An Experiment...

When I was reading League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, I got an idea. I hope they don't sue me for this. Presenting yours faithfully's second person narrative, with all due apologies to Duforts, Elisa, H. G. Wells, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and fathers, mothers and others of SteamPunk. #GoingToHellForThis.

Madam Dufort sits sipping her tea. Oh yes! She sips tea. She likes green tea. It is indeed very becoming of the rich folk, and I daresay, madam Dufort drinks tea because she is rich. She doesn't like the taste, the poor rich madam wants regular Earl Grey with more creamery, but no. Green tea is more becoming of the rich folk.

"Elisa," she calls to you in her strong voice, chiseled with nicotine vapours from her silver holder and chipped with her medication.

You walk without making a sound. Some unrest makes you feel that your apron is tightening around your waist. You hold your hands together, bow your head in a courtesy, and not utter a word. It is improper of you to speak, when you are not expected to talk.

"Elisa, I want you to prepare my ink and quill for the letter I am to write to Sir Hill," she takes a pause sips her tea. Oh, don't look up! She doesn't like you meeting her eye. "Also, tell Smith that Mrs. Fonde will be paying us a visit."

"Yes, Madam," you say.

You are aware of madam Dufort's eye for detail. That's why you keep your dress as grey as it is supposed to be and bleach your apron and headrest whenever you have a chance. "And Elisa," she says, "did you wipe your hands with your apron again while cleaning the book case?"

Oh dear! Madam told you she likes uniform to be proper. "Yes madam," you confess. A good servant must be honest, Elisa. And you are good, aren't you? God save you!

"Well, Madam Fonde might not find it graceful. Tell Smith his orders, and you brush that up, clear?"

"Yes, madam," you say, clearing up the tea tray. You make your way past the halls, trying to remember what day it is. And your gaze wanders outside. Sir Samuel is practicing archery. Aye, that does feel something, doesn't it, Elisa? Had you been not a servant, how blessed would it be?

"How blessed would it be, dear Elisa?" you hear a voice call out from behind you. You turn around to address it. "How very blessed would it be?"

"Who is it?" you say turning behind you.

"You obviously don't know me Elisa," calls out the voice. Oh, it is so very near, yet you cannot see.

"Well, are you man, God or beast?" ah, dear Elisa, too late to hold your tongue, aren't you?

"Ha-ha-ha!" he laughs! "Oh, simple servant girls know not what to say! That's so very dear of you, sweet Elisa. Yet, you know not who I am?"

"Bless you, no! I cannot even see you, how can I recognise you if I don't see you?" now, when did you last talk to voices with no face?

"C'est moi, Elisa. You may refer to me as, 'that man' or 'shadow' or 'the unseen'... haven't you heard of me ever?"

The unseen... is it? "Professor Griffin?" your eyes light up. The lesson in sciences when you still had a family... oh how could you forget your own teacher?

"Yes, dear child, it is I," he says, "but you haven't really fared well, I see."

"Elisa," a voice calls you from a distance. It is Mr. Smith, the butler.

"I shall talk to you later," says the voice.

Smith comes to you, "are you alright?" you nod to the old butler's concern.

"The Madam wants me to inform you of Madam Fonde's arrival this evening, and I must go and prepare her ink and quill. She is to write a letter to Sir Hill." You say as you go past him, through the great hall to the study. Sharpening the quill, and preparing the ink solutions, you let thoughts go in your head. What is your professor doing here? After faking his murder, the poor gent was given immortality by Gabriel. And how he convinced your father to train you in pagan sciences... and how your approach became so very unlike a true Victorian Christian. Dear! You did read the fate of Hyptia, now, didn't you? You wouldn't be her! That is why you agreed on serving the rich when your family died in an accident along with your teacher. Isn't it? Oh, the immortal can never die, Elisa, professor might have survived. And he managed to find you here!

There ought to be more of his allies around, of course. It is unlikely of him to... "Elisa," you here his voice again.

