Post by DanielK on Jun 23, 2014 16:06:01 GMT
Yellow sunlight streamed through the shutters of the chocolate box houses in Hamelin, both ironically and beautifully. A light breeze ruffled the verdant fields surrounding the isolated town. The summery nature of the day was a precipitate for pleasantness and do-goodery.
I was on the mountain. The clouds were dense here, strong in nature, and spilling over the craggy top. From my cleverly selected viewpoint, I could just peer over the rocks of St Peter’s Gate below to see the town I hated and made suffer. Indeed, it was suffering even on a day as spectacular as this.
A woman wailed, her painful cries ripping through my celestial body; a mother, perhaps? Men were shouting in random directions, the emotional scar obvious in their deep voices, the paternal instinct of knowledge driving them onwards in their battle with the unknown: with me.
“Now they know how I suffered” I thought, reminiscing the demonic thoughts that had gripped my mind back then. Loneliness was maddening, the creation of insanity and the breeding ground of suicide. The mountain edges where I had been confined to were prison bars, the grass I sat on prison guards. In the end, it was my intense infatuation and worry with the town below that had drawn me away from my depressed state of mind. Hamelin’s population was so very intriguing to me; their simplistic manners and their meagre worries attractive to my blackened mind.
The town’s problems became my problems; I was collectively united with the residents, spiritually, with their thoughts engulfing my brain. I could sense the mood of the town; it was almost easy as they all had the same feelings. A community united by nothing other than the fact that they lived near each other in this barren, mountainous region of Europe.
And so it came to be, that on one hazy day in spring they shouted as one, an amplifying sound that reached the very edges of the surrounding mountains.
“The rats need to go”.
I had been well aware that Hamelin was suffering from a plague of rats; indeed, it had been the main topic of conversation in the town for some time. Concerned Grandmothers had whizzed around the town square, a mess of purple hats and half-eaten Blouses, moaning about the possible spread of contagious diseases. Their husbands lagged behind them, a rat perfectly placed on the top of their bald heads enjoying a trip on an unsuspecting victim. Schoolchildren were hurried into classrooms from rat-ridden playgrounds, only to find their teachers slaughtering rats with broomsticks.
Hamelin was fed up. It seemed to me that the residents were in a war with the animals and it looked like they were increasingly losing. The rats would staccato march proudly around the town centre in a vicious and spectacular display of might and superiority. Their nationalistic salutes of courage to each other reinforced their brutal, one-sided vision of life.
Sitting up in the mountains, something dawned on me that had never crossed my mind before; I could help these people. It all seemed so perfect; I would take away the carriers of misery from their town and then I would have that sense of belonging I had been always been craving. And so, in a move of divine intervention, I picked up my most treasured item: my pipe. A magical instrument, it played a powerfully, mystical tune that could complete my most odious of instructions. For the first time in my supernatural life, I left the mountains and descended on to the town. Medieval defences enclosed Hamelin, keeping the armies of Europe out, but also keeping the rats in. Nerves struck me, like electricity hitting water as I crossed the bombardments and entered Hamelin.
If only I knew then what corruption and criminality I would come across.
I killed each one of the rats; death by drowning. No emotions escaped from me, I remained as calm as ever, positively thinking of the riches I would receive on my return from Hamelin.
But then I was tricked.
The Mayor of Hamelin, a bumbling, power-hungry, corrupt man, denied me my riches, denied me that sense of belonging I required, threw me back into that dark mind-set I had tried so hard to rid myself from. I had never felt such anger; it seeped through each of my luminous veins until I could have bled spite. Every resident who had once seemed admirable and respectable to me, were now worse than the animals I had single-handedly and cold- bloodedly murdered. I truly lost my mind. I remember exactly what I said next-“Fine, but I shall remove every young person from this sinful town”.
My pipe playing its wondrous tune, the children of Hamelin appeared from their dwellings, their eyes dazed and their faces bright. They followed me from the wicked town, their quiet footsteps eerie in the evening light. From behind me, the shouts of confused parents filled the air and the Mayor urged everyone to remain calm. I laughed at their weakness in the face of the supernatural, their stupid cries for help absolutely useless.
Our merry crew arrived at the mountains where I gave the children the virtue of freedom. They ran, their faces alive with happiness, until they reached the distance where they became ghosts against the azure sky.
My mind is engulfed with a moral superiority as I run towards them. Light-headed, I sprint past the wilderness I inhabited, continually laughing over and over until I hurt. I couldn’t see them now but I remained totally alive.
