Swamp by Polyraspad
Herotomost here Toads, trying to do a good deed in exchange for my bad deed of forgetting my Friday Challenge last Friday. Shay asked if I could fill in this week and after much begging and gnashing of teeth, Kerry relented but, then quickly indicated that it does not solve the issue of my probation for missing my post. She also indicated that I must still wear the manacles and leather chaps through the remainder of the month....not sure what the leather chaps are about but hey, do the crime...yeah, yeah.
So here it goes...picture a Louisiana swamp, not a roadside swamp. I am talking a back woods, have to fight alligators and water moccasins and giant spiders, while poling your skiff across murky green-brown water. The smell of decay so thick that when you blow your nose, mushrooms cover