Once upon a time, there was a Junior by the name of Joanne. She lives somewhere in the middle of a place that I care not mention right here, partly because of security reasons, as I wouldn't want people to start stalking her, but primarily because for the life of me, and after a hefty ikan bakar for lunch at the Lake Club, I couldn't remember.
So it was that one day this Junior goes on a spiritual journey. Having been stuck in this place that time and everyone else has forgotten for a long time, she decided that enough is enough, and that she shall endure no more. So she set out on this journey, armed with nothing more than her arms and the will to live, to learn, and above all, to love.
It is this love that drove her through the sleets of winter, the flowers of spring, the bird wastes of summer and the dry leaves of autumn. On and on she walked, heaving and hiving (yes, I just made this up. I thought it sounded nice), until one day, she landed on her knees, crumpled to the floor, and, scraping her forehead on the floor in a manner that even Jesus would not approve, decided that she had enough.
Then she began to cry, a long and silent cry that echoed into the nothingness of the dark night. It disappeared, slithering its ways amongst the frozen trees and the falling snow. She cried, and she cried.
Suddenly, a light shone on her from ahead. Feeling the heat on her now scrappy forehead, she slowly raised her face, and attempted in vain to block the incoming white light.
"JOANNE!" boomed a voice, a loud and lame voice. "It is I, Fikri, the King of Lame, of the Kingdom of Middle Lame."
"My Lord," shivered Joanne, as her eyes readjusted themselves, before setting them upon a the fair and lovely face of the Lame King. My God, she thought to herself, he's cuter than Cedric. Finally focused on the stick that this Lame King has in his hand. "Is that a broomstick?"
"Yes," confirmed the two-time genius (Linora Low 2005). "It is my Thunderbolt, which I put to a use for more useful than pre-pubescent-adolescent-wizards-who-can't-drink-with-their-mouths-closed will ever do! I am here, with this broom, to sweep away your worries!" (trng dsh!)
"Yes, yes..." stuttered Joanne, falling under the Lame Spell of the beautiful writer (because he writes beautiful stories, writes beautifully, and is beautiful himsef). "I submit myself to you, oh Lamest of Lord," as she bows down, and starts to tear off her eyelids.
"Enough!" bellowed the Lame King, waving his broomstick. "Come with me, for together, you and I...we are one."
"Yes," Joanne said in a monotonous tone. "Lameness...is within us."
King Lame the First nodded sagely, not stroking his non-existent white beard.
Joanne felt her feet dragging her forward, one step at a time, as she moved ever closer into the blinding light. The heat in her body built up, causing her to sweat, until finally, she, the Junior from the land whose name no one remembers because of the ikan bakar at the Lake Club, and the Lame King disappeared into the light, and all is quiet.
For all is lame.
*This is probably the most ridiculous post I've ever posted. One of my Juniors has written about me as of late, and I decided to return the favour. To read her latest post on me, click here.