wounded in time- Part 2 Graveside monologue to the addicts -Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015

Graveside monologue
-Prose piece. Unfinished

-Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015




"I walked through the grooves, between the tombstones, beside the cypress trees that gently swayed in the wind. The heartbeat of the precinct has ceased to thud and all had fallen in reflective silence, it was almost a music to me!"

"That music was reflected to me in the names, the dates, the inscriptions and professions of the dead upon their tombs and it was to me like reading stories and probing into the lives of those departed.
I saw the graves of doctors, the written prayers to little children, messages written for the generations, from mothers wishfully to their dead sons, chiselled in stone. I remember the sight of a tomb for newly weds together, groped and buried together, I can imagine their bodies and perhaps their souls entwined forever!"

"Flowers adorned the gravel pits, where I read the words of our Lord on the resurrection and the judgment of the dead. I was hit with the thoughts of childhood and the innocence that had I lost in time."

"Eternity is the moment renewed forever, but man must not live forever in his present state, because- according to the theologians!- he is corrupt! In the body and that is why it decays, if you believe in the idea of a moral universe. I can see this myself in the passions and the violence that man is willing to administer, slaying brother for brother and he will give any excuse he can for the utopia he wants to call his own!"

"Dont worry lads! I will get to my point now in just a moment!"

"I have always believed the weightless soul lives on after the death of the bounded body! I felt this after I had given up "the sauce" myself."

"You see the world has always been a market, where all things are for sale, but the very reason you need to live and to love is willfully ignored. We are seduced in time, by the power of the marketplace and that is the end of childhood and the end of innocence. We can buy our vices, and sell our innocence and that is when one eats from the tree from the knowledge of good and evil!"

"As a young adult I was a frequenter of many drinking parties, where men gambled and drank until the early hours of the morning. Under the midday sun we resumed our drinking and left our stained mattresses to pay the "madam of the house" our bills and then we stumbled out in the stale world itself!"

" I remember one particular night at the Marquis Club over on F _ street.
 I drank beer after beer and in time it tasted like sulphuric acid to my system- as it had damaged my  
esophagus- the lava poured down into my stomach- and it burned with all sorts of gastric agony, the room spinned and spinned in circles where monsters laughed and laughed at my fearful disposition.
The journalists that I worked with and drank with abandoned me and went out the door that night."

"The drinking party had departed from the fluorescent lights of the Marquis, and went out unto the squalor and the seediness of the back streets where they crawled off into their own oblivion. Off they went in through a country lane until they came unto an old Anglican Graveyard."

Evening observations under the sun -Prose piece by Robert Fullarton Copyright 2016

Evening observations under the sun

-Prose piece

by Robert Fullarton

Copyright 2016

The streetlamps were glowing like candlesticks positioned neatly in a row that stretched out onto the seafront promenade. The evening time was departing; the orange glow of the setting sun sank behind the fine Georgian mansions that proudly stood on the hilltops above the sea. These fine mansions are the antiques of old English rule, eloquent and opulent in appearance, one has to gaze and imagine a secret life behind closed doors, a life of luxury, a life or privilege and comfort.

Evening parties were being hosted on this balmy late spring evening. Time passed into twilight, where amber reflections of the sun turned into an indigo imprint that painted the shadows of the horizon in a breathlessly beautiful impression. The sun could no longer be seen but a glowing twilight hung, like the last breathes of a dying sun over the rooftops of the township. The world of men, of trades, businesses and iron indifference to fellow man had been shed in the layers of the evening light.

The fishermen came in to dock in the last minutes of the light, to inspect their catch, hoping for a profit, yearning for home, after several overnight shifts. Such men were overstretched and felt over extended in their hearts, they were the weary men who laboured like dogs, with no college education, they relied upon their nautical knowledge of the sea, their manual skills and taut command of life itself.

