The Cerebral Catalyst

Bird flu? Bird flew. Flu to the ends of the earth. The corners,
that is. That is, there are things, Atlasian things, in the
corners. Things too loud for my taste. She never even had a
cough, he said of his fair-feathered fowl. A hunting bird, the
last of its kind. We were last in expressing our needs. It took
time to spread.

It took time to flu. The fervor had died down. Fewer was
not the answer. Slaughter was laughter, he laughed when he
saw it. He'd be saying it for years. From the corner
someone asked, "did she have it?" She never even had a
cough. Things too loud for my taste. The fever was just
beginning.

We were watching it all die down. Amidst downy blankets
& feather-stuffed pillows we were waiting. A parcel of trees,
the last of its kind. Because the gods were consistently
honest. We were the last in expressing our needs. We were
watching from trees. Hunting birds. To the ends of the
earth.

______________________________________
Cait Stuff writes, reads, works, and rents her authorial skills to others for beer money. Because her teleportation skills aren't what they used to be, she does all of this by only sleeping in small chunks.

Posted 11.12.07.

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