Flash Fiction Challenge: The Song of the Wind

In a shocking departure from tradition, I have managed to participate in a flash fiction challenge that isn't The Rogue Verbumancer's Pictonaut Challenge. Bearded writer extraordinaire Chuck Wendig levelled the challenge over at terribleminds, and while I didn't finish in the allotted time, I did finish.So here it is.

The challenge was to head on over to this D&D character generator and write 1000 words based on whatever dropped out of the generator. I probably cheated and pressed the button multiple times, but the prompt I ran with was

CONDESCENDING DWARF CLERIC FROM AN UNDERGROUND CITY WHO BELIEVES TREES CAN SPEAK TO THEM AND THEM ALONE

which ended up as the piece below. I think I hit all the prompts. I'm actually pretty fond of this and terhe is a good chance I might write some more of this character and this adventure. If i don't get eaten by my thesis.



The Song of the Wind

Bazrad Ka-Duri downed the mug of mead in one go, belched loudly and then promptly fell off her chair. Once she had managed to clamber back on to the barstool—which was far too tall and clearly not meant for the little folk to use—she immediately called for another. The barman looked skeptical, but seemed to know better than to tangle with a dwarf on a serious bender. He poured her another tankard of mead.

Not that he seemed to know she was a she.

"There you go sir," said the barman, unaware of several things including the mortal peril he now found himself in.

"Sir?!" spluttered Bazrad through a mead soaked moustache. "Can't youse tell that I am a dwarf woman?" She grabbed a fist full of her luxurious facial hair. "I have an even number of braids in my beard; men wear an odd number of braids." She straightened her spine and drew herself up to her full, not terribly impressive height. "Besides, my name is Bazrad Ka-Duri. Even if you know nothing else about dwarven names you should know that 'Ka' signifies 'daughter of'. If I were male my conjunctive would be 'Ker'."

"My apologies madam," said the barman, "but regardless of gender, I think you've had too much to drink; that was your last one."

Bazrad took the tankard—grumbling—but she held her tongue. Long experience had taught her that it was not wise to upset the person in charge of the drinks.

She should have never left her conclave in the great underground city of Varfaldur. At least the monks back home knew better than to cut her off mid session. Mind you, her ability and tendency to drink copious amounts of mead was one of the reasons she'd never been a good cleric herself. That and the unfortunate incident with the kobold.

Still, she'd carried on wearing the robes of her order even after she'd come to the Surface. Bazrad had found that if people thought you were a priest, regardless of order, they'd cut you a little more slack. Made life that little bit easier. The damn barman at this pisshole of a tavern didn't seem to be one of those folks though. And a great pity it was too. Well there was no point in staying if she'd been cut off. Bazrad regretfully downed the tankard, settled the bill and headed off into the night.

Bazrad stumbled down the street, cursing angrily under her breath. She'd been hoping to avoid leaving the tavern until she was too drunk to stand, but that plan had been thwarted. Concentrating hard on where she was putting her feet she headed back to the temple where she kept a room. With every step she took the whispering grew louder and louder.

The damned whispering that had turned her to drink in the first place.

"And youse can fuck right off!" she yelled suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at the nearest bush.  The tramp in a nearby doorway eyed her suspiciously. "What? You can't hear that? Of course you can't, I'm the only bastard lucky enough get to hear this incessant chattering."

Bazrad stomped off grumpily, swearing at each piece of vegetation she passed on her way back to the temple. Once safely behind the thick temple doors she heaved a sigh of relief. She really did regret leaving Varfaldur some days. It was nice in the city, and there were no trees in the Underdark.

No trees meant none of the annoying bloody voices that had followed Bazrad ever since she'd gotten to the Surface. Nobody had bothered to warn her that the plants on the Surface could talk. But then she seemed to be the only one with the ability to hear the trees speaking. The gods had been ever so generous in giving her that particular 'gift'.

Returning to her room she immediately realised that something was wrong: she wasn't alone. Bazrad grasped the utility knife she kept on her belt and swung around, ending up nose to navel with an intruder. Before she could visit death and destruction upon her assailant a set of strong, slender fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"Please don't," said a light and almost musical voice. "We don't mean you any harm."

Elves, she thought. Why did it have to be elves?

Fair folk or not, she was outnumbered and inebriated. She grunted her assent and sheathed her weapon. The fingers withdrew.

