Beauty and the Feast
Kristoffer Lawson
2nd July 1999

	Beauty once escaped, although it never really was a prisoner as such.
It left behind a trail of flowers for the lucky to pick into wooden baskets.
The rest of us tried to brush the falling petals aside into a nearby ditch
but their untouchable aroma still lingered. Enormous fans were set up in an
attempt to blow away that cold oder. Day in and day out those giants would
rotate, but the residue remained.
	An armoured soldier once arrived in our tiny village to battle with 
that air. He swished his dark, heavy sword in all directions and shouted with
uncontrollable rage. His armour squeeked and clanged with every movement
he made. The veins on his head bulged bright purple with the stress of the
battle. But as the day drew to an end even the stench of his sweat could 
not defeat the smell of our brisk enemy. Finally he fell to the ground.
	The concerned villagers gathered around him, afraid he might be dead. 
They were relieved to find him panting and cursing the wind for all its 
tricks. We then mourned silently to ourselves for that tingling scent was 
still among us.
	That night we feasted. All the food that could be found was laid on 
the massive tables for all to eat. We ate and ate until we could barely
breath, and still we continued. Until finally we lay choaking to death on
the hard, stone floor.
	When the Sun reappeared it shined brightly on our faces. Dozens of 
stuffed bodies were stacked in rotting piles where they had fallen. At that 
moment Beauty returned, as suddenly as it had left. It circled over our 
corpses and peered merrily at the mounds of uneaten food. It did not leave us 
that day but instead visited each in turn, pausing briefly to stretch out a 
hand and touch each pair of dry unmoving lips. We only beg that it should 
never leave us again.