A Town Called Discord

 

A Town Called Discord

          or Matters of High Strangeness

by Ellen Pepper

A few years ago, in a town called Discord,
There was a merry group of chanticleers,
not roosters but their human equivalent,
larking about singing songs of dread combat in the outer world.
The flock angled hard for comforts and ease of cares.
Folk in the commune allowed them congress in the town square.
It was the good of times.

As time went by, the group began to shed members.
Some through ennui,
Some through mendacious harm,
Some to seek fame and fortune in the greater collectives to the south.

Bickering and shadow boxing dampened enthusiasm.
Couples became throuples and drama accelerated.
Accusations were flung and deflected.
 The bard defected.
Without his offerings, the songs grew stilted
and no one was able to compose the anthems of yore.

Remnants of the choir stayed true but merely whimpered without the stirring melodies for which they had gained renown.

Some stepped aside to sing lullabies to babies.
Some went silent, like unto ghosts.
Some were so busy that they noticed not the shift.
One took to recording the change for future reference.

Eventually, it all came to a halt and the remaining townspeople departed.
Some to join family in far-flung lands.
Some to their hermit caves.
Some just failed to continue living.
In time, the Town called Discord was abandoned.
Only sagebrush and tumbleweeds,
 sweet pea, and lilac
were found still inhabiting the empty roads
and hollowed out housing.
It was the bad of times.
 

The last hermit, in his cave,
 Inscribed on parchment:
"The human body is a cage.
Life & Death operate on a continuum.
While life is cruel and unusual punishment,
Lyrics need the music, even so.
Death is release from pain.
Sorrow ends in time.
The Town of Discord is no more."


©Ellen Pepper 2025