A witness of the sunset who had been standing on a hillock had been transported to a beautiful memory, alive in the present, he became aware of his own life, its preciousness and potential in the face of the world’s anonymity.

Surely he thought to himself,“both God and fate itself know my name by heart, despite the general indifference of other people in this world!” 

His heart was like that of an artist's, filled with inspiration,  but he only had to look at the encroaching city to feel downtrodden for a world that would not listen to the warnings in life, nor ever know people like him. For he was an alien in his very own city, and though it felt like he had ascended a mountain, he was in reality only descending from a hillock into the cool evening din. Still the memory was moulded on his soul and it felt like love, and it bore the desire in him to share such love with his fellow human beings, in charity and servitude.

Render onto God, the heart Extract of a piece.. Copyright Robert Fullarton 2016 by Robert Fullarton

Render onto God, the heart
Extract of a piece..

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2016
by Robert Fullarton

It was pride that made the boy into a man that beat his dreams of love into an iron cast system of cynicism. Pride made him mad, that made him wild; allowing him to forget his happy childlike heart, rendering it useless, he tore it off, like the infantile layers of a wild animal. Pride was the reason for his cast iron makings, cast iron brain that could not love with power, for the love that was as common as the circling birds above him. He pretended to be proud because the world was proud, and he became aware of it and the more aware of it, the more he chased its invisible rules, he ran through the murky quarters of the invisible fortress, he ran miles and miles in his racing mind each night into sleeping darkness. He went further and further, as the night is long and man is mad to follow the mechanics of the world in chaotic rumbles, as anarchy makes a cacophony in the absence of order.

------------------------------------------------------------

A young man sat at a dinner party, all spruced up, dashing, with a red cravat and cream coloured suit. After several conversations with his hosts and fellow guests, he learned that no speech came forth, nothing was learning or acknowledged from either side of the reticent party.

The young man had joined with the ranks of the world, where boys and girls are part of a metamorphosis, where they became cogs and circling wheels of human nature, where they go round in frivolous rancour, cementing masks in their worldly initiation, they acted out in the loudest haunts of the world, lit up lanterns, adorning the candelabra of man in illumination but where the lustre was lacking, while stone hearts chilled their bodies and a little voice whimpered out for help.

He began to think, for all the parties, for all the offers of promotion, the Games of subterfuge played out with treacherous so-called friends and societal beauties, all he had been taught since adolescence was a lie, to him something had to be unearthed or uncovered. His life's story opened up as a book before his eyes, his selfish ways, his emptiness became more apparent like a throbbing wound that would not cease in telling him that something was certainly wrong!

He stared at meals on fine mahogany tables, the haute couture of dinner parties bore the emptiness of a grave and he imagined his soul was dying as he stared almost bewitched at the spinning dancers, hearing the hollow laughter, the echoes of pretty women in these porcelain chambers, that rung out, until an image of his youth came to him and something was revealed to him. His chest hurt, a considerable agony that would not cease, until he left the party, running out like a mindful patient in the lunatic asylum, or abattoir of the soul! He desired, willfully and without restraint to escape from the company party, he did not even consider where he would go, but simply grew in pace.

He sprinted through the white Collonaded hall ways, the vulgar Romanesque parlours and ante-rooms of the mansion, over the chequered marble floors, past the stunned guests that stood on either side, as a shallow ensemble of futile existence. Some of these characters were drunk, some were laughing and some trying to restrain him with outstretched arms.

Having flown the coop, the young man ran through the heavy rain, his heart beating ferociously, brandy too had made it accelerate along with the sheer adrenaline of what was going through him. His arms moved like pistons against the wind. The rain grew heavier, he fell against the oncoming traffic, was blasted, cursed by an unseen driver, like a mysterious assailant that lives within the midnight shadows.