"Bazrad Ka-Duri?" asked the voice that had grabbed her wrist. Obviously this one was the leader.

"Who wants to know?" she replied suspiciously.

"I am Elarnaud Hawkfriend and this is my companion Arcaena Swiftbrook," said the elf with the strong grip. "We have heard tell that you can hear the song of the wind."

"The what now?"

"The song of the wind. The whisper of the leaves? You have not heard of this?" asked Elarnaud with a slightly perplexed look on their face.

Something clicked in Bazrad's alcohol-befuddled brain and she understood what the damn elf was talking about.  "Wait a minute, you're on about the fact I can hear the bastard trees are talking to me, aint you? You mean that's not just me going mad? There have been others?"

"It is a well known phenomenon in our homeland," said Arcaena. "Though it is unheard of that a dwarf should possess the gift."

"Some gift," said Bazrad angrily, "I can hear the bloody trees chattering wherever I go. Only time I get any peace is when I'm asleep or pissed out of me skull."

"As is often the case with such gifts, they are not without their drawbacks,"  said Elarnaud. "Those who can hear he song of the wind often have a great destiny ahead of them and that is why we have come to you, Bazrad Ka-Duri. Our woodland realm is in danger, and we need your help. Someone or something is killing the trees, and you may be the only one who can find out who or what. You are our only hope."

Bazrad reeled slightly with the news. "You mean to say, that not only can I actually hear the blasted trees talk, but that I'm probably the only one who can and you need me to save the world?"

"That is correct."

"Well shit."

December Pictonaut: Ascension

It's been a while since I managed a Pictonaut, and while technically I'm two days late for the December one I really don't care. I managed to do a writing, which feels good in the midst of my dreaded thesis. You know the drill; every month Glempy gives us a pictures to write a thousand-ish words about. I have called this months' effort Ascension because fuck the rules.

Ascension

The desert was cold at night, but it made a pleasant change from the oppressive heat during the day. It was also quiet, and the skies were usually clear. Tonight was no different. The stars were winking in the inky blackness and a cool breeze was helping to dissipate the residual heat from the sun. It was the perfect night for what was to come. The board had been set eons ago, and now it was finally time for the pieces to begin moving.

As the moon had risen steadily in the sky so too the chill had crept up. Zan had been forced to carefully and painstakingly build themself a fire, which took the bite out of the air somewhat. They only shivered a little as they patiently waited for the appointed hour to arrive.

The duty of waiting and watching for this day, this night, had been passed down from ancient times. All of Zan's ancestors had taken their turn at the watch, and Zan was honoured to be the one who would fulfil the oath that had been transacted so long ago. The night lengthened and Zan gathered the materials they would need for the ritual to come.

There was the robe that they had created for themself as a mere child. Their forebears had all made their own robes too; it was the first task undertaken to prepare for initiation. The headdress however had been crafted long ago, passed down for generations. So too the ceremonial dagger, the athame, with its beautiful jewelled hilt. The goblet, on the other hand, had been crafted in the last few centuries, the original having been lost when the temple was purged.

They took a sharp stick and used it to draw a circle in the dirt, such that it completely surrounded the fire they had built. Around the inside circumference of the circle Zan drew the signs and sigils they had known since childhood. When this was done they took a pot of salt and scattered it liberally about the circle.

As the moon reached its zenith Zan at last donned the robes and the headdress. The ritual could now begin. They stepped into the circle they had drawn earlier and took a deep, preparatory breath.

It began with chanting.

First came the salutation to the Master, chanting all of their names and accolades and achievements. Then Zan recited the oath, rededicating themself to the Master's cause and renewing the promise that would be fulfilled that night. After that came all the names of their ancestors from that first servant who had transacted the oath with the Master right up to the one who had given Zan life. As the moon began its descent down the sky Zan began the ritual that would set the Master free and allow them to return to the world.

The ritual was long and took most of the night. The moon was well and truly setting by the time Zan reached its feverish climax. Their hair was tousled and their headdress askew as they lifted their arms aloft for the final part. They took the athame they had laid out earlier and carefully drew it across their palm. Blood flowed from Zan into the ceremonial goblet as they shouted the Master's name three times into the night and the ritual was done.

