Wednesday, 17 August 2011

More stuff.

This was published, a long time ago. Before I was ill anyway. After publication it was nominated for the James B Baker award for literature. Didn't win, which I think was the right decision. Anyway, then I lost it. I think it was on an old computer and didn't copy across for some reason. But... yesterday I found an old floppy disk and there it was. Not sure I like it now but thought I would put it here in case someone else did. If you do, pass the link around, thank ee kindly. *tugs forelock*

The Social Diary of a Ghoul.

Monday is soup day.
Fiendish nails clikker-clack in the bottom of the cauldron searching out bone and gristle to chew. Eager mouths gulp down wet warmth and dribble liquid down dirty clothes.

Tuesday is plant day.
All morning I, kabbkikkorack, Maushaleya and Rishtatish dance in the dusty earth of desiccated gardens, throwing up clouds of parched earth which give a pleasing smell to our ragged clothes. We steal roots and forage for berries. Tuesday is a hungry day but the warren is brightened with pale colours and glorious red.

Wednesday is a quiet day.
Wednesday we rub old fat and small dead animals into our glorious lank fur. We sit quiet and stonelike. Maushaleya tells stories and we laugh until tears roll from our single eyes. Sometimes we shred each others wings as we are low and forbidden the sky. We are not allowed to forget our ancestors sins.

Thursday we try to catch rats.
Rats are quick and hide well. The warren is loud with our cries of frustration. My throat throbs as I join my brothers in our endless sad song.

Friday is fish day.
There are no ponds anymore and the brotherhood dare not venture too far from our home. We seldom have fish.

Saturday is a day of hunger.
Saturday we hunger so badly that we think the creatures in our bellies are scratching at our insides, trying to escape. Saturday is a hungry day and we eat dirt.

Sunday is glorious.
Sunday the furless ones come and they wear evil smelling garments. But they bring us joy. They bring the great boxes and bounteous harvest for us. They lower sustenance into the ground we are bound to and we know we shall dig tonight. Dig and feast.

Monday is soup day and fiendish nails clikker-clack.

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