Domestic Sacrifice

     The house is a disaster.
     Walking barefoot is dangerous, and not recommended for people who's feet are not covered in thick, hobbit-like layers of protective calluses. Scattered like caltrops are bits of plastic and wood, the sharp little waste pieces cast off and left hiding in the carpet. Amongst them, like rattlesnakes in the grass, are the occasional pin or sewing needle. The only hope to avoid injury are the layers of discarded cloth, leather, and foam that cover the floor like an impromptu patchwork rug. The cats stalk pen and paper left carelessly on the coffee table, along with the occasional tangled wad of discarded thread. The tile and pergo of the kitchen and dining room are hidden under a fine layer of sawdust, so that we can easily track our footprints to and fro. All this is in addition to the normal scraps of dirt, leaf, and pine needle tracked in from the back patio and the orange-and-gray tumblefurs that blow across the landscape in the breeze of the fan. They have not seen there normal ritualistic culling by vacuum and broom, and their population explodes out of control.
     The exterior has been equally neglected. Killer parasitic vines strengthen their foothold upon the outer rim of the territory. Gardens, once tended and cared for, are left to fend for themselves. They fight weeds and parasites while wallowing in a sea of old, rotting mulch that is long overdue for replacing. The house itself, once a bastion of order, a fortress of control standing over the tamed landscape, stands ignored. Its walls are half-painted, left a jarring clash of colors that differ from wall to wall. In one particular area, a poignant reminder: the new coat gives way gradually to the old, where the painter has laid down his brush and sprayer and abandoned his task. It is a testament of just what has fallen victim to the emotionless triage of the times.
     But I have a doublet, a lyre, a rapier, and--most importantly--a jaunty hat. My wife is armored in studded leather and wields a crossbow. When Dragon*Con comes, we will not be found wanting.
     And the convention is only four days long.
     Soon, mess, your day of reckoning will come.