Like a drenched rat in a city composed of hallucinations, the man collapsed in the wooden door, which was slightly ajar, he fell down onto the floor, he knelt and prayed his first prayer since childhood, a simple prayer from a big heart. The entire world of faith and a wholesome desire for change, beckoned him to question the old life, the rituals of city life and the human race itself. He prayed in silence and out of the darkness there came a momentary peace in which he remembered his bedside prayers to God and tears began to fall just as the storm had passed outside the little church. The minister watched in silence, moved, confused and emotive, he tugged at his own vestments and cautiously decided to approach the saddened youth.

My First Job- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015

My First Job

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2015


I rose at dawn in the heart of winter's blackness at age fifteen to go and work in Wendell's butchers
as a kitchen assistant. It was my first job and one of my first experiences of the adult world of labour and menial toil.

I remember the sight of sawdust lining the floors behind the main counters. The smell of the nauseating disinfectant, is still vivid in my mind, as I cleaned regular flow of trays and dishes, that were recycled for the main shop floor. The bleach burned through the gloves and stained my finger tips, the squeaky screech of steel, kitchen equipment rubbed together and a cold wind drafted through the back door and nearly froze the legs, limbs and orifices of my body

 I remember the faces of men,  these grey haired, hardened "veterans of the world" who in age had worked for generations and had known what hard work was really about! I compare myself with my mere "pocket money" with my naive conceptions on life, on work, protected by my family, sensitive and delicate in nature, this business was a show of hard work and even manly toughness for the hours these men worked, for the physical labour they delivered to the systematic running of the business -and it is usually manic during the Christmas period with people queuing up for hours outside the premises and within the building it can be hard to move in the cramped moving conditions. These men never got to enjoy the privilege of an education. Most left school early..one young teen left school at 14 and was to be a butcher's apprentice for the next three years.

Stacks and stacks of large containers had to be disinfected out in the back alley, placed on a forklift, passed on to another employee who then handed me more trays to be washed and prepared for the kitchen- and the dreaded disinfectant burned through my fingers all the while!- but before all this the trays had to be emptied in cold room, where all the various cuts and legs of meat had to be hung on meat cleavers. All the icy, refrigerated spaces had to be thoroughly cleaned and rubbed down, as orders were made, bundles removed and replaced.

Tea brakes and lunches were had in the little poky kitchen where I had been stationed for most of each mornings work. Groups of old men huddled and smoked, drank tea and smoked some more with one man bearing a deathly pale complexion -the beginning of rigor mortis perhaps? This particular individual even handed me a cigarette and i just looked bewildered at him...I didn't drink then nor did I smoke! I was rather sheepish in comparison with the others..who swore and spoke in a language of slang and confidence. They would ask me "what's your name" and "how are you getting on?"
I would just nod politely, smile and say "fine, good, great" and other affirming comments to the faces of supervisors and peers alike.

I remember, I was asked to mince the burgers on my first day and in the process I nearly, lost my fingers when the mincer was jammed, the apparatus was clogged with old bits of meat and in the process it plummeted and nearly took my fingers off in one death blow- it certainly pierced my skin and left a distinct cut through the kitchen gloves!

At the final hours the crowds would swell and the employees worked through a frenzy of constant orders, shouts and movements made.

 At closing time I gathered my pay check in a little brown envelope -fifty pounds for a days' labour and toil- and I departed through the evening din, past the shadows of the shopping centre, where not a sole could be seen on these cold and harsh winter evenings. One could feel that these days were swallowed up by darkness and that the light had been extinguished like a mere candle in a church.

I would moan my childlike moans to my parents when I returned home. I would sleep off the aches of physical labour and I quickly made up my mind that I did not want to be a butcher at any stage in my existence...and i made up my mind at an early age!

Prose piece- The bath Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

Prose piece- The bath
Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

When winter comes, I enjoy the therapeutic habits of bathing my tired and weary body in the bath. I gaze at the frosted glass and contrast it with the fine bellows of vapour and steam that rise from my bath like smoke signals in the mist of the condensation. Lavender oils are a bodily tonic, a wet facecloth placed at my brow and a cup of camomile at my side are a spiritual tonic.

