Tuesday, 28 July 2015

The Cross Roads VII

In a maelstrom of blankets and dust, curses and glares,
the Cave-Dweller is decidedly on the path of war.
In great insanity he is searching around his gloomy cave for
his left-hand glove. He claims that he has worn it only a day ago.
The Anarchist whispers in the ear of the Prehistoric Postal Agent
“What is all this fuss about a threadbare glove? Why don’t you go to
the Other Lands and get him a new pair?”
The Prehistoric Postal Agent stunned at the impertinence of this request
glowers at the Anarchist and whispers fiercely back into his ear
“It is against the rules of our industry to supply our services to
the selfish needs of a temperamental oaf.”
The Anarchist feigns a stutter “B..b..b..but I thought th..th..th..that
your agenc..c..c..c..cy is all ab...b..b..bout fulf..f..f..filling all sorts
of s..s..s..selfish needs.”
The Cave-Dweller long aware of this whispering grabs a stone, 
throws it in a blind passion into the corner of 
the meddlesome whisperers and bellows “How dare you miscreants 
scheme right under my nose?!”
The Anarchist leaps up and in a tone of unsubtle mirth proclaims
“The Prehistoric Postal Agent has kindly offered to procure a new pair of gloves for you.”
“I have said no such...” but before the Prehistoric Postal Agent can 
finish his sentence the Cave-Dweller runs to embrace him.
“Your services to save my dire situation will not 
go unrewarded” the Cave-Dweller chimes in 
tones never heard from his mouth before.
From the shadow of the overhang the Wretch 
shakes his head and murmurs “What is this Cross Roads coming to? 
A Prehistoric Postal Agent turning into a charity and 
a Cave-Dweller feeling and showing immense sense of gratitude?”
For all this while the Carillon stunned into silence by all this ruckus
demurely asks “Should I be ringing in this evolutionary news for times to come?”
The Prehistoric Postal Agent hisses through his clenched teeth “You don’t dare.”
The Anarchist so pleased with the turn of events clamours with
triumphant waving of the arms “Please do, Madame Carillon.
Your ringing will in truth pronounce the devolution of life at 
the Cross Roads and everyone needs to take note of it.”
As the confusion of the day settles in everyone’s minds
the Loner comes traipsing sleepily from the cairn of 
stones to investigate what all the excitement in 
the cave was about. In his casual stride he trips over something.
It is a besmirched left-hand glove.
Scarcely recognising what it is, he unstitches the thing
and winds up the tattered threads into a tight little ball
and mutters to himself “I will gift this to our
esteemed Prehistoric Postal Agent to use as packing string.
He will be most grateful.”

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