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Since I haven't given you anything truly creative in a while, and since I'm experiencing a rather infuriating writers block at present, a very modest Carrot has allowed me to post this very clever tapestry, so that at least I can pretend I wrote it....... So please tell her what an excellent tapestry it is and tell me to stop posting other people's stuff and get moving on something of my own again. Thank you * * * * * * * He was just standing around, frustrated, waiting for something to happen. He’d been there quite a few weeks. Initially, he’d felt relieved and at peace with the world, outside in the field, away from all the hustle and bustle, the noise, confusion, crime and violence of that world. Here, amongst the birds and voles of the acreage, he felt smoothly aware of his purpose in the universe and complete. He had attained validation. He was no longer just something put together by uncaring hands, with little or no time to attend to the details of facial features and tasteful clothing. After being stuffed and bundled up into a formless lump, resembling a twisted Wicker Man, he was “clothed” in cast off, smelly overalls and dumped into the back of a tractor, along with his compatriots. Now, lassoed and mounted unceremoniously on a pole, he contemplated his lot. Where had his sense of duty gone to? Why did he feel this untenable restlessness? What had changed in his soul? Why was he no longer content? The sun, his friend for the moment, seemed sullen today, not wishing to warm the straw and heat his limbs in any magnanimous act of good neighbourliness. He had dreamt the night away, visions of stars and a revolving earth spun in his head. Now awake and in charge of the day, he longed to be off, striding across the rich brown soil, out into the world, to explore. But then the realisation hit him with a thud, that he would never do that. He would never taste the freedom of mobility. And he felt strange and alien again, his head hung limp and the workman’s oily cap, which had been slapped on top of his matted head when he was made, tottered low on his brow, ready to fall off, if the wind would take the trouble to blow in his direction. A deep sad lethargy settled on him, a faint memory stirred but it was soon forgotten. For a fleeting second, he’d been consumed by an animal desire to leave this place, to wander around and find out what was going on. There was something happening, somewhere else. He vaguely remembered that feeling but just as quickly as he remembered how it felt, he forgot it again. He knew that his purpose was to do the bidding of man, to scare the birds of the sky away from this patch of mud but now, in his lonely reverie, that seemed so inane and silly. Why did he feel that way? Where had these thoughts come from? He tried to lift his head and spy the others, who like him, hung dejected and motionless on their lances in the ground but as much as he struggled, he could not do this simple thing. He thought that maybe his neck was broken. Then he saw it. At first, the spark flashed for just a second and spluttered out. But as he stared at the ground where the spark had hit, he saw smoke rise in a wispy, innocent, tiny tendril, lurching up out of the ground towards his feet. He did not know what this new animal was. He had never seen anything so remarkable. He watched transfixed as the smoke grew thicker and a tiny crackle spoke to him. He was amazed at how cheerful this crackle appeared and how bright it flickered in the watery sunlight. The spark and crackle became one and engorged itself out onto the surrounding earth, crawling closer to his feet, devouring tiny shreds of broken grass and dead leaves. He was fascinated by this new affectionate orange snake, how it glittered and chuckled at him from the ground. He smiled at it gently, as a father would to a child, wanting to pick it up and hold it, feed it, give it some sustenance. He felt enamoured with the vitality of this new thing that seemed so happy to see him, chattering and buzzing around his feet. His focus was consumed with the realisation that this new creature was not afraid of him, or disgusted by the sight of his raggedy clothes. Had this new friend come to rescue him? Could they speak the same language? Would they love each other? He dwelt for a moment on his imagined feeling about love. He yearned for this sensation and agonised about how beautiful it would be to love such a magical god-thing as this – a fantastic, sparkling dragon, bustling with a life force all to itself. Where had it come from? And why had it appeared before him, seeking his audience, just when he thought that his life was dwindling into obscurity, depression, futility and shame? Was this an angel? Why was it so interested in him? He felt humbled by its urgent and obvious affection and he did not, would not, allow himself to dwell on the impotence of these new thoughts. He gazed in wonder and admiration as the little friend grew bigger and suddenly it seemed angry about many things. It appeared confused and unsure of its path. First choosing one, then twisting back on itself and searching wildly for another. It spat and hissed, coiling about on the ground in a demented and tortured agony. This puzzled him and he was, for a moment, saddened and worried by it. He wondered whether the world had become too frightening for it, or that it had lost its way and again, he wanted to reach out and hold it tenderly in his arms and assure the growing demon infant of its worth. But it flashed and screamed at his legs, arching its back, writhing in fury. And as he watched it flail and lash about him, he became warm, as warm as he would ever be. And smiling into the face of death, the fire consumed him, taking with it the field of his dreams and all thoughts of redemption.


3 Responses to “”

  1. Blogger anne 

    Will you puh-lease stop posting other people's stuff and get moving on something of your own again? Sheesh.

  2. Blogger Jugular Bean 

    @Modest Carrot: What an excellent tapestry it is

    @forgottenmachine: stop posting other people's stuff and get moving on something of your own!

    No, but really, it was a nice piece!

  3. Blogger Luke 

    Me? Modest?
    Holy crap.
    Thanks anyway peoples ... now FM time to get yer fingers typing.

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