Both from Mixed Animal . . .
* * *
We packed up and broke camp. The wigwam turned out to be inflatable
and squeezed down to the size of a lampshade, which we strapped
to Buzz's head. Him and her started down the mountain, while I
took a moment to drink in the enchanting vision of my home village
far below in the glow of sunrise. There sat little Hmmm, in the
disconcerting shape of Founder Lola's missing foot, a tiny herd
of cottages and farms in the green teacup of the ancient valley.
Puffy pink clouds floated above it like bunny slippers, only new
and fresh, not worn and smelly. You missed your village, looking
at it like that, with people too small to even see, much less bug
you. You couldn't wait to hike down and get home. You was thankful
you could dwell there your whole life, and not have to venture into
the great unknown of the non-Hmmm world beyond, where unfamiliar,
unbeseen, and untowards things could happen at any moment.
* * *
He ceased howling. He stopped shaking, trembling, and tossing about.
He sat up in our arms, sniffed the night air, listened and surveyed,
alive and alert as a sentry to something that was bigger than the
torment of having nor skin nor fur nor blubber. Something more important
and powerful than death itself had entered the mountain clearing.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Posted by Richard Martin.... at 11:02 AM