Outside in the suburban desert there are dramas being lived out, lives being raised up and lowered, promotions and doleful news reports circulating throughout the populous but the cold of callous winter drags on against the forgetting season of forgetfulness.

From my sick bed.- Prose piece Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

From my sick bed.- Prose piece
Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

From my sick bed I can wonder on the moments of far and wide, with the gaze that goes further and further out onto streets and cafes, where I am writing...of yesterday, of health and life, not known to me for months gone by, these dreams are kept in bottles...I can watch other people and be envious, but each life is another story in motion to be lived and what is their life to mine and yours. From your bed, there are people coming and going, some to sleep, some are waking up, into bedrooms and out again, under a sky that is so broad and vast. When I fall asleep its like a thousand years lost in a day under the oak trees or in my bed, either way I am only dreaming and desiring something other than this moment of melancholy, but how can I give up all the moments to be surrendered before the pyre of grief and forgetfulness. I will remember and dream of better days, to be lived and not be put behind!

There are those who stand over me like waterfalls, their indignation falls upon my head, when I am weak and more human that what I'd like to be I have to wear my armour in times of trouble and face the times with courage once again.

World War 1- PROSE PIECE -Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

World War 1- PROSE PIECE

-Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

The smell of dampness was the first immediate memory I had. The smell of the smouldering earth, of sodden earth and even the stench of decay had reached my nostrils. All I could visualize was blackness, like a cinemagoer that gazes in awe towards the cinema screen oblivious of what will come and commence before his very eyes. I heard gunshots, the screech of incoming artillery shells and mortar fire.

I awoke to find two young soldiers, tommies to be precise covered up from their arses to their necks in muck. They were holding me up. I could not hear what they were saying, their mouths moved vigorously as they looked and referred back to each other.

I distantly felt that I was outside of my body, viewing all these events as if they had been transmitted from some distant source, outside myself and beyond my immanent understanding. These two young privates led me forward, it looked like the second world war and I looked around and viewed the narrow muddy strip of earth, which men had fought and died for, for an acre of ground, that cost tens of thousands of men their lives for the pomposity and vanity of the generals and the ruling class.

“Will he pull through?”

Said one young private unto another.

“Definitely, he needs rest, he just has a slight concussion. Give him time and he’ll be back on his feet”, said another voice to my left.

“Well sit Mason down and he’ll feel, as right as rain.”

“Good, well we better inform the captain, on our whereabouts and on the safety of Mason.”

“Well he’s lucky that concussion might just be enough to save him from having to go over the line.”

“Maybe. But I still think he should have to face the Bosche just like everyone else.”

“Oh he will. Too many lads like him, have just come out of school and died within only a year of leaving.”

The deafening roars of howitzers fired from the British lines, mortars, rifles and shouting men, faces of agony, buried in a silent death were pressed in quagmires of muck as I limped silently through the trenches with my two comrades. Blood and muck was caked on the faces of many desperate men, some who were mere boys were having their own nervous breakdown while having to face the colossal anxiety that gripped every man that tore him asunder, while some waited for the whistle to blow and others proceeded with the death chorus and the death march bleating out as puppets, valiant death defying children, ran forward to the German firing squads.

The experience was beyond the surreal, as everything was more animate than a dream, it was real, and I possessed this old body, this life, this identity and person, and became a youth again in the body of this eighteen year old boy. The great harrowing journey of living through fear is interrupted as fear leaves us all for a period of time once your outside your personality, outside pain and opinion and you simply exist as an undisturbed entity that exists and roams for life in perhaps another body or another reality beyond this one here present. Thoughts rushed through my own present mind that had amalgamated with my old body that moved fatally in tune with the time and events of an ancient life in a young man’s body.

“Hey Mason”, said one grimy faced private to my left.

