looked haughty. “You’re not serious! Do you know who I am! I am none other than The Terro Star Vice Pres. of the Order of CariElf!” His voice cracked on the last word, as he flung his arms wide, and waited for the gasp of embarrassed recognition.
The clerk looked up from his lists with mild interest. “Well, whatever. Be that as it may, wait yer turn. To the back of the queue”. Lethargically, the clerk pointed to the back of the queue.
Killa stomped to the back of the queue, fuming. He would like to have thought that this couldn’t happen to him, but unfortunately, it was a regular occurrence. Killa was used to suffering these daily humiliations and had decided long ago that he might as well make a virtue of his stoicism.
The competition
The verger rapped on the table. The gathering hushed.
The verger was weasel-faced and had a blotchy bulbous nose. He stared at the competitors unpleasantly. In a wispy voice he began, “Today, you have the honour of competing for the attentions of her exalted Viscountess CariElf. Not all of you will be successful. Indeed, some of you will be humiliated. However, that is the purpose of any competition: to create winners and losers. The Viscountess has no time for feckless or uninspired poetry and prose. As an added encouragement to you all, the Viscountess has directed that those of you who compete well and bring felicitation to her Grandness will be paid handsomely and allowed to leave Skowbo.”
The verger scowled at the competitors. “However, those of you who bring a frown to her Magnificence will be sorry indeed. There are many tasks in our little swamp that requiring willing or… unwilling labour”. He sneered at his last jibe.
The competitors looked at each other in dismay. It was clear that the Viscountess was not presently in a good mood. Killa had an additional worry. He looked around with concern. Although he couldn’t see Gerakken, he knew that the Spymaster was desperate to become a Diplomat. Gerakken would be lurking somewhere, and there was little doubt he would be Killa’s main rival.
The verger left the stage, and heralds announced the arrival of the Goddess. Shortly after, acolytes pushed through the audience carrying a curtained palanquin. Within, protected from uncouth eyes, the Viscountess reclined with a hookah, sipping a pomegranate sherbet. An acolyte rang the chimes to commence the first round. The competition began.
The Final Round
Time had passed. It was the final day of competition.
Killa blew his nose and wrung his paws. He had scraped into the final round by the skin of his teeth. The moment of truth approached. But he was worried: very worried. In the Quarter Finals, Killa had to bring out one of his best poems in order to beat the Yor and its stupid love ballad ‘000010101010101000011211010101000011’. The standard of the competition had been higher than Killa had ever imagined it would be.
Killa studied the list of the final three again. The ANZAC PieMuncher would start, followed by the pirates Gerakken and Killa.
The chimes rang for the final time and the gathering became as quiet as mice. The rocking of the palanquin showed that the Viscountess was making herself comfortable.
After a pregnant pause, PieMuncher, the ANZAC, leapt onto the stage and with thumbs in his trousers began.
The Wombat said to the Kangaroo,
"Gooday my friend, and how are you?"
"I`m glad you asked," said the Kangaroo
"I`m sitting here wondering what to do"
"I`ve lost me jump and got the hump,
So I can't be a Kangaroo Boo Hoo !!"
The crowd applauded the very short poem. The ANZAC rubbed his hands and said, “I reckon I ‘s just warmin’ up ‘ere. Next, I have a grouse one I reckon her Worshipness will get a cack out of. This here ditty is called ‘She’s Alright By Me’.”
Killa rolled his eyes. And so it went. It was going to be a long afternoon.
PieMuncher’s long list of little ditties eventually ended.
Without ado, Gerakken strode to the stage and with a flourish, bowed to the palanquin. He struck a pose and began.
I thirst for you,
my soul is dry, parched.
My mind dull with ordinariness.
With slow moving pulse, I wait for the time,
the moment, when your light enters the room.
Like the rising of a full moon, chasing twilight shadows away you bathe me in your soft glow.
My stream of life within swells, I am purged, refreshed, my weakness I confess without shame.
The joy of your sound, your presence,
your very aroma, excites my primal senses.
I am helpless, yet mighty is my passion.
The Palanquin rocked. Killa was disgusted. For though the rocking of the palanquin showed the Viscountess was clearly impressed with Gerakken’s hyperbole, Gerakken had chosen a piece which was neither short nor long, complex nor simple, and he had openly sought to milk every emotion from every word, especially at the end verse when he carnally leered at the Palanquin.
Killa slowly nodded. He had the answer to such middle of the roadery. Killa trotted to the stage and placed his hand to his heart. His right paw flung out as if to beseech the palanquin.
HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Killa gave a flourish and started the second verse.
An hour later Killa came to the end. With a rasping sigh he bowed and left the stage. It had been his finest hour.
The Judgment
The cheering finally stopped. Gerakken waved at the crowd, and then slipped into the palanquin. The team of sweating acolytes lifted the palanquin and moved towards the Temple grounds, smoothly.
Killa held his head in his hands and shed silent tears. He had The Sash of Even Integers, but he had wanted more: he wanted recognition. The utter humiliation he felt made him inconsolable.
Losing to Gerakken again.
Killa finally stormed to the Judges table. “This is a travesty of justice!” he shouted, shaking his fist. How could my poem be rated third? Behind those stupid, little ditties! Didn’t you recognise how complicated my recital was? The sheer length of it! The pacing, the metre, the alliteration. The iambic rhythm! What the hell were you judging?” Killa burst into tears again.
The verger stood up and glared down at the koala. “We of course gave points for difficulty Mr Koala. But also points for dedication. We were not trying to solely reward sheer complexity of the readings, but how uplifted the Viscountess felt. The Viscountess clearly felt that each of PieMuncher’s many verses expressed a particular emotion, a degree of utter dedication to her Gorgeousness, which when considered as a whole, outweighed your one poem of overweening length. Mr Koala, any system must measure the love demonstrated by dedication as well as the cold skill of complexity and length. The value of each reading is in the eye of the beholder! No rating system can ever satisfy all participants. A rating system is by its very nature subjective, even when based upon objective criteria”.
Killa wiped away his tears and chewed on his knuckles. “Then why did Gerakken win again? His verse was neither long and complex, nor many and simple. Why Gerakken!”
The verger grinned. “Very simple Mr Koala. The Viscountess, Her Sublimeness, makes the rules. It is her competition after all. She decided she would have a better evening with her…Gerrakitten, than with you or PieMuncher. We gave points accordingly. Mr Koala, you’ll learn one day, that on this world as on others, its not what you know, but who you know”.
Killa grimaced, but recognised the truth of the statement. He well knew that who you know can go a long way. It was just that the more people Killa knew, the less Killa got ahead.
Killa left Skowbo soon after. A sadder koala but in many ways a wiser one too.
Note: I forget who wrote the first poem. The second is ‘A Beam of Light’ by Mick Leigh, and the third is part of 'To his Coy Mistress' by Andrew Marvell.
Stardock Forums
And all because of a Gerakken poem? My heart is broken. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is a Veteran or a Diplomat or something. VP TS was the one and only title I've ever had in my entire life. Oh well, I won't go on about it. I always cry in private. 