And then: “You’ve been had, you’ve been had…” while written words, undefeated, catch the unwelcome babble and call for the end of all things, for a never ending war, one so destructive that yet unwritten books will never cease to talk about.

The King takes one too many steps backward, stumbles and hangs by his hands for sheer life.

“Fuck!” the Captain says, and then “sorry,” as he realises he’d been influenced once more by meaningless words and pulls the King back onto the platform, slumping onto it.

“There’s no way back, no going forward.  There’s no hope.  We’re going round in circles,” the King says.

“If only Labaguette were here,” the Captain says, “even his nasty talking is harmless compared to all of this.”

“I thought you didn’t even like him,” the King says.

And so the Captain to admit, “a relationship between a parrot and his master is a complicated one.  Our apparent hate for each other means nothing.”

“You mean that what you say to each other doesn’t count?”

“Spoken words don’t matter, only what we feel is real.”

And upon these very words, a horrific shriek, like that of millions of words screaming in pain in unison is heard.  It lasts for a second during which even written words feel the pang of agony their sworn enemy is dying from; then, suddenly all there is, is silence.  The thick black dust below the King and the Captain recedes and vanishes in its entirety.  There are written words congratulating each other warmly, book pages proudly inserting themselves back into books and books that fly back where they might belong as shelves re-arrange themselves.

To be continued…©


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