Everything stood still for a moment, and the first sliver of doubt crept into Zan's mind. What if the ritual hadn't worked? What if Zan had been shown to be unworthy? But then a loud rumbling noise filled the air and the sky seemed to crack open. A jagged rift cut across the stars and opened, wider and wider as the dreadful rumbling got louder and louder. Zan gave a whoop of victory; they had done it! The Master would return.

The rift in the sky glowed red, and from its depths came unearthly noises. A fell wind rushed from it and Zan caught the scent of ozone and rotting bodies. It was glorious! From the rift came the Master themself, clawing their way back into the world from the oblivion in which they had been imprisoned. All their life Zan had been trained for this moment, yet they were not prepared for moment they finally beheld the Master.

Zan almost didn't have the words to describe the mater they had served their entire life. Out of the rift came a void, out of which protruded a writhing mass of tentacles. There was a body, somewhere, but it looked like nothing Zan had ever seen before. There were multiple limbs and wings and so, so many tentacles. And then the eyes; red and glowing and far too numerous, that could see straight through to Zan's very soul.

A great and terrible voice seemed to sound inside Zan's head. You have done well my servant, it said. You, and all your kin shall be rewarded for your service. Then the terrible voice was gone, and the Master, now wholly freed from their otherworldly prison, set off to begin devouring the souls of the unworthy.

The mighty rumbling sound eased and Zan sank to their knees, exhausted. It was done. They had kept the promise that had been made long ago; their watch had ended, their task finally complete. They had set the Master free from their long imprisonment and now the world would end. But they and their ancestors who had kept the faith would be spared, their souls would not be devoured and they would not know the agony of the Master's wrath.

Tears of joy ran down Zan's face. A great happiness bubbled up in their chest as they felt it beginning, the Ascension. Zan raised their arms to the sky, crying out in the Master's name, praising them. As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, and the first screams of the Devoured reached Zan's ears, they Ascended. They left their lifeless body behind to perish with the world. Their spirit rose up, beginning the long journey to the glory of the Master's realm, where they would meet with all their ancestors all the way back to the first of the Faithful.

It was done and they had been rewarded. All was as it should be.

Pictonaut June 2014: Them Apples

It's been a while since I last came poking around this blog. I'm dusting it off for a good cause though. My friend John, the Rogue Verbumancer still persists in his noble Pictonaut quest. Every month he posts a picture and writes a thousand or so words of short story based on that picture. Sometimes, I manage to join him in that noble quest.

This months picture is called Them Apples. This is what I wrote.

Them Apples

Everyone knows the story of Snow White. Or at least, some variation on the story. There's always an evil queen who is jealous of the unsurpassed beauty of the titular princess. There's usually a huntsman tasked with killing the princess out in the woods and there are almost always dwarves. The queen poisons Snow White who falls into an enchanted sleep only to be awoken by a kiss from her one true love. Snow White and her charming Prince live happily ever after. Blah blah blah, yuck. The story always, always ends with the gruesome and justly deserved death of the evil queen. Every single version of the story.

Every single version of the story is wrong.

It's not surprising that the fairy tales we teach our children overlook the tiny detail of the Queen's true fate. I mean, most of the stories don't even bother to tell you her name. Regina. Her name is Regina. And do you seriously think that a woman capable of plotting and scheming her way to power would be brought low by a vapid teenager and her entourage of vertically challenged minions?

No. 

In the true story, Queen Regina survives.

Oh she is undoubtedly changed by her ordeal; it wouldn't be a very good story if our characters weren't changed somehow. At the end of Snow White's story our Queen is still alive, but trapped in the form of the old woman who delivered Snow White the poisoned apple.

It took all of her considerable cunning to escape the combined wrath of the dwarves, but she managed it. She hid in the woods for months, eating rotten fruit and raw fish. At night she slept under the stars, no matter the weather. She almost froze to death on a number of occasions. The experience humbled her.

It quickly became obvious that she couldn't return to her throne in her current form. She was no longer a contender for the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, no matter what they say about the eye of the beholder. And she had learned her lesson with regards to Snow White; she vowed to stay as far away from that troublesome wretch as she possibly could. Her schemes had been thwarted, her goals were out of reach and her throne had no doubt been usurped. There was only one path left open to her; to regain her true self at any cost.

