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DF Lewis
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Vicious Circle

   VICIOUS CIRCLE

 

Published 'Connections' 1995

           

Peppered with picnic parties across Gushing Downs: a loom of dawnlight; twirling parasols; bright checked tablecloths spread over the greenest grass possible outside of a painting; wicker baskets brimming with edible goodies of every dietary persuasion; and joyful, sexy people. 

 

          "Nice day, Susan."   A hand both saluted and shaded the sun.

 

          "It'll be even nicer when the wine coolers arrive."

 

          The voices of chirpy, dimply children mingled with the deeper grown-up sounds.  The clink of glasses.  The buzz of bee.  The chomp of molars.  The giggles of those deep in love with each other.

 

          "It'll be great when the competition begins."

 

          "Yes, it'll soon be time."

 

          A stranger might have questioned what competition was in prospect.  Three-legged or egg-and-spoon races ... or both together?  Tug of love?  The loudest laugh?  The furthest roll of the hoop?  The fastest spin of the top with a cracking whip?  The prettiest frock?  The sweetest smile?  The longest beard?  The shortest?  The ugliest pulled face?  The biggest this, the smallest that? 

 

          The most durable picnic?   The maroon-party to beat all maroon-parties?

 

          No, it was probably none of these.  As a rubicund retainer arrived with cases of chilled white wine and amid the consequent hilarity surrounding the popping of corks, it gradually became clear to the stranger what exactly was to transpire.  Each group was sited beside one of the many natural geysers that abounded on the Downs.  The openings were controlled by manual valves - and the intention was to release them in one fell swoop, whereby the winning group would be the one with the tallest and longest lasting fountain.  A special prize was to be given for the fountain that emerged with the fanciest configuration. 

         

          As the sun dipped below the distant wooded hills, it spread along the horizon like thick cut marmalade.  The wine corks took up new crescendoes of popping, as bonfire beacons were set alight across the Downs by each picnic party.  Then, there was a secret starting signal (which was only obvious retrospectively to the stranger) - and the geysers were released in a perfect flashpoint of simultaneity.  Some spluttered in short silver cascades or spirts of gurgling spray.  Others were sufficiently tall to steal gold from the sunset and become gushing giants of myth and magic.  A few, even taller, sported every colour of the rainbow plus colours unknown.  Yet, there was one geyser, the tallest of all, which lost its colour as it sprayed new-born stars across the darkening sky - and at the mountain-peak of its fountaining power, it formed a mighty dragon's head.  The roar from the head's gargling mouth was incredibly even louder than the geyser which had originally given it birth.  The picnickers were cowed by the intrinsic, if short-lived, magnificence of such a white-water beast looming from the earth in cataclysmic contrast to the rearing tides of night... 

 

          After eventually packing their hampers, the parties wended their way home across the Downs, each jollifier with a blazing torch.  The stranger followed, keeping himself to himself, and softly sobbing.  He had stayed on the Downs long enough to watch the geysers being pent up within their rightful confines of dark earth - except, of course, for that single squirt the picnickers had forgotten to cap within its oubliette: it continued spluttering, perhaps pathetically, perhaps otherwise, to form snowdrop petals in the marooned night. 

 

          The stranger knew, despite the carefreeness of those he followed, that the treasure which Dragon Earth greedily guarded was itself: teetering on volcanic brinks ... and the stranger shuddered with ultimate fear. 

 

          O Stranger, O Saint George.

 

 

 


Posted by weirdtongue at 12:58 PM EDT
Updated: Tuesday, 25 March 2008 12:59 PM EDT
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