The Starch

Since today I am updating the Ides of Starch, I figure it's only fitting to share some of my contribution. But I won't put you in the middle of it all. For those of you who don't know, the Ides of Starch is an ongoing saga written by Trae McMaken and I. The intent is purely comical. The effect is often anything but. However, this is the beginning of Part IV; I always start the entries. Trae and I hope to have five, though eight would be nice. We'll have them bound, and if we're canonized, they will be sought after like warm milk in a nursery.

The writing's over a year old--maybe two years old. So bear with me. However if you want more, and it gets even better in my opinion, I suggest you check out the forum: http://www.runboard.com/bintrospect.f3.t48363

Who knows? You could even join in. We've had a lot of fun with potential contributors over the years, ever since the SISTERGRIMM debacle. But that's another story

Venicen was the most deliciously romantic city in the whole of the nine lands, excepting the Courtship of Dane, in which everyone was in love with everyone else. But a court is not officially a city, though its residents had produced a higher population than any other throughout the world over the small course of its history. But back to Venicen. Venicen was built on the sea upon the backs of large hairy sea-beasts, the species of which is unknown, but everyone in the city generally agrees that whatever they are, they’ve done quite a fine job of it so far.

Occasionally the city was submerged beneath the surface of the waves, which generally meant a dramatic population downsize for those who couldn’t find a gondolier in time. Rent was thus very expensive, and contracts were often drawn for long periods of time. Those who moved to Venicen either found the prospect of near-death exciting or were genuinely excited to die, and wanted to live in paradise before drowning.

That brings us to what made Venicen so unique, aside from being built on the backs of sea-beasts. The city contained something very special for which travelers from all around would come seeking. Deep in the heart of the city, and held high by a pair of nude lovers carved of marble, was a large pulsating heart which would glow red in the sunset. It beat continually. Lovers would come from miles around and have weddings at the statues’ feet, and consequently enjoy exceptionally good honeymoons followed by years of fruitful matrimony. Never, ever was a marriage conducted before the statues’ feet which had gone awry. The lovers would remain faithful till the day they died. This, and the lines of what appear to have been an epic erotic love poem scrawled upon the base of the statue, were what made the city special, and what fueled the constant throngs of tourists which came to the island.

The poem was also obviously magical, for it looked different to all people. Only lovers who were truly beyond mere infatuation could match the lines together. The statues were consequently exploited into fueling a thriving matchmaking trade. Of course, the last two lines would always remain the same, regardless of those which preceded it.

Ande yf on theese steppes theese two loverse bee locked yn embrace,
Thay moste shureley shalle ynjoy a marrryage of yverlasting grace.

Nobody could agree if the archaic language was simply archaic or bad spelling, but it didn’t stop couples from embracing vigorously on the courtyard steps.

Tiriana was a young lad who worked as a messenger boy in the city commons, sending love notes back and forth from hotel room to hotel room if people wanted it. Nobody wanted to send messages, however, as most, if not all the folk living in the hotels had no interest in anyone other than their true love. Which meant Tiriana was typically out of a job, and very poor. His father was a gift-card designer, often hunched over his workbench designing the latest erotic card covers. Tiriana had never been terribly interested in them. His father had moved here, like so many others, in a fit of passion twenty years ago, just after the last submersion, with his true love, etc. They had gotten married, like everyone else, said their vows, then bought a small basement space just under Luna’s Love Palace, and discovered after the honeymoon that they had nothing in common, but were still madly in love with one another. Tiriana’s mother was quite often out gossiping with the local women over the latest scandals (Elf-love scandals, inter-racial love triangles, and the like). Love was always on the air, and it was hard to not sneeze in disinterest. Tiriana had very little interest in love.

Tiriana liked clocks, though. He liked them very much. While everyone was out, busily minding their own affairs, he would sit in his own small dark corner and piece them together. By the age of 17 he had managed to compile quite a collection. And his were no ordinary clocks, no. He’d started off with watches, then moved onto cuckoo clocks. These quickly grew boring, so he began to make them magical. There were clocks that sang little songs on the hour, clocks that would talk for hours about cheese puffs and occasionally the trouble of nipples on men, clocks that needed to be fed (though these died, as he had not known they needed to be fed when he first made them). There were clocks that could remember certain useless facts, certain events that had happened a hundred years ago. Tiriana’s favourite clock, which had just finished, could tell things of grand importance.

“THE SUN IS UP!” It crowed as soon as he screwed on a pair of silver lips. Tiriana looked out the window. Indeed it was. He had stayed up all night working on the clock. He smiled and painted a pair of irises onto the clock face.

“Yes, it is.” A knocking came at the door. He waited until the last possible moment, hoping his father might rise to answer it, but no such luck. He rose reluctantly, clock still in hand, and opened the door. A large, light-skinned man with a top hat and red mustache stood tall as an oak, peering down at Tiriana through a severe pointed nose. He carried a cane with a vulture head on it.

“Is this the home of a Master Tiriana Kollenklopperheimeninhepperschweltershlatzer?”
“No.” said Tiriana, and made to close the door.

“I’m sorry, I meant, is this the home of Tiriana Kollenklopperheimeninhepperschweltershlatzer-SVELTEN?” the large man smiled broadly, which seemed to crack his face. It seemed he wasn’t much into smiling regularly.

“Yes. Who wants to know?”

“Sir Gerard Tuppen-kluppen, if you please. Might I come in?”

“Sorry, sir, but m’Dad’s asleep. What do you want, Sir Tuppen-kluppen?”

“HE LIKES CLOCKS” squawked the clock from his hands. The man scowled.

“Yes, I do. And I hear you like clocks, yourself.”

“How do you know that? I keep my hobbies close to my vest, if you get what I mean.” Tiriana shuffled back.

“A little bird told me.” As if on cue a small blue-bird fluttered down from above and landed atop the man’s grizzled mane of red hair. He brushed it off nonchalantly.

“But that brings me back to the question. You like clocks, boy? Hows about we go for a walk?”

“No, thank you though.” Tiriana yawned. He needed to sleep. The man’s face grew dark and his eyes flashed.

“Oh, but I think you will agree, Tiriana. It’s such a lovely day for a walk.”

“STORM’S A COMING” The clock interjected helpfully. Tiriana smiled.

“No, thank you though.” He made to close the door but the man put his large size-thirteen foot in and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“I think you will agree, Tiriana Clock-maker, that a walk would be most fine indeed,” he growled.

Tiriana gulped.

“Ah, yessir.”