Bonfires by Lferion

Under Siege

What to do, waiting in a bunker - a quintuple drabble and a poem

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Prompts - L:N4 Sketch Comedy, A:O1 Dadaism, P:O5 Dadaist Poetry, F:N4 Spoof

This chapter in particular is influenced and inspired by the ingenuity, persistence, and determination of the people of Ukraine.

<p>*** *** ***</p>

<p>The printing press was silent, the room quiet -- the reinforced sub-basement below the library stacks -- lit only by the single small glowstone Maglor had made on a whim one sunny afternoon, when it seemed things were not so dire. There were fifteen or so of the regular group, and three who, well, they were certainly part of the group now. No one was leaving this shelter until the firestorm -- metaphorical, literal, existential, whatever it proved to be -- had died down. </p>

<p>They had known they were fighting a war, but it had been small before, words, grafitti, visual bursts of sense in nonsense, found things assembled into meaning, appearing and disappearing, broadsides, posters, flyers. Resistance in small numbers, arrests in ones and twos. </p>

<p>(Executions, a handful over the span of time they had been fighting back; but that wasn't different from before. What was different was the secrecy, the not knowing. The pyres and the hangings had always been public. Maglor was disturbingly reminded of Angband's tactics: were the taken dead? Enthralled? Turned? No safe way to know.)</p>

<p>They'd been warned something was coming. That they'd need a shelter: sturdy, sufficiently large, as well supplied as they could make it. Now, they waited. Maglor was trying to think of something they could do without making a lot of noise or drawing more than a trickle of power when one of the taller students stood up, barely missing the low beam. "We should do a round or two of "Pick, Pass, or Play' only no passing, and the first round everyone should do *something*. "Something cheerful, maybe; make people laugh." </p>

<p>Another student did laugh, "What, like sketch comedy? Because not many of us are standing up in here," she looked pointedly at the low ceiling and lower beams. Nearly everyone chuckled. She went on with more word-play, then handed the metaphorical stage to the person next to her. Silently, they scooted the glowstone closer, and began to make cat's cradle figures of increasing complexity.</p>

<p>What an excellent idea, Maglor thought, and wondered why it hadn't occurred to him. He must be getting old. But not so old he could not make use of the energy and fragments of Song to spin better wards. Fool the searchers (there were always searchers) into chasing figments, convince them the building was empty, not worth searching. He began to hum, more thought then sound, weaving in the wordplay, the threadwork, elements from every offering.</p>

<p>One of the new people was sitting next to him, doing something with a thick book, pencil, and paper. When the turn reached them, she closed the book on her crossed legs and took a deep breath, "The last class I was in, before they shut everything down and declared public education anathema, was art history. We had just reached the first third of the 20th Century, and all the different ways people were doing art, poetry, dance, everything. So, this is a dadaist poem I just made. Hopefully it says something.</p>

<p>*** *** ***</p>

<p>--A Tirade About Our World--</p>

<p>Must last, opens ouch<br />
Giant for gleeful one<br />
Hits hard on earth.</p>

<p>Sleeping slowly one brother<br />
Canal she sang, wise<br />
Ritual was greased greyly.</p>

<p>Shape cover the nerve<br />
Hollow cheeks watching you</p>

<p>Light putrid the waste<br />
Whispers no glorious journey,<br />
Shady room, charm etc.</p>

<p>Trunk wrong busy across<br />
We please your boy!<br />
Realize they swell too</p>

<p>Over the finger twine<br />
Before sweet wind dies</p>

<p>*** *** ***</p>