The quest was not undertaken lightly; the magics involved in transforming a person's form are powerful and deadly. Regina had been weakened by her flight from the dwarves and stay in the forest and could no longer summon the required power. So she had to be patient.

Eventually, she stumbled upon a village whose inhabitants took pity on her. They fed her, clothed her and provided a hot bath. One of the villagers let her stay in their stable because she reminded them of their grandmother. Regina was profoundly grateful for the villagers' kindness. In return she cast a spell to ensure their crop would be good and their livestock healthy. That small spell cost her most of the magic reserves she had left, but she didn't mind the setback.

So it went for Regina; she would travel from village to village trading small items or simple spells for food and board. She knew that if she kept using her magic at this rate she would never be able to summon enough power to returned to her previous form. But she also knew that her magic was one of the few things she had left to trade, and she would never regain her throne if she starved to death.  Simple patience would not restore her powers, but Regina knew that there were immense resources of magic in the world if one knew where to look. Wherever she went on her travels, she kept an ear out for rumours of such sources of power, for they were her only hope of returning to herself.

Eventually she passed out of reckoning. The world moved on, new kings and queens rose and fell. People assumed that Queen Regina the Evil had simply perished. They got on with their lives, completely oblivious to the truth. But you can never completely kill a legend.

There are rumours that the evil queen still wanders the lands even today, kept alive by malice and sheer force of will. Neither Heaven nor Hell will accept her, and so she lingers on this mortal plane, ever searching for the key to her salvation. One day, perhaps she will find the source of power she longs for and the Evil Queen will return to enact her vengeance on the world. Perhaps.

The rumours say that her wandering days are over, and that she now prefers to stay in one place, selling apples as she once did to Snow White. The redder the apple, the better. So be wary, fellow travellers, of old women offering you apples as red as blood.

It could be poisoned.

Jamibu: One Year On

Today is the first anniversary of the death of my friend Jamibu.

I wrote some words at the time, and lamented the fact I couldn’t seem to find any that were appropriate. It’s been a year, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. The words don’t come any easier, it’s no easier to think about him and the tears are just as likely to fall now as they were a year ago. The pain is still just as keen. I honestly have no idea how his family are feeling; I lost my friend, but they lost a brother, a son. All I can say is my thoughts are with them.

Today feels poignant; we have come to the end of all the firsts. First birthday, first Christmas, that sort of thing. After today, everything will be seconds, and those seconds will become thirds. I think this is the point at which its supposed to get easier. I don’t think it ever will.

It’s funny, the things that have caused me to think of him, the things that have hurt most. Watching Doctor Who without him, without being able to discuss it afterwards. Feeling sad when I think about how much he would have loved the Avengers movie. When I listen to a song by one of the bands we saw together. When I got a new phone, my first instinct was to ask Jamibu what he thought, but I couldn’t. I miss his puns. They were utterly awful, but I miss them, and other people making puns can make me sad.

These things may seem trivial. But that’s how people get woven into our lives; a million and one mundane things. One day you realise that you have so many silly little things shared with this person that they are a part of you. And Jamibu was a part of me, and a part of me died when he did. But if Jamibu was a part of me, then I was a part of him too, and as such he lives on. He was part of so many people’s lives that in many ways he is still with us. Instead of having our real and proper Jamibu, we have a sort of crowdsourced Jamibu, made up of the memories and emotions of a hundred people. As long as we remember him, he will remain. As long as it hurts, we can’t forget.

My friend John has expressed a worry that if the pain of loss ever goes away he will forget Jamibu. Myself, I’m not worried about forgetting him; I had his name etched onto my skin for a reason. But I am glad to have so many photos, particularly on Facebook. It gives me a way to remember. If I find myself forgetting his smile I can always find a photo. There are things I have already forgotten about him, and things I have yet to forget. But no matter how much I forget, he will never completely leave me. My life was irrevocably changed by both the life and death of this man. And that matters, that will always matter.

I think about him often. I wonder what he would have thought about this tv show or that book. I wonder what he would have thought about my stupid new hair. Would he have had any advice for me as I bumble through my PhD? I feel guilty whenever I struggle with my research; he kept going through all his illness, with barely a tenth of the complaining I've done. And for those who didn’t know, he did get his PhD in the end. Jamibu graduated in December; Dr Bullock. I spent much of that day in tears.

