Like many of you, I used to be a part of the Minnions, the commentariat on the SSSS pages as they came out. (I'd sometimes post several comments per page, especially if pun chains and such were going around.) Good times, good times, but I've never been able to do a re-read of the comments - there are just too many (cue Surprised Pikachu face).
This is a genuine pity, because there were incredibly useful bits of lore as well as beautiful stories and jokes told, and utterly,
utterly amazing poetry. At least tonight, we get to relive some of that gold, courtesy of beloved admin
Keep Looking, who shares with us all some of her favourite poems that she wrote during the comic's run, annotated with page number.
Adventure 2, Page 174We’ll camp here for the night - it’s safe
From nests and raving trolls
So set up tent and light the fire
Paint runes in circles whole
Don’t fear the skulls that perch up high
The scenes of slaughter past
The blood that stains, the skins that stretch
From branch to leafless branch
The dead will bring no harm to you
Their bite can touch you none
So sleep beneath the skins and skulls
Til dawn and day do come
-
Adventure 2, Page 182I kept my eyes upon the road ahead
I fled the city full of plague and death
My shoulder itched, I gripped the wheel instead
I drove past trees that cleared my every breath
The itch means nothing.
The itch could be anything.
I felt a creeping soreness in my chest
I watched my petrol slowly running low
My breathing harsh, I pulled aside to rest
I felt my rib cage strain with every blow
This pain means nothing.
This pain could be anything.
I heard the voices calling in my head
I tried to push them back, to let them go
My eyes remained trained on the road ahead
I strained, but they would never let me go
These voices mean nothing.
These voices could be anything.
I felt my rib cage slowly crack, expand
I heard my breath grow ragged, ever slow
My life was pain, my hands began to shake
I could not think, the voices whispered low
I’m turning into nothing.
I’m turning into anything.
I call you, save me, take the pain away
I beg you, share it, feel my pain as well
My eyes are dark, I hide from light of day
I only feel my pain, it grows and swells
I’m waiting here for nothing.
I’m waiting here for anything.
-
Adventure 2, Page 214The white-bright sunlight streams as if through glass
Between the moss-green pillars and the beams
Beneath them, weary trav’llers softly pass
And watch their steps, lest peril here is seen
And yet, though skulls hang stretched like gruesome masks
The violet flowers bloom amongst the grass
Though souls long-lost lie twisted, broken, pained
Like monsters from an endless nightmare’s chase
While barbed-wire, sharp, is looped and looped again
In fruitless hope to save, protect this place
The sky still sends its sunlight and soft rains
And vines grow green, between the planks they strain
Through ages gone and ages yet to pass
As wand’rers lost and seekers few go by
Through love and pain and grief that tears apart
The vines still send their leaves to reach the sky
Below, the flowers bloom amongst the grass
Their violet hues shine bright like sunlit glass
-
Adventure 2, Page 232Words, like birds, are fleeting things
That leap from mouth with flurry of wings
What words have we that words don’t bring?
Paper. Scissors. Rock.
Pens draw bends that warp and turn
And leave their marks in paper burned
What needs no scrawling pen to learn?
Rock. Paper. Scissors.
Tongues among the worlds of men
Are twisted, tangled things - so then
What needs no tongue, no words, no pen?
Scissors. Paper. Rock.
Adventure 2, Page 234Sheep eat paper, left unread
And rocks beneath their hooves that tread
A pair of scissors shear their heads
None can beat the sheep, he said.
Bang! The sheep is dead.
-
Adventure 2, Page 255This is a city of ghosts.
Their echoes haunt these desolate streets, from the tall spire of the city hall to the rows of empty bar-stools and the rot that drips down menu-boards. Bottles stand on the shelves, long undrunk, looked upon by the pictures of the dead, while walls crumble and bass-heavy speakers lie silenced on the floor. The bench-top still bears the fingerprints of a thousand thirsty patrons, and tonight, after a near-century of silence, it bears a new load once more.
He is a ghost, too, though not of this city. He the honey-handed, he of the rough-coat, he the brown one, he the lord of the forest, where lakes lie still and trees touch the sky. They do not call him such names anymore. Small eyes drip with rot and darkness, shaggy fur is damp and arrow-pierced, claws drag heavily across the wood. Nostrils flare above still-sharp teeth, searching for something in the bones of this city. Someone.
The sun is setting. It would be wise to leave.