“Yeah!” I could hear my own voice involuntarily, moving and my arms raising and falling, while I watched the mechanics of my old body move in motion and I had no control over what was occurring, but I inevitably sat within my own mind, in the witness box, to the testimony of what happened and why it had to happen.

“Mason are you alright?”

“Yeah, it feels like I have an awful headache.”

“No you have been suffering from concussion. Enemy shellfire has been pounding our lines all morning and afternoon; it must have gotten too close for comfort in your case. But don’t worry you will be fine.”

“Thanks, Barnes.”

“Don’t worry mate!”

“ Well I will be fine until I have to step out of this trench and face enemy fire.”

“Well destiny is law. I don’t think we can wrestle with our fate.”

“No I am afraid we cant.”

We both lit cigarettes as if we signalled or said our farewells, before the whistle blew and our time would come to face the German guns.

“Stand in line men,” roared the Captain, as he carefully and sullenly inspected the men, surveying their faces, lining out in rows, with their full kits by their sides. Many men carried trench cutters in their back pockets so they could cut the barbed wire that weaved and intersected through no mans land and separated the British and the German military personages.

“Burke, I want you to light my cig before we go out there.”

Said one soldier to another, as each man showed boldness and brashness, but every man showed fear, and I felt the circulation of nervous tension pierce me, as my chest hurt unbearably and my heart pounded as if it knew that today was my last day, in this life. All I had seen in this life was my last half hour on earth and had known that my name was Steven Mason, I was eighteen years old and I came from Bedfordshire, because I heard several men inquire as to what my life was like in Bedfordshire.

But I cannot even remember my parents from this life; perhaps this was a death review and not a life review at all!

“I don’t want any nannies to wet their pants at the thought that we are facing the German guns! We march to glory and valiant victory, in the name of God and the empire herself, we are all serving and defending our nation, with a blood sacrifice.

Those who survive shall have their honours paid to them by their very own children and their grandchildren as heroes in their own right and those who die shall be honoured and ushered into heaven by God himself. But those who flee the battle deserve to die because they think they can escape their duty. 

Your duty is to die, and those who escape death are privileged and will be recalled for battle once the battle cry is given. Who can escape death? No one can, life is a perpetual battle, hear that men? Those who survive shall return to an economic war, where unemployment is rife, food is in shortage and families struggle to make ends meat. You will have to face hardship no matter what happens, but you can be reassured that you will be adored by all the children and the elders of the land, as heroes to your local communities. Now men its time to face the guns!”

“Fix bayonets!”

Shouted the lieutenant that stood to my immediate left.

“I am bloody well not looking forward to another run in no mans’ land!”

Said one soldier rather wearily as he stared into my eyes with intensity for several minutes and he could not cut his gaze from mine until the dreaded whistle blew.

“Hurrah!” Shouted every man for miles around, as an entire chorus of Tommies sounded out their vain cry of defiance against the German guns. It reminded me of my childhood in Bedfordshire and how several gangs of children would play with their wooden guns on the pavement. These children nearly had to be muzzled by their mothers, when out in public, for they would nearly kill each other, when trying to mimic the viciousness and the hideous game that real soldiers would perform, when men killed men and nothing was done in pretence, but no lesson was learnt from childhood unto adulthood, too many had never learnt a thing on the pacifism and diplomacy between fellow human beings.

Men began to crawl up and out of their trenches, some rose awkwardly and then toppled over as the bullets whizzed by. The tempo of battle heightened, and tens of thousands of men streamed, gathered and dispersed from their trenches for miles around, as the living voluntarily gave themselves up for death.

The Captain ushered men forward, in was just another number and a rank, below anything to be considered worthy of saving.

“Forward men. No hesitation! Up and out, this is the great run for the Huns, we must take their line today!”

For all his talk of “we” and “us”, he himself did not partake in the bloodshed and the terror, he stayed behind to “inspect the trenches to see if any man would trouble the brigade with the dishonourable act of cowardice”. He was to stay behind in comfort and in relatively safe surroundings, “to keep a safe eye on the men advancing.”