Far too soon we will mark the second anniversary of his death, and then the third and so on. At some point he will have been gone longer than I knew him in the first place. But I will always remember him. I may never have the words to express how I feel, or what he still means to me, at least not coherently. But I will keep him in my thoughts and in my heart.

Rest in awesome Jamibu.

Dr James Bullock, and someone who wants to be half the person he was.

Happy Societally Approved Day of Romance Designed to Part You and Your Money

I don't know if you'd noticed, but today is Valentine's Day. Congratulations if you were unaware of this, you may have been living on Mars or under a rock (I hope the former because Mars is way cooler than a rock). Yes today is our societal approved capitalist wankfest in celebration of one particular expression of romantic love. But I hear you cry, "why are you so disdainful of this holiday? You have a romantic partner, surely today is all cuddles and kittens".

It is true enough that I have a romantic partner and that means today is all about him and me and snuggles and stuff. Except that its not. It is about parting people from their hard earned money so they can make a big show of how much they supposedly love their partner. When, you know, money and love shouldn't have anything to do with each other and if you're only showing your partner you love them once a year, you are doing it so very wrong.

This is the fifth concurrent year that Sam and I have been together for Valentine's day. And yet, I am still in a position where I have been single for more Valentine's days than I have had a partner. And one of the Valentine's days spent with someone was so horrifically disappointing its a wonder I didn't become a nun. So  I am still kind of suffering from the social conditioning that Valentine's day must be perfect or you don't love that person enough. But I am also coming to realise after five years with the same person, five iterations of Valentine's day in this relationship, that it's all a bunch of crap. And the socially conditioned view of romance is also crap. I'm still in an in between phase, realising that today has no intrinsic meaning, but not quite able to let go of the idea we have to mark it. Perhaps one day I'll be able to wake up on February 14th and honestly not give a shit about the cuddly toys and plastic hearts. But today is not yet that day.

So we will be celebrating Valentine's day with some traditionally romantic gestures. Yes, we will be eating dinner at a restaurant. But that's partly about marking the passage of time; we're eating at the same restaurant we went to for our first Valentine's day together. Yes, I got Sam a heart. Sort of. [EDIT: link appears to be dead, so here's a picture]. But in return he got me a meat thermometer, because I've been wanting one, and the promise of a decent slab of beef to go with it. And we actually exchanged gifts before today, because the day itself is not intrinsically special. There is nothing intrinsically special about V-day and all it's trapping. Thought I do believe there is something special about mine and Sam's relationship.

That said, my relationship with Sam isn't special because he buys me flowers and we stare into each other's eyes over a candlelit dinner. Neither of which happens all that often. As Girl on the Net said, love is in the mundane. My relationship with Sam is special because he trusts me with a sharp implement on his face; because he doesn't mind when I walk around the house with my wobbly bits out; because he is willing to put up with my heinous farts. That's what is special about our relationship, because we only have those things with each other. But it doesn't sound romantic, right? Well, in my experience love and romance often have very little to do with each other.

It is going to be incredibly difficult to spend the rest of your life with a person based on romantic gestures like flowers and chocolates and sensual massages. The real foundations for sharing your life with another person are decidedly unromantic. It's all about putting up with each others' idiosyncrasies, sorting out who does the dishes without murdering each other and being able to laugh at each others, especially if you fart at an inopportune moment.

While we're on the subject of love and squishy things, I read this yesterday. Apparently, according to some researcher or other, online relationships aren't' "real" relationships. I take issue with this on a non-romantic level. I have many friends that I know solely in an online capacity. And you know what? Some of them are better friends than those who are ostensibly my "real" friends. When I'm felling shitty, I've had more support from people I've never met in Australia that I have had from friends I grew up with. So I take issue with the idea that online friendships aren't "real"; I take issue at the divide between online life and "real" life.

And yes, the internet did play a vital role in Sam and I getting together. While we met in real life first, social media was where everything took off. We "poked" each other on Facebook, which led to using the "Superpoke" app to broaden out to "holding hands". When we exhausted the capabilities of that app, we moved on to "sexy" poking each other. This led to Facebook messaging, which led to talking on MSN for hours at a time. This all culminated in a highly orchestrated drinking "competition" which we knew Sam was going to lose and was a thinly veiled pretext for kisses without awkwardness. Except Sam ruined all of the careful planning by asking me out before the date of the drinking competition and by kissing me before the appointed time.

