We have another poet among us. Or something like that. Ben likes to write about many things. One of those things is candy. Check out his poetic story about the notorious “Opal Fruit Catastrophe” below.
“More or Less Untitled (The Opal Fruit Catastrophe)” by Ben
Shining pearls of sugar drip from trees, drop to the glistening forest floor below. Solid reds, yellows, oranges and pinks paint the tropical mosaic. The parrots that flit through the thick branches are soft dun-colors, to stand out. Their cries and the steady plinking of saccharine plops are a soft sort of music. This is the gift of one of the last gods, whom we have no wish to kill. Our weapons are tired, and sweets are plenty. King Candy sits with taffy scepter atop chocolate throne, casting his benevolent caramel eye over her happy subjects and marzipan lands. The beautiful owls and hawks of the night still sleep, with tawny wings and sour beaks. They will not awaken. By the end of this day King Candy shall have perished and the land be left in ruin, lost to an opal fruit catastrophe.
Fanatics don’t want faith or doctrine, just something to die for. But the old causes faded, swept away by minds’ undiscerning mop-water. New rocks were need to cling to. And so, Manners arose as the modern religion, almost too simple for daily devotion. Simply, do good and make the world a kinder place for those around you. What clean beast, slouching towards Britain to be born, could have imagined the consequence? It was enough to twist, for those men and women who eat with lurking mouths and frowning eyes. Such spoiled slime were almost happy, to begin their little war. They had never liked sweets, anyways.
They met in places that felt dark, though fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. To plot and plan, frothing themselves by bits and whips into a frenzy of action. It needed to be no just bold but a blast, to last as a threat to what others they defined as Other. With the power and promise of the implacable force they imagined themselves to be.
They died as they dreamed, under sweet syrupy trees insensible of the opalline fruit just ripening. The blast lifted the forest to the heavens for an instant
glorious sucrose sunrise
then collapsed into smoke and ruin
hurting as they wanted us to.