A safe eye indeed!

The ladders had been mounted and men lined up, to leave the trenches, while our artillery blazed in the background- never fully penetrating the far reaching outer rim of the German lines- and it was my time to advance up from the earth unto no man’s land above with my brothers in arms.

A close friend called Barnes emerged beside me as we both trudged forward 10 paces in the muck, dodging rifles and machine gun fire. The howling war cry of mortar rained down on a pack of advancing Tommies who were immediately behind us.

“Run like men. Never crawl like a boy. We must run like men!”

Said Barnes in desperation as the bullets whizzed around us, and we ducked beneath barbwire and small wooden constructs that covered and defied our entry to the German lines.

“First line of wire”, I said to my friend.

“Yes. Lets get our clippers out!”

“Got them”, I said earnestly.

“Well then, over we go!”

Many of our friends around us were falling like flies to the German rounds that barked and whistled past our ears.

“Come on men, hurry up, this is only the first line, lets get going”, said the lieutenant, while he waved his hand gun in a dramatic gestation before he was shot and fell down stone dead into a puddle of muddy water.

“See you have to be careful, you have to conceal yourself when it’s feasible, it’s the logic in wars of attrition like this one”, said Barnes rather comically and yet with a tone of lamentation rising through his gruff voice.

“Yes, that’s true.”

Over we went through the first line of barbed wire in no man’s land, as our ranks were reduced and the charge grew to a crawl. That was the moment when I was to die, a sense of death extended or hovered over my body, and it seemed like the guns had actually ceased, for the briefest moment. No! I was trapped in a quagmire of muck that extended unto the second line of barbed wire, constructs and fences. How was any man meant to overcome the enmity of this lying land? Everything went against our very chances for survival. My feet were stuck in muck, I slopped about for a while, slinging through the muck.

“What’s wrong”, said Barnes carefully glancing over his right shoulder.

“Get down, cover yourself, and get behind me. I don’t want you to run ahead of me, since at least you don’t even have any wire clippers yourself. Let me run in front, I ordered desperately”

“What, you’re mad, do you want to die?”

“No! I just want to assist you and do my duty!”

Then as I pushed him aside, and strode forward, I could see that I had accidentally pushed him into a sinking quicksand of squelching muck.

“Hey wait! Come back!”

Prose piece -The cafe- Robert Fullarton 2014

Prose piece -The cafe-2014


Walking down the streets in the rain trodden ways of a dream.
A man in a cafe stares into the empty cylindrical glassy eyed waste of his worry.
Men and women sit in the sore presence of silence.
 She does not love him but stares out through the open cafe doors, the moon is wide, silver and enormous, like the gulf between him and her, time and space, today and yesterday.
Blue twilight fades and dimly twitches as the day yawns for rest into the night.
Alcohol  is knocked back like fire to madmen or the fire from madmen as they clamber and clamour the streets with noise by the side-streets. Fire lit luminosity reaches out from building to building as the night becomes alive in a falsetto pitch made by man when the sun descends.
Alcohol makes noise, mere noise from men that are afraid of truly speaking in their ordinary senses,
who forge fake courage from the bowels of their fear.  The cafe writers are so silent, you could almost mistake them for being part of the furniture itself.
My heart skips a beat, I stare into her eyes and write down the worthy words on paper....
The busker dances in desperation for the amusers to throw their coins, but he dances and he dances as the tempo lifts into a frantic staccato, he wares himself out, his legs give way, the music stops and he sighs into the firmaments with frustration in his heavy heart.

DO YOU LOVE ME?

 She glances with her hypnotic emerald gazes, stops and reads the message
and causally she writes....NO!

All the cafe goers depart one by one
going out into the night
as the dreams of yesterday go to bed
and the young idealists
throw off their ideals like suede coats
but dreams are not forever lost
its only love that often dwells
in the one and never in the other
twain and not together
........