And yes, he asked me out online. Which actually led to a hilarious incident that wouldn't have happened offline. Literally seconds after he'd asked me on a date, my computer crashed. While I was frantically trying to reset my computer he was thinking I'd signed out of the messenger in disgust at being asked out by him. Thankfully, my computer rebooted alright, I signed back in and accepted his offer of a date. The rest, as they say is history.

Were it not for these interactions, the start of our relationship would have been significantly delayed, if it had ever happened at all. If we had gotten together anyway, it's possible we wouldn't have lasted as long as we had without that no pressure period of communication that allowed us to get to know each other pretty well before we started anything. So please don't dismiss relationships formed online as somehow "less" or not "real".

Because the farts Sam has to put up with are very definitely real, and are a much better measure of love than any number of bouquets of flowers.

Thoughts on Marriage

I wrote this a while ago, but since today is the Parliamentary "debate" on whether to "allow" same-sex couples to get married, I thought I'd post it. It's a stream of consciousness piece that is largely unedited.

I welcome attempts to create a more equal state of marriage than currently exists, after all if it exists then everyone should have the right to it. That is the basic way equality works. Setting aside for the moment that the proposed new legislation still throws a whole bunch of relationships under the bus, I want to explain why I am against marriage for me. I have no desire to get married myself, even though as a person in a heterosexual relationship I have that right already.

I do not want to get married because I see marriage as an outdated institution wrapped up in a whole bunch of problematic misogynistic, patriarchal and religious bullcrap that I don’t agree with. I don’t subscribe to a model of adulthood that includes marriage as a rite of passage or a marker of success and I don’t want the role of wife. I don’t want to be a wife and I don’t want to have a husband. I want my relationship to be as authentic as possible, as innovative as it can be and as true to who my partner and I are as people as we can manage. I am not interested in the cookie cutter ideal of what heterosexual relationships should be like, and that is what I feel is offered by marriage.

I don’t want to make a sacrament with God, and I certainly don’t want to invite the government into my relationship if at all possible. At a legal level, what marriage boils down to is having a certificate from the government saying that your relationship is sanctioned, it’s a proper relationship and better than other people’s. I would rather see the whole institution abolished so we can remove this discrimination against unmarried couples like myself, we who do not have ‘proper’ and officially sanctioned relationships. But that is unlikely to happen, and while ever it does exist I have as much right to decide not to get married as I do to get married. Other people don’t have that choice; it has been taken away from them. By denying certain people the right to marriage the government are essentially saying that some relationships can never be considered legitimate. And while I would prefer a system wherein all relationships are considered legitimate and equal because we have abolished the two tier system marriage creates, that is unlikely to happen any time soon. Therefore the only possible course of action, the one that ensures true equality is to offer marriage to people in every kind of consenting adult relationship. Giving same-sex couples the right to marry is just the first step along this road.

Thursday Poem: Ode to the Colour Yellow

This morning I asked Sam what I could do today to decrease World suck. He suggested I should write a poem, so I did.

I don't do this very often, so please excuse my rhymes.

I found something yellow and cheery

Ode to the Colour Yellow

Oh Yellow! You most underused of colours,

When choosing my clothes I invariably reach for others,

Day after day I hear you cry,

Why other colours, why?

Why not me? Have I offended you in some way?

Did I upset your mother in some sort of way?

I have to answer in the negative when I reply,

Truth be told I am not quite sure why,

When I think of colours I choose the opposite of you,

For a long time now black has been my favourite hue.

Perhaps it is because you are bright and happy,

I’ve never like to draw people’s attention to me.

Perhaps it is simply because I am scared

Of drawing attention and peoples stares,

What might they say? What might they do?

The questions cause concern it is true.

But that is no reason for you to be so neglected,

While other colours in the spectrum are more respected.

I know I should reconsider my choices,

And think of all the other colours which lack voices,

I cannot promise that I will bedeck myself in bright shades,

My current habits have been formed now for decades,

But I can promise that I will try,

And think upon the reason why,

I choose to blend in instead of stand out in a crowd,

Why I choose to be subdued instead of shouting out loud,

And I will think of you, oh beautiful yellow,

When I choose my wardrobe shades more mellow,

And once in a very small while,

I’ll allow you to make me smile.