“Sixpence”

A pie was delivered to the front gates, the finest bakery in the area sent its regards to the king. The deliverer was let inside the castle gates without much thought; the song he warbled as he went along was rather distracting and rather disrupted any thoughts that something was amiss. Muggy humidity hung in the air, thick as honey, and rumbling thunder farther off in the hills interrupted the gray of the afternoon only briefly. There was no lightning yet and the man watched the sky with an unconcerned face as he marched through the grounds, green amplified by the gray, the clouds moved sickeningly sluggish, bloated with unshed raindrops. The walk from the gate to the back kitchens was a relatively secluded one but passed through the animal keeps where chickens roamed over the gravel path. The fowl paid no attention to the man's cracked red hands that grasped the box containing the dark pie, his pale mangled leg hidden by ragged dark trousers. His whole body looked tree-like, coarse bark and drooping limbs; his limp hair clung to his face. The livestock could smell the moldy clothing, but the hungry poultry paid more attention to pecking at the trail of rotting rye the man left behind as it dropped from his pocket, like a trail of dead maggots. Continuing on his way, his song turned to a whistle, he turned his jaunt, bony face upward and his empty sightless eyes took one last look as he passed through the archway in the kitchens.

Clouds of steam rose from the kitchen door as he entered, boiling pots and rushing chefs ignored the uninvited visitor as they worked on countless dishes they would never taste. Orders were shouted by the head cook, "his majesty will take his lunch in the countinghouse" and "the queen has already been served in the parlor". The outgoing lunch tray left the industrious scullery with a desert that was not ordered, amongst its fine courses. And with his load disposed of, the man roamed off through the damp and wallpaper peeled hallways to the front door for although he had come through the back way it was not the way he would return.

A humble servant wheeled the silver tray to his most holy majesty. Its dishes rattled faintly as he pushed the daily delicacies to the lavish countinghouse where sat his most holy monarch. At a tall table, and upon a tall chair, sat the most holy crowned head, counting his wealth steadily each golden shine on each golden coin remembered in his most holy mind. A new greed shone in his piggy eyes at the sight of the tray of nourishment and when the waiter had retired back to the kitchen he began to eat his holy fill of roasted pork and venison. And when the sovereign had finished all his dishes, he set his gluttonous eyes on a pitch-black pie. How firm it looked, how deep the berries color, how fitting for his holy appetite. He took a moment, before raising his knife to ponder on the flavor, whether it blackberry, currant or filled with blueberry jam. As he cut, through the golden crust he dropped his knife in surprise, as the filling gave a raucous caw. Before he could move away, or duck his holy head, through crust came four and twenty blackbirds ripping, slashing and gashing their holy lacerations.

Through the heavy wooden door of the counting house, and down the murky hallway not far away from the main entryway, lay the parlor where the royalty received honored guests. In this extravagant chamber, lounged the bulky queen, stretched out on a plush evette sofa. The end of a loaf of bread had been abandoned on a silver dish carelessly placed on a neighboring coffee table. The queen had just finished her sugared supper, and lazily licked at the sickening-sweet dribble of honey oozing through her chubby fingers. A distant shrieking interrupted her cleaning of the miniature sticky rivers. Slowly moving her arm to the side table she grasped the handle of a golden bell and rang it several times before pausing to listen. The queen waited for a small length of time, keeping her ears open, listening for the heavy footsteps of a servant hurrying to inform her of the source of the disruption. Instead all she heard was the high-pitched sound of terror, until it broke off abruptly and was replaced with a rushing and a flapping noise. "Surely it's not the lunch cart" her mind told her dumbly, and with a soft grunt she rose from the sofa. She sauntered to the door, stepping around the room's lavish furnishings and turned the golden doorknob.

A river of ebony ink flooded through the hallway, and surged through the newly opened parlor door. The room immediately filled with feathers, snapping beaks, and the metallic shine of the golden coin each bird held. The rest of the murder gushed through the hallway, meeting the man already waiting at the massive front doors. He flung them open as the familiar throaty cawing and beating of wings came to his ears. Each dusky bird dropped their gold burden into the sack the man held at the ready. Each clink of the coins widened the man's ghoulish smile, revealing his decaying teeth.

With their burden gone, the larger of the blackbirds flew threw the opened doors to soar over and make sport of the terror-stricken and confused servants pouring out of the back of the victimized palace. They circled over the garden where three oblivious maids hung white sheets and shirts upon the line. Down, down, they descended upon the nearest maid, as the other two looked on then fled in horror. Snipping and snapping their horrible beaks as their own most holy master looked on in crude and grisly delight.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

They all began to sing.

Now, wasn't that a dainty dish

To set before the King?

The King was in his countinghouse,

Counting out his money;

The Queen was in the parlor

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes.

Along there came a big black bird

And snipped off her nose!