A Very Very Old Story

Long ago, I had two diaries running at one time. One was to be filled with nonsense and whatever struck my mind and all sorts of arbitrary things, the other was to be filled with all the angst and misery and sorrow and boy trouble that I could conjure. These days, I use only one, and I have decided to consolidate the two for better book keeping. While doing this, I found an entry in the random diary about eight years old that I felt well worth sharing, but honestly, I don't know what I was doing or reading that inspired it. I am well aware of the words I heinously mis-used. I think those bits are particularly funny.

May-1-03

"A Battle with the Gmadp"

As I wandered through the torpid waste of my own imagination, I chanced upon a nightmare most vicious, and yet so supremely innocent that all other reveries fall short, in the same manner that they exceed. We take them at their own value.

‘Twas a nightmare of a battle, a most pressing struggle betwixt myself and a much liked fruit, the battle against the giant, mighty, awful, dreaded pomegranate, or GMADP for short. And both the P and G are silent, don’t you know?

When this terrible phantasm embodied of both delight and gluttony rose before my eyes at first I was most pleased. Things look much smaller at a distance, don’t you know? I ran towards it, to inquire if there was someone to whom it belonged, or should I count this counted encounter as an uncountable treat. Though admittedly I had just had my lunch, and was not eager for another feast, it was my intent to pocket it and carry it with me to dine on at another occasion. In my haste and eagerness, I called out my intentions as it was yet a ways away from me, and being a most adapt pomegranate in the art of hearing, I am afeared that my words greatly affronted it.

“What dares this little upstart,” thought our friend the Gmadp, “that she should think herself capable of consuming ME? Behold her spindly legs, her overdrawn demeanour, how clumsily she moves, showing neither heed nor respect to the elements of wind or rain, save when they are an inconvenience to her. I would show a mercy, should I make amends and destroy her!”

And thus began our quarrel. Its brow furrowed and set, what there was of it, the Gmadp gave a sudden jerk and detached itself from its clan, bade a solemn farewell to siblings and cousins, and advanced upon me in a most menacing fashion. It was then that I noticed the error of my assumptions, for obviously this particular pomegranate had feelings and I had cruelly trodden upon them. I declared most contrite apologies, and begged that we be friends henceforth, but neither heed nor care did it give to me. For once resolute, a Gmadp never changes its mind, don’t you know?

At last we stood before one another, face to skin, and both our complexions quite red from exertion and sun, and I must confess, now that I had examined it, it seemed a little too ripe for me. “Good day, sir Pomegranate!” I said, regretful that there was no English word to address a neutral noun, “the offence was of my own doing, I bid you now take your choice, will you fight me with spoons, with knives, sabres or guns?”

“I grow hot in this irksome sun,” said our friend the Gmadp, “I require a less trying trial, let us fight by checkers, and then by chess.”

This was as I feared, for I am terrible at both, but I had given it first choice and so the game was set.

Wise though our friend the Pomegranate may be, it did neglect in his calculation one small detail, it has neither hands nor feet, so every move it made, it made through me, and thus was I able to ascertain its actions. Sadly both games ended in a draw. Then I stood up and declared, “these petty games accomplish nothing, I must confess neither you nor I shall gain by them, I declare we have a formal duel, will you choose your second?”

The Gmadp shook itself and said, “I refuse, for why should your friend die as well as you? No we shall face each other in formal combat and let that be the end of it.”

“So be it,” said I, “I give you your choice again. Will you fight with spoons, with knives, with sabres or guns?”

“None,” declared the Gmadp. “We waste our trouble to find these tools, I say we wrestle to the death.”

This was as I feared, for I was half its height, but I had given it second choice, and so the game was set.

“Very well, my androgynous friend,” said I “have at thee.”

The Gmadp made to roll over me and crush me with its weight, but it ran over the pointed head of the black bishop (the one confined to the white squares) and let out a yell so shrill that I jumped in surprise. Angered by this sudden mishap, the Gmadp grew gmadper still. “How dare you use a tool to wrestle?” it cried indignantly, and rushed to strike me even harder.

I will not say that I would have come out well in the match had the elements not interfered, or that there was any flaw in the technique which my companion produced, for any move I made, its response was to simply roll over it, a method I could not counter, and thus we fought for a quarter or an hour. At last, whether by the heat, or the sun, or the puncture made by the intrusive bishop I cannot tell, the Gmadp split ear to ear, and at the next roll, caught me in the rift. Then the horror of the situation came upon me, the intended consumer was just consumed, don’t you know?

In such confining quarters as the inside of the Gmadp I found myself, struggling against the over abundant seeds within. I could not turn back, for the Gmadp, aware of my predicament, had rolled with the rift against the ground, and yet I could not move forward, I lacked the strength. And thus I remained, on the inside of a Gmadp with neither light nor air for a full minute, flailing helplessly against the skin and sides of my opponent, before at last I realised that in my haste to rise from my lunch, oh so many minutes ago, I had neglected to replace my orthodontic device, and though I could not fight, I was at perfect liberty to bite. Although I was quite stifled, and my lunch still sat heavy in my stomach, and I was quite worn out by the efforts of the day’s activities, I proceeded to CHEW my way to freedom. I nibbled and struggled and punched and kicked, and I think I tickled my opponent, for I heard it giggle. How often I thought I would never see the light of day again, and how often my mouth became too sore and I had to dig with my hands, and oh most often, I was led to believe that I would perish as the innards of a fruit, but at last I reached the wall of the Gmadp’s skin, and with a vicious kick (sidekick, I believe it was) I burst through my enemy into the light, and escaped to return home, leaving its skin, dripping of red juice, behind me.

But though I am told this encounter never came to pass, how can I explain the purple tinge to my skin, or the reddish hue of my hair, as other than a trophy of my struggle against the Great, Mighty, Awful, Dreaded Pomegranate? But the true conclusion of this story, which I’m sure you’ll see quite plainly, is that I’m very bad at both chess and checkers, so I beg you to allow me to stand by and watch.