The Spider and the Sparrow.
It had long been considered that there was never a day more rational than Tuesday and never a man more suited to the perpetual inhabitation of Tuesdays than the Kings third son. Thus when the old King reached the conclusion that it was time to negotiate a treaty with a neighbouring kingdom particularly proficient with maps; it was only rational that he would send his third son, armed with a small hunting knife and a compass, off through the dark wood the next available Tuesday.
Truthfully, the Kings third son was a rather unremarkable creature, though curious for his distorted frame; which it was often remarked held more in kinship with the delicacy of the sparrow than the intimidating brawn of man. Striding amongst the looming pines, the figure of the sparrow man had been consumed by unbroken press of vegetation; vulnerable within its depths. Yet in the curious way of rational men, the prince seemed lulled into complacency by the essence of man ingrained within the winding road that snaked beneath his booted heels. And so, with the newfound dulled senses of misplaced complacency, for a moment the rational Prince allowed a brief indulgence in absurdity; he fancied himself a sparrow, plumage rupturing from beneath his skin, his fingers melting and merging into glorious wings; leaping, twisting, swooping; falling, screaming, breaking. Absurd musing mutate to obscure phantoms that trample the unweary mind. The little sparrow's breaths are erratic now, a strangled melody; tangible terror mingling with the air, reverberating out through the pines; solitary. Lost.
The young prince, having been so absorbed within his musings had long since strayed from the path, and seemingly was yet to notice the terrible melody that bled into his own.
"Will you walk into my forest?" Said the Spider to the Sparrow
There was an inherent madness about the tower in the woods; it crooned a sparrows song; desperate warbles that instilled an insidious absence in the mind. Stone; trapped ceaselessly in suffocation, poisoning wings with gravity; decay. And yet, innocent eyes saw not the festering presence of the monument, but the roses that sheathed it; obsessive lovers that asphyxiated the senses.
Weary from his journey; soothed by the aroma of beauty, the little sparrow flutters amongst the fleshy roses; booted heels teetering upon the blurred edges, made vulnerable by the little hourly deaths of the suns bold light. Rationality demanded a necessity for shelter, thus the appeal of the tower for the fatigued royal. Trusting implicitly the logic and reason that dictated the inhabitant of Tuesday, the prince set off on the task of discovering a means of entrance. However it seemed that concepts such as rationality or Tuesdays ceased to exist in the womb of the forest, for the great stone tower had no door, nor stair, nor any such method of entry. Round and round and round hands groped; mounting confusion built within the young Princes mind; shaking fingers fumbled across jagged stone, searching blindly for entry. Absurdity! A dwelling without a door. The little sparrow flailed mindlessly against the violent caresses of roses, ensnared. Struggling. Shuddering. Screaming.
The tower bled soft strands of gold; and the frantic prince began to climb.
"Will you fly into my web?" Said the Spider to the Sparrow
Disease festers within golden hair, sickness masked in beauty; Waxen arms thrust into matted strands, shackled by a thousand threads. The rational mind repulsed by the sheer absurdity, ascending a tower, climbing an endless rope of golden locks. Flesh quivering, submerged in undulating masses; lice, beetles, spider; burrowing beneath membrane. Muscles strain against gravity, spurred on by promises of an end; Pus weeps from gold wrapped carcasses, maggots rippling beneath the guise of mangled skin. The Sparrow thrashes in gilded web, ends and towers forgotten, tearing from phantom ropes; blind flight, propelling itself towards desolation.
A Window; square set. Reality, reason, logic; the young prince shook himself, grasping onto the comforting line of hued rock leveraging himself against the rough stone; knuckles bleached white. Controlled breathes rattled through a constricted throat, muscles seizing sporadically across a sweat drenched back. More than anything there was a fear devouring the synapses and nerves of the young Princes mind; irrational, unfounded, unacceptable. With a grace in defiance of his humanity, the young prince detached his limbs from the matted tress of golden hair that encased his form and with it the absurdity that had taken purchase in his mind. Plumage was ripped from his form, his wings were shattered and flesh was torn into memories of fingers; bloody feathers, mangled flesh, golden hair; the debris of his own self-inflicted mutilation drenching the recesses of the princes mind. Upon the ledge of madness, the Prince regained his rationality, but drenched in his first blood was divested of his innocence.
"Will you stride into my tower?" Said the Spider to the Man
The chamber was a void space; untouched by the rationality of man; born from the desperation of solitude; swollen by the presence of death. A great white crest ocean devoured the stone reality; thousands of rotting sparrows litter the ground; the waves pulsing ever slowly with the eternal inescapability of decay, breaking around a solitary figure. The void was inhabited by a silence; an echo of humanity deformed and distorted by an eternity of reverberation; trapped an inescapable loop, perpetuating one's own decay. And in this solitude a beauty unfamiliar and compelling; spirit free of the trappings of the mind, yet perilous for its abnormality; for this rawness holds none of the faults that marks perceived humanity; she is incomplete; destructive.
The Prince was first assaulted by the smell; nostrils twitching, gaging, unable to supress the bile the flooded his throat, burning acid that splattered upon the half frames of sparrows; body convulsing, rationality praying for oblivion; eyes burning, swelling, drowning; Decayed flesh, putrid waste, festering rot; a physical presence that pierced the skin, contaminated the soul. Shuddering air pulled from lungs; a familiar melody of fear, terror; alone. No; mingled with another, the obscured presence of a woman, sheathed in blackness; Sparrows trill sparrow songs, enticing kindred souls, safety; company; home. Reaching into the darkness, waxen hands grope for beauty; meeting skin, drawing her across her white sea of sparrows; mouths, entrails slicking her feet, seizing the skin; crunching, smashing, crying; home.
Horror; the little sparrow was empty; skin pulsing, encased maggots; flesh devoured by rot, festering holes; mutilated, deranged, diseased; lips pulled tight; muscles snapping; a bloody semblance of love. And with the finality true to his rational nature, and an intolerance befitting of man; a pale hand and biting steel thrust itself between delicate ribs, stroking a beating heart with savagery; falling, screaming, breaking. Dead. The Prince, hand soaking in gore; feathers, skin and golden hair; flailed blindly, senses searching for escape, for the window, square set, to escape the echoes of madness; around and around and around reverberated the little sparrows screams, alone; terror made tangible, one with the oppressive air; death. Hands fumbled across stone, eyes blind; booted feet stumble, fall; the window! And little sparrow prince falls. Falling, Plummeting, Screeching, Jerking; flesh is caught in golden thread and trapped for an eternity in spiders web.
"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Sparrow,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the little Sparrow, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair
-can ne'er come down again."