The Fantasist

"Prompt #181: What images does this line in one of Gregory Corso's poems spark in you: "They want to make buttons out of my bones."

     I try to stop the tears from flowing, as they make it frightfully hard to see where I'm running, but I just can't.  The same questions flood my mind: ''why did this happen to me?,'' ''what did I ever do to anyone to make me deserve this?,'' and the like.

     The leather of my shoes, which I meant to replace nearly a month ago, has worn down so much that they're causing me to trip over the scattered branches and minute shrubs scattered along the pathway here.  It's apparent that no one's been down here in some time, but I'm sure other escapees are the only ones to ever set foot into this dank place.

     A fine mist has sprung up because of the Autumn chill on the air and dew has begun to settle.  It's safe to assume that morning's not far off and that my shield of darkness will soon dispel, leaving myself more vulnerable to these brutes and their dastardly bidding.  God, have mercy on me.

     I'm surprised to have kept my cool for so long though, considering my impending fate and such.  I would be more than delighted to explain to you exactly how I got into a predicament such as this, but I fear that I will be dead before my tale reaches its end.

     To make a long story somewhat shorter, though, I'm sure you're all aware of what an ogre is, yes?  Well, I should warn you to never tread on their property, as they take it as a very personal offence when anyone decides to do so.  Another good tip would be never to nick anything from their premises, -- in this case, we'll use an apple that some unsuspecting citizen, who shall remain nameless for reasons that I don't feel the need to share, happened to pluck from an ogre's tree -- especially when said ogre is home.  No, those are definitely ideas that are far from good.  I only wish that someone had generously bestowed this information on yours truly before I made quite a life changing decision.

     But, to keep the story moving along, I suppose it would only be proper to divulge to you, the inquisitive reader, where exactly I am.  Indeed.  Well, at the moment, I happen to be seeking refuge in what one might consider a marsh, which was where the path I spoke of earlier lead me.  It's in fact some sort of swampy area, where I'm surrounded by what appear to be wilting lily pads and peat moss that's collected on the area nearest to solid land.  I'll have to remind myself to purchase a new pair of trousers after escaping this mess.  But, I'm afraid stained and soggy pantaloons are the worst of my worries, as I seem to hear someone charging down the path.

     And, oh!  To my surprise not only the first ogre appeared before me, but two of his acquaintances!  Oh, joy!  Oh, rapture!

     It's nothing short of a blessing that I was capable of covering myself completely with the previously mentioned rotten lily pads and ducking behind a partially submerged, fallen tree trunk.  Their voices are deep and guttural as I overhear them going on about ''making candles from my eyes,'' ''pies from my innards,'' ''buttons from my bones'' and the like.  I'd imagine their throats must be quite sore after even a day's worth of conversing with one another, because just listening to them makes my larynx ache.

     Luckily, they didn't spot me, half sunken in muck and things that I'd rather not be aware of and have moved on to search somewhere else.  I must remind myself to begin attending weekly mass after surviving such a perilous adventure.

     Peeling the long-departed greens from my waist coat seems to be quite a hassle, -- much more so than it ever should be -- until I realize why.  It appears that along with the brine and various amphibious creatures, there happened to be a happy family of leeches abiding in said marsh.  And the happy family appears to have decided to move house and reside on my tender flesh instead.  Despite the fact that they seem ever-so content with making me their permanent place of residence, I'm afraid that I must interject.

     Now that I've wished the family well and said my final good-byes with the heel of my boot, it's time to find my way out of this place.  Following the spots of sunlight being cast upon the dead grass through the trees like a child on the hunt for that pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, I end up leading myself to the top of a hill or otherwise mountainous area.  I'm fully prepared to take in the sight of a beautiful sunrise; light casting out the evil and vileness of the evening and pressing onward towards a bright new day.  Considering the object at which I am gazing, it's only natural that I'd be frightfully disappointed.

     Yellow.  A bright yellow school bus, filled with screaming, raving children.  It's another field trip over with and now we must return back to the school house for an eventful afternoon of lectures and bitter teachers who have nothing to do than pester children.  I'm actually being scolded as we speak, for running off without Mrs. Browning's -- that's my teacher, as I'm sure you're wondering -- permission, getting my school uniform positively filthy with god-knows-what and trying to pass the blame of my escape on over to imaginary creatures that abide only in my fragile little mind

     Alas, such is the torture of being a dreamer in a realist's world.