 

Prose Poem....By the River at Dawn- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

 Prose Poem....By the River at Dawn

I speak of night becoming day, where morning birds feed from gaping waters pouring like offerings to a single gaze. The moment comes and night gives way to dawn, the rustic vision of the brown set against the darkness of the water, the opulent green shrubbery against the rocks, birds make home here, fishes school and learn for life, lonely men gaze out onto the dark waters and are free for just a moment, before their work begins. Take these waters and make them yours, all people, no matter how great their loss, are welcome where none are judged and all is found in fibers of silence and reflection. All solace is found in the gaze and delivered to the chest.

Vienna Prose piece- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

Vienna Memories

Mist is gathering in the center of Vienna.
There are lights beaming out from the Kafe haus Savoy
like a golden door fashioned by the ancient hand of a long dead goldsmith. The men and women are gathering in the marketplace hand in hand, measure for measure made to match.
These buildings made of marble, these palaces and fancy streets of the baroque are memorials to an empire dead and buried. The horse and cart, the man fettered to history in his old Regal costume holding the harness to the pale white horse, riding mile for mile searching for customers among the watchful bystanders that look and listen as the hoofs  fall upon the cobbled paths making tracks in thought and comfort through the plains of my moving heart.

Vienna in part reminds me of the labyrinth of the Minotaur, the cream white columned structures that spread out from the arteries of the city to the back streets....reminiscent of Prague's wonderful old town.
I think of Stefan Sweig, Rilke, Klimt and the dreams of Franz Kafka are alive and well while the mist
surrounds me as I approach the Stephansdome to sit upon a vacant chair, to stare and dwell upon a life revisited in the city of Vienna.

The Cannibals- Copyright- Robert Fullarton 2013

The Cannibals

Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013- Taken from Our Lives as Fiction

I saw a clan of cannibals sitting on the farthest reaches of a valley, they would not let any man from any other tribe, dividing clan or nation to pass trough unscathed or uneaten through the borders of the forest, near their own territories. Cannibals sought to segregate, because their terror worked in numbers, but when the huntsmen from the neighbouring castle came out to kill and slay their hated foe in submission, they could only successfully kill their enemies once they could part the great body of the herd away, so that each cannibal might be separated from one another and they did this through many a good mercenary, a good hired man, a good plausible diversionary tactic, they would separate and slay their enemies. But the rising law of the land was weak and foolish meddling men from the heart of the neighbouring townships brought the effective force of these huntsmen to an end. After a while with these social protectors disposed of, under the guiding folly of the law, the cannibals simply grew geometrically in number, they proliferated, they became more daring and more cunning than ever, more clustered and powerful in number. Their sheer numbers grew to be so taunting and daunting in size that the very public were afraid to step outside their own houses. The cannibals feasted off the bones of the old institutions, old authorities, powers, moral laws and judges, who were like lame, plum, blinkered turkeys that danced ever so stupidly beside the valley of the cannibals and that is why they were simply plucked up and devoured by the avaricious cannibals themselves.

After awhile the cannibals grew to be so powerful that they simply walked into the heart of the city, the townships and even the castle and they took control for themselves, all due to the follies, the appeasing stupidity and changes that were made by the stupid turkeys that were gobbled up by the cannibals. The cannibals have all the townspeople in fear, they frightened the people into believing in fables and lies for their own vainglorious exploits. These cannibals have convinced the children of the townspeople to become cannibals and they are all growing up to be and turning into cannibals, and this is why the growing rate of cannibalism is occurring in the town it is because a certain portion of the city’s populous is selected to be devoured for the greed of the cannibals. Where are the huntsmen of our long forgotten parental dreams? They are off in distant caves, hiding away like clandestine clams, as the over wrought nervous wreaks of society. The children are forming groups, they are becoming cannibals, they are starting to stare, and feed off anyone who even looks at them differently, what can we do?