Everything is disgustingly sweet, even if the recipe called
for handfuls of salt. It seems impossible for the food to be anything but
sweet. The wine is bitter, but leaves an aftertaste of ripe berries. As though
drinking pure strawberry nectar mixed with raspberries. The chalice that holds
the beverage is large, golden and heavy. As though to personify what the drink
is truly like. Though light and sweet, it will leave a deep impact later on
through the night.
The food is beautiful and smells delicious. Everything seems
to be glazed over with sheen. No matter the lighting, it all sparkles and
shines. The ham that is perfectly cut and presented tastes almost entirely like
honey, as though the meat were the glazing rather than the honey itself. The
potatoes taste of sugar and the vegetables are topped with chunks of cotton
candy and syrup. The audience present gorges themselves in the food, stating it
to be the best meal yet. You cannot stand the sight of the food, much less the
taste.
The tablecloth is golden with accents of blue and pink. The
colors clash and it hurts your eyes, but you tell the residents it is
beautiful. The residents nod and agree with filled mouths, bits of food fall
from their mouths and you cringe. Of course you cringe, these are not civilized
people. But they brought you in and offered you food, so you grin and bare it.
The candles that scatter throughout the table offer enough lighting, the
setting sun amplifying the mood, which is unsettling and not fun.
-
“did you hear of the baker near milk river” “yes, yes I did,
poor man” “I know! All he did was ask for some milk. How horrid for the
creature to bite his nose off. A baker who can’t even smell, won’t be buying
his baked goods anymore. Can’t trust his wife, her nose isn’t very good.” “I
heard last night that the King of Mo is expecting another child!” “Oh, how
grand! More kids. Too bad we don’t have our own. We should take one or two.”
-
It was a sign, nothing entirely important or standoffish.
You stare and stare, not quite sure why it is that you’re so enthralled by a
plank of wood supported by another piece of wood. Perhaps it is the vines and
the moss that grows around it, mainly at the base of the sigh. Or perhaps it is
the wording of what the sign is saying
THADA WAI
What does that even mean? Is it a name? You ponder and
wonder. The bright red paint, or so you hope it’s paint, is chipping. However
it does not fade, as though it had been written just the previous day. The
fields surrounding the sign are clean cut, not at all abandoned looking like
the sign. It smells of fresh rain and melted sugar. It’s overwhelming, but you
do not question it for you are headed towards the Village of Mo. This does not
make you stop questioning your surroundings though, or rather what is written.
Thada wai? Is it another language? Is it code? Are you
headed for a death trap that could be easily avoided if you only knew the code?
Would the people of Mo even set up a death trap? They probably would. All the
sugar must have gone to their head by this point, made them think a trap like
that was funny and cute.
Thada wai. You say it out loud, taste it on your tongue. You
say it one more time. Sounds an awful lot like ‘that way’. You want to smack
yourself. The people of OZ are direct and painfully obvious. Their spelling not
the best, but clearly it has to mean ‘that way’. You still wonder, what way?
The way you came from or the way you’re going? What is that way? The death
trap? The bright sun that hits your back seems to mock the situation. The sun
is shining and everything is good, go forth to your death. You don’t like the
sun at that moment or the sign (or the people of Mo for safe measures).
-
It is the King of Mo. You know this, you recognize this, and
you’ve seen the man’s face and many children. He is the king of kings! But not
really, not truly. Does he even have a name? Yes, he is king and yes, everyone
recognizes this (as you do), but how did he come to be?
There is a queen, children (one too many of them), loyal
subjects (or so they claim), and the candy around them makes the citizens light
headed. Perhaps that is why they follow him without question. You want to
question, but you cannot. You question and you may find yourself in another
land. Probably one of the many large deserts. You do not like the desert, so
you do not question.
This is why you like the people by the Root Beer River. They
question and so the King does not spare a glance at this village. They barely
get by and do not let the sweet air sweeten their bitter personalities. You
respect them and appreciate their defying nature. But you cannot defy, you fear
being shunned, so you never visit the village by the Root Beer River. Word has
reached your ears of their talks to take the power from the King of Mo. You
find this amusing, for you know of other royals that wish to take the thrown as
well. The poor king, constantly being defied by those around him. Do his
children defy his too?
You would if you were his child. He is not a smart man.
-
In the village there is one person that has power, or so
everyone says. That person is you. You are the only one with the ability to have
science to your readily disposal. It is not magic,
magic, it is potions and chemicals that put together cause a reaction.
Colors change and smoke appears. It appears like the magic the Wicked Witch
used long ago, before she died. But you know the truth and the truth is that
you do not truly wield magic. Only science. That is okay though, because
science is another form of magic and this reassures you and those around you.
It is a dangerous art, using chemicals and other forms of
potions to find an answer. One wrong move and you can be blown or turned into a
dog. Who would want to be a dog? (You do, you really like dogs, but you’d
rather not say this out loud) If you were a dog, though, you wouldn’t be able
to help others during their times of need.
-
It is the last day of the week and far too early in the
morning for you to enjoy the brisk air. The couple next door, you do not
remember their names, knock eagerly at your door, shouting your name. You go to
them and listen to their please of joining them for breakfast. It is a
tradition of theirs, you see, to wake up early, gather fruits, and make an
extravagant breakfast for citizens of the town.
You, unfortunately, were the next victim.
You say yes, of course you say yes, and follow the two
towards the dense woods near the village. It smells of fresh fallen lemonade,
the citric acid burns your tired eyes. The fruit are ripe and taste even better
with the sour taste of the lemon. You appreciate this new fact and smile at the
couple as they ask you how it tastes. You pluck berries (strawberries
especially for that is your favorite) and they take candies.