"Yes, professor?" you say. The part of your instinct so trained and thorough in warfare speaks.

"Whatever became of you, dear?"

"Oh, professor, Lord knows what has happened!" you cannot refrain from the pain it brings, good Elisa, "the fire 'twas! The fire that consumed mother, father, brother, Margarette, Heffer, you! Oh, professor... the fire 'twas that burned my life down!"

"Now now," says Griffin putting his hand on your shoulder, "I was there when it happened, and it was no fire, I tell you."

"But the estate was down to ashes!" you say.

"Elisa, the estate was burnt, yes. But your family's burial was ensured in Pagan tradition by me, I swear! Oh, no good, no good! They were murdered Elisa, and I tried to save your father, but the bullet passed through me... I couldn't stop it, though I tried! The black veiled isn't distracted, and I saw the Bearer leave. And when he set the estate on fire, I knew I had to escape! I did the best possible preparation for the corpses to go to heaven, Elisa. Lord knows they rest in peace."

You shed a tear. You can't help it. "But that doesn't answer my question, dear girl," he says.

"Elisa," calls a caustic voice, Madam Dufort. The ink is ready, the quill is chipped, you wipe your tears and straighten your face. "Ah, it is ready! You've even laid out fine paper!" you drop a glance at it. Surely the professor did it, "thankyou, dear. Bless you!" says madam Dufort as she sits to write. You drop a courtesy and leave.

Though royal parentage, you are a servant now, Elisa. You deal with truth as you've learnt from your teacher.

You make your way to servant quarters, now you must change your apron. "God, they make you walk so much!" says the voice behind you.

"I wouldn't complain, professor. Just like you taught me to."

"Very well. Now tell me..."

"The Duforts are Christian like everyone in this town, professor. We dislike them, truly. But without a family, and being too proud to beg, I went to the older estate in Gastonbury, only to learn that it has been forcefully acquired by the extremists who survived the Third War. I couldn't fight them with nothing in my hands, professor. I went to Belgium to master all that I could about dynamics and motion. And I did fare better than what they could ever expect. But my pagan identity was revealed and I fled back home to safety. The Duforts were looking for a servant, when they hired me. And one day, Smith recognised me for who I am. Without the surname, sir, I'm as good as any servant named Elisa. I do need someone to prove my identity."

"So you do, dear child, so you do," he says comforting you. "But what if they discover it?"

"Oh no, I cannot handle another war... I would move to somewhere again, of course!"

"But that's no good, is it, dear?" says Professor Griffin.

-Neetzi

The Broken Cinderella

Here's poetry. I wrote it sometime back. I'm going to... bore you longer with what's to follow. It's called "The Broken Cinderella". I'm going to present it as a prose piece. Do tell me how it is.

((Prose))

She was happy, she was blessed, and she was elated. No one knew Cinderella was there, but she had no one to turn to, except the ghost of the father. Oh sure, it's the diatribe of the wretched ball: The "Royalty" and its morosity. But there was a desire, deep deep down which was a result of the haunts of a submissive rebel. No one to turn to, but the witch who spake of a spell, that would last till midnight. Her company all these years were the animals she had fostered with love, for no human would love her for who she was. Her insecurities, despite just how privileged she was, in terms of looks and intellect. Financial insecurity was a cripple.

She allowed all her life to be dominated, but this one decision she took on her own. She dared to defy the stepmother, the step sisters, their ever surpassing glory, only to fulfill her selfish desires. ONLY to shine, because she knew she couldn't. But deep inside, Cinderella was a crystal doll... a shattered crystal doll. Here she had nothing to carry, save the magic of the blessed witch, her rags, which were elusive to the coquettish as fashion, and rare and very aesthetic glass slippers. However, something had gone wrong with them. They were weak; they held a silent promise to break any moment.

No regrets, thought she. I’ve been brought up in isolation, and the regret has been borne far too long. I was a rebel, and I stand at the same spot again, I won’t let my will be shattered by my glass slippers.

