Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Bon Traverse

At once, we ushered ourselves past the great hall. We brought with us, in our pockets, small livestock to sneak into the harvest room.
'well, it's not just man that has hunger', our administrative leader shouts in a muted whisper, reverberant in the spacious chamber.

'what of the others?', our own brand of socialist eeeks all over the m
We stop, almost in contemplative unison.
The quietness that brushes over us now is the loudest thing in the room.
Our ethos has been challenged. From the back of our group I can hear the initial swirlings of our low chanted war-drum song.
Careful to not rile to soon-to-be mob, I run to the centre of the hall and play dead, mimicking the tweet algorithm of two dozen sparrows.
Knowing what'll happen to me, I lay completely still...waiting for the fragments of ember to start swirling.
The others, startled at the events that are coming begin to cause a deadly furore...circling me with speedy intensity.
Their song, low and mono-syllabic, becomes a deafening drone.
Their speed ever increasing.
Increasing still.
The doors to the great hall begin to bang and slam as though being controlled by an invisible intruder on their corridored side.
At last the embers.
The drone accentuates into a banshee scream, a 5.1 dream piece, piercing and horrid, the doors fly off their hinges, possessed.
Chairs, certain carpeted areas, even my shoes spiral upwards into the static salvage floating above my head.
At once a light fantastic, a solar vandango....

The screams quieten. A black and grey landscape remains. I semi-charred, retain my position on the travertine surface,  where I, recumbent,
 never move again.

Completed in the metamorphoses, me the resultant grey matter, trunk shaped, bark as skin, am paraded before the elders.
Their songs have changed too.

I hope no-one thinks of me as missed.

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