I will never return them to their homes; their elders will forever sit waiting. For they are now mine.
I was on the mountain. The clouds were dense here, strong in nature, and spilling over the craggy top. From my cleverly selected viewpoint, I could just peer over the rocks of St Peter’s Gate below to see the town I hated and made suffer. Indeed, it was suffering even on a day as spectacular as this.
A woman wailed, her painful cries ripping through my celestial body; a mother, perhaps? Men were shouting in random directions, the emotional scar obvious in their deep voices, the paternal instinct of knowledge driving them onwards in their battle with the unknown: with me.
“Now they know how I suffered” I thought, reminiscing the demonic thoughts that had gripped my mind back then. Loneliness was maddening, the creation of insanity and the breeding ground of suicide. The mountain edges where I had been confined to were prison bars, the grass I sat on prison guards. In the end, it was my intense infatuation and worry with the town below that had drawn me away from my depressed state of mind. Hamelin’s population was so very intriguing to me; their simplistic manners and their meagre worries attractive to my blackened mind.
The town’s problems became my problems; I was collectively united with the residents, spiritually, with their thoughts engulfing my brain. I could sense the mood of the town; it was almost easy as they all had the same feelings. A community united by nothing other than the fact that they lived near each other in this barren, mountainous region of Europe.
And so it came to be, that on one hazy day in spring they shouted as one, an amplifying sound that reached the very edges of the surrounding mountains.
“The rats need to go”.
I had been well aware that Hamelin was suffering from a plague of rats; indeed, it had been the main topic of conversation in the town for some time. Concerned Grandmothers had whizzed around the town square, a mess of purple hats and half-eaten Blouses, moaning about the possible spread of contagious diseases. Their husbands lagged behind them, a rat perfectly placed on the top of their bald heads enjoying a trip on an unsuspecting victim. Schoolchildren were hurried into classrooms from rat-ridden playgrounds, only to find their teachers slaughtering rats with broomsticks.
Hamelin was fed up. It seemed to me that the residents were in a war with the animals and it looked like they were increasingly losing. The rats would staccato march proudly around the town centre in a vicious and spectacular display of might and superiority. Their nationalistic salutes of courage to each other reinforced their brutal, one-sided vision of life.
Sitting up in the mountains, something dawned on me that had never crossed my mind before; I could help these people. It all seemed so perfect; I would take away the carriers of misery from their town and then I would have that sense of belonging I had been always been craving. And so, in a move of divine intervention, I picked up my most treasured item: my pipe. A magical instrument, it played a powerfully, mystical tune that could complete my most odious of instructions. For the first time in my supernatural life, I left the mountains and descended on to the town. Medieval defences enclosed Hamelin, keeping the armies of Europe out, but also keeping the rats in. Nerves struck me, like electricity hitting water as I crossed the bombardments and entered Hamelin.
If only I knew then what corruption and criminality I would come across.
I killed each one of the rats; death by drowning. No emotions escaped from me, I remained as calm as ever, positively thinking of the riches I would receive on my return from Hamelin.
But then I was tricked.
The Mayor of Hamelin, a bumbling, power-hungry, corrupt man, denied me my riches, denied me that sense of belonging I required, threw me back into that dark mind-set I had tried so hard to rid myself from. I had never felt such anger; it seeped through each of my luminous veins until I could have bled spite. Every resident who had once seemed admirable and respectable to me, were now worse than the animals I had single-handedly and cold- bloodedly murdered. I truly lost my mind. I remember exactly what I said next-“Fine, but I shall remove every young person from this sinful town”.
My pipe playing its wondrous tune, the children of Hamelin appeared from their dwellings, their eyes dazed and their faces bright. They followed me from the wicked town, their quiet footsteps eerie in the evening light. From behind me, the shouts of confused parents filled the air and the Mayor urged everyone to remain calm. I laughed at their weakness in the face of the supernatural, their stupid cries for help absolutely useless.
Our merry crew arrived at the mountains where I gave the children the virtue of freedom. They ran, their faces alive with happiness, until they reached the distance where they became ghosts against the azure sky.
My mind is engulfed with a moral superiority as I run towards them. Light-headed, I sprint past the wilderness I inhabited, continually laughing over and over until I hurt. I couldn’t see them now but I remained totally alive.
I will never return them to their homes; their elders will forever sit waiting. For they are now mine.
