Someone on another blog of mine read my previous post about QQ's legendary charm, and was curious to know what happens when she gets angry. So I wrote this little story for her (thought I'd post it here as well): Lorna has requested that I write about what happens when the Q gets angry...and, oh yes, I can comply.
When the Q gets angry, the dark clouds gather and roil in the brilliant blue of the Colorado sky. The rivers run from south to north, and threaten their banks.
When the Q is angry, her eyebrows gather close and threatening over the black pools of her eyes, and the rose-tint of her cheeks turns to deep magenta.
When the Q is angry, she calls up the mice from the basement, and orders them into service to pull her chariot.
The orderly and peaceable books fly from the shelves, their pages trembling in apprehension. The cans of food jostle restively against their cabinet doors, ready to jump. Porcelain saucers rattle against one another with the nervous chatter of chandeliers in a windstorm.
Flash floods gather and roil through the slot canyons in the desert, and the ravens rise cawing from their cedars.
When the Q is angry, she fills the drains with angel hair pasta, and pours extra-virgin olive oil into the heating vents.
Clouds of gadflys darken the sky, and the imperturbable daisies droop where they stand.
When the Q grows angry, leopards change their spots, and giraffes tie nervous top knots in their hair....
OK, all of this happens (well, most of it), but only in the space of 1.25 seconds, because once that time has elapsed, the Q has forgotten why she is angry. Her eyebrows un-knit, and the roseat glow returns to her cheeks like a sunrise in the desert.
The Q, in fact, is a creature of joy. She is, as far as we can tell, spun together from the laughter of a thousand butterflies. A dark day does not dawn in the Q's world. When she cries (which is very rarely) it passes like a summer squall, followed almost instantly by sunshine. The broad and mirthful smile returns to her lips even before the tiny glass drops of tears can dry from her inky lashes. In spite of what many might consider a rough beginning to her life, this is a child born to happiness, and she isn't stingy with it! She fills every room in the house with it, as well as the vases, the flowerpots, the tea cannisters, and the rainspouts when it isn't raining. We have happiness stored up against a rainy day here, happiness in spades and bushels and fathoms. So if you happen to ever be in need of some, just ask! We can surely spare a cup.