And the music began, along with the rants of many women who were there. It became a comfortable tension, something she could take. Inner peace. There was some magic in that moment, and the music started, inviting the dance.

The music changed its course. Soon it was waltz, with an elated heart; she surrendered to the music, and swayed with rapture. However, a crack was sensed. Why did I come all the way? Thought she. The dress developed a minor rip, memories of the past and loneliness and death had come down to haunt her, and the glass slippers had developed a crack, all on the same night. In her heart she was beckoning to her prince, to seek her out, to accept her for the poor wretch she was, for she had not a penny to spare in her dowry. How dare she dream beyond her social standard?

Further movement is likely to cause damage, she realize that she should stay where she is without inviting any more trouble. She was looking her best, she was alone, but she was glory. She had finally bloomed. And in her gorgeous attire, no matter how frail may it be she loved the feeling of being herself. At this moment, more than ever. Suddenly, music went a few notes higher, but Cinderella was served by a more lucrative desire: the handsome Prince. His grace spoke of a more prominent language only royalties could.

Came an idea, as genuine as inspiration, as genuine as love itself. She started fostering the belief, that she shall meet him, sooner than late. She felt no compunction upon allowing her heart to be overpowered by infatuation. The tender Cinderella had fallen in love. And true and unbound as this desire, she was ready to fare him well, for she felt that if her love is true, it’d come back to her.

Began the waltz, and the Prince turned his eyes around the room and saw someone breathtaking. The dressing sense spoke of glories and fashions, her shoes spoke of frail antiquity. Her petite frame, big eyes and prominent features... Of course, who’d choose a town maiden, when there was a royalty present all for his eyes to see? Began the endless waltz; in that familiar tune; leading further still to the remnants of an endless continuum. The cracks of the glass slippers grew, and with each step Cinderella took, the shards started spreading its way across the floor. Hear this tale of the fleet of glass, and the blushing floor.

Silhouettes of the haunts of the past lives danced in the ball, in a mechanic infinitum, the world suddenly was drained of all the color, spare one.

A beauty with tainted grace and ever prominent patience, Cinderella bore the pain, only to be led by desire, only to give into sin, only to surrender to pleasure. The prince was charmed by the redness that surrounded him, that wide Carmen smile, which healed all the pains that the similar red of a… A carminative. What did the word mean, anyway?

However, Cinderella was haunted deep under that entire dazzle. The witch had already told her that the spell would last till midnight. The afterhours of madness had held both of them tied together.

Carminative… It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that physical self-satisfaction that came only by the taste of the lips of a sweetheart. It was intoxication, as true as the true wonders of alcohol, Carminative held the similar meaning. Carminative, the prince looked to meet the lips of the beauty he held in his arms, he held her by the threads of charms and chasms in a moment of frenzy, in the true glory of waltz.

Alas the fairy tale has lost its charm. She was ready to let it all go; it was just a mere fantasy. Carminative, each and every syllable of the word rang clearly in his mind. He imagined vaguely… it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its numerous derivations (oh! The royal education, the barbarians!), like carnival and carnation.

Cinderella shrugged, but smiled, for all the Prince cared to see her lips flushed red with carmine dye.

She broke away from his embrace with a smile, and only looked over, to memorize each and every feature of that grandeur of his presence. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-colored and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which... At this point, Cinderella broke away from the embrace, for the clock had gone twelve, and the shards of glass had already gone inside her feet.

Sadder still, the true meaning of the word had hit the prince along with the abrupt leaving of Cinderella, the true meaning of the elusive carminative had hit the prince like a sledgehammer. Windtreibend. Strange, the charm of this one woman, who drained him out of logic. A mere attraction? No, it was genuine love, or an idea as appealing. But not a glass shoe left behind, not a trail of the strange visitor. But committed was the prince to find this new beloved of his.

 Every house in the Town is knocked; hopes to find her prevail, still.

The memories of this diatribe shall be rendered by isolation, motivated by regret, in hope of every moment, never to be back again.