Have you ever heard of the delicate tale of Robert the Quaint? The one that starts with a man that is a seeker of the soft, and ends with the world on fire?
Robert was a queer fellow with an unusually strong disposition for all things soft, smooth, and squidgy. He particularly enjoyed cushions: large and small, pentagonal and rectagonal, flat ones, three-dimensional cushions, and, of course, cushions of dimensions four. Cushions of black, cushions of blue, cushions served in jibrack stew. Only during his annual cushion party was his cushion cornucopia on display. Every guest had to arrive in partner with a cushion and, at all times, never remove it from their rear. It was a sight to behold! What cushions were brought from across the lands!
Lordesses of the Great Mountains brought cushions made in the image of their homely sedimentary mountainside. A sharp treat for a soft derriere.
The Gobbling People of the Holy Land were known for their technical feats of the plush: they brought cushions that were constructed from smaller cushions ten times as small, these smaller cushions being then assembled of cushions that were ten times smaller than that, so down to the atomic thread. Such a beautiful portrayal of the cushion craftpersonship was best experienced with a microscope, and so they attached this as a little dongle to the corner of their pillows.
Every third year, Harold Stuffy III, the demodenger, shook off three years of hibernation to join Robert’s soiré. The demodengers spend this hibernation assembling a cushion of unmatched representation. It is created like so: a single cushion is gestated in the belly of the demodenger like liquid caterpillar in its cocoon. It is smashed and bashed and forged in that steel stomach and the effort involved is equal to the energy required to forge diamond from a dead rat. And so the demodengers must sleep long because the they would not have energy to lift a leg while this metamorphosis transpires.
As with any cushion party, there was a cushion curfew. At the ring of the evening bell-cushion, all guests must leave so that the Quaint Robert’s servants have time to prepare his bed. Robert the Quaint sleeps atop three thick layers of velvetine cushions – which he insists must be stitched that evening – and below this, plasterboard.
But, before the party’s end, there is a cushowdown. Cushion-on-cushion. Guest pitted against guest. And look, the party is on now and it is raw cushion fury: none hold back as they introduce their cushions to the faces and knees of their party companions. And the guests would have built their cushions in the hope to finally be crowned the winner of The Great Cushion Scuffle, yet every year the guests leave empty handed. The sole winner, with a forty-seven year streak, is none other than our quaint Robert. His cushion this year, it is suffocatingly soft, threateningly threaded, and electrically embroidered. The definition of ‘cushion’ had been reworked ten times in just that evening by the local linguists, for its construction was so novel. It is a cushion that cushion constructors could only see in dreams. It is a cushion that upon a single hit could cripple a soldier adorned with a-hundred battle medals. It is, in fact, a cush-ion. For brevity, the definition of such a cush-ion has been extracted from the third volume of Tib’s Tumble of Terminology for the Unterminological:
“A cush-ion is a cushion in which the ratio of plush to embroidery is not one. Some texts refer to the difference between these two values as a cushion’s charge. A standard, non-ionic cushion, is designed such that plush and embroidery is well balanced, allowing for those seated on the cushion to have a balanced, non-reactive experience. For everyday uses, this is sensible cushion design. But, cush-ions allow for the cushion-crafter to build highly unstable, reactive cushion-sitting experiences. An ionic cushion will seek embroidery from nearby sources to re-balance its ratio of plush to embroidery. This source generally comes from the current sitter of the cush-ion, hence the unnerving and disorientating experience that has been documented by those who have been in close contact with such cushions. The general belief among researchers is that cush-ions are too unstable to be created outside of ideal laboratory environments. Non-peer-reviewed sources tell of a lord that once managed to assemble a stable ‘homebrew’ cush-ion, but this is largely considered a myth.”
There is a bell tower in Robert the Quaint’s castle and when this chimes, all guests recover themselves and their cushions, and find the exit. This is also when the winner of the cushion brawl is declared. The bell tower is ringing now as I sit here outside with the wind eating through my sleeves. Through the tall window on the east side of Robert the Quaint’s tower is where I’ve seen this all. I have scrawled down this report fast, and attached the relevant references on the back. I am fearful for my life, fearful that these will be my last written words – and so I write them in haste.
The bell in the tower rings, but something is wrong. The guests have left long before the party’s end. And Robert the Quaint, he lies face-down on the floor, the remains of a cush-ion decorate his body. Does he breathe? But eyes are on the figure who stands over him, straddling him like a tower bridge. The figure is cloaked and I can only make out what is in their hand. They place the object gently upon the head of Robert the Quaint and – he’s alive! – but he moans and cannot move. Its give, itss softness, its plush core – this weapon that has downed a molehill of a man – what is it? No cushion. No! It is, it is – but a Pi-llow! A cushion forged from the irrational origins of circular threading. It brandishes an embroidery that sends witnesses into hysteria as they try to trace repeating patterns from designs that never repeat. Oh what sick god would allow such an item of devilish-spawn to enter our cherub of a world.
If you are reading this, it is already too late. I and a collective of cushion crafters have fled far, but we are strapped to a shore and a tsunami looms.