Declaration of War

Many years have passed since the last uprising. The youth of the western land of the county who had once run amok, clean heads scorched in the sun with their blades swinging wildly, have forgotten their now rusted weapons buried in the hearts of their homes. Now those youth settle for their mundane chores; taming small house-beasts, teaching their offspring the proud old art of folding laundered garments, and participating in the ancient tradition of pitting energetic children against each other for sport.

On such an occasion, sweat strips spray tan off of Helen’s sharp, angled cheek; the finest surgical-sculptor spent hours emulating the features of the fairest woman in the land, known by the name of Angelina Jolie, to remake Helen in just the same fashion. Her golden hair spills to her shoulders in perfect ringlets from the elastic ribbon tied at the peak of her head. Her lips, painted to match the rosy tint of her blush, are pursed in outraged, intent study. Out on the field,

Brighton, Helen’s only child and protégé has incurred the wrath of the opposing force’s general: Caden, son of Cathy, whose mother retains the title of Helen’s life-long arch nemesis. The battle-judge issues a proclamation -an infraction due to ungentlemanly conduct- in the form of a yellow handkerchief. Caden bears no blame and subsequently, Brighton takes the fall for his fellow soldiers.

Helen rises indignantly from her seat, startling Precious, her snow-white pooch napping beneath the throne. The numerous bangles on her wrists glistened and clinked with her fury. Making such wild gesticulations as to attract the judge’s eye, Helen curses the skies above and demands justice for her son’s army. The judge takes no more than a moment’s notice of her and returns to his duties, but Helen does not relent. Eventually, the judge has no choice but to try to assuage Helen’s fit of rage. The judge seems almost swayed by Helen’s passion, but Cathy, who has been watching from afar, decides to apply her own persuasion to the judge. She marches over to the middle of the field to face her contender. She barely begins her impassioned speech before Helen directs her ire to Cathy. An awed hush comes over the spectators, and even the young soldiers stare in morbid curiosity. Already, Helen’s face was flushed from her exposure to the sun, but now it burns with self-righteous fire as she belabors on her son’s behalf.

The two women seem less like vain mothers than they do vengeful goddesses of eastern fables. Their voices rise above every other sound on the battlefield as each tries to outdo the other for pitch, volume, and expletives, insulting each other, each other’s sons, husbands, and visible outlines or straps of undergarments. Not even the battle-judge dares to come between the two lionesses fighting for dominance. Devils spring from the earth and dance around them, but when Cathy dares to traverse topics unspoken of, Helen brings forth Hell. No one, no mortal, devil, or divine being has the courage to remind Helen of the tragedy three years ago of her burnt cookies at the bake sale.

Plunging into her Prada tote, Helen draws forth the keys to her carriage, a gleaming white Mercedes Benz CLS -last year’s model. In a show of utter disgust and haughty disdain, she saws through her dyed golden locks to sever the length of her hair and thrust it into Cathy’s eyes. Helen unleashes an unholy roar, the sun retreats behind the clouds, and the ground at their feet shakes with mighty tremors. Cathy recoils, retreats, and positively cowers with fear. The soldiers take their appropriate sides on the field and join in the cacophony. The spectators either stare in fear and wonder or make their own hurried retreats to their carriages, abandoning thrones, refreshments, and even babes as they run to avoid the battle. They know there will be nothing but carnage because Helen’s hair and roar… are a declaration of war.