writing a new little thing purely improvised out of a need to do something.
Driving in the country, twenty miles per hour, in a sleek little XK8 Convertible, and its raining like the devil. Heavy beating on my head. My suit jacket flooded and my dark jeans darkened. My paws are wet on the wheel, steering me and my Jag down the rough little road, passing blind dogs and badgers with human faces, snarling, gnashing. I blow them kisses as I pass. Turn on the radio. Bop the head, flick the ears. The road goes on, grey tongue in a grassy mouth, chunky and covered in bumps. A hill rises, watching the sky, clouds racing and sweating onto my big brown eyes. The peak leads to fall, and I hurtle past hedge, horse and tree. The trees have got no leaves, and dance naked in the rain. There's gate up ahead, by the road side, Landrover tracks tearing the turf. Three guys, leaning against the posts; pheasants in tie-dye T-shirts and skinny jeans. Ruffled up feathers in the rain. I slow down, stopping beside them, my music and the rain shouting each other down, forcing each to go louder. I bop my head, leaning back, look at the sky and taste the rain. Ears stroke the back seats, everything's wet. The pheasants look to each other.
"Are you alright, there?" One says to me. He's a big one. A big one with a bent beak and dull feathers.
"Are you alright here?" I reply, still staring at dark and darker grey sky.
"For now," he says. The others smile, sweet smiles. A facial pat on the back for the big boy. But he was looking at me.
"What you doing here?" I ask.
"Waiting for the tent to arrive," he replies.
"What tent?" I ask.
"Our tent," says one of the others. Smaller, average size and bright as a blast in the highlighter warehouse. The last pheasant wont speak. Small, bleak, shadow dweller, likes to listen, rides the wave of his friends.
"What for?" I ask. I sit up, looking at them now, eyes blinking away the water.
"Don't know," says the big one. I look at the sky, then look at the birds, and myself, and my car. I turn off the engine, get out and stand beside them. They look at me, unsure, especially the little one, shying away, back of the line.
"Guess I'll join you then," I say.
"Why?" they ask.
"Why not?" I reply, and as i stand by them, seven points around us, stretching up, an orange tent growing like a tree, stretching over us. The rain is blocked, and we're stood inside, surrounded by applause.
Topic: My work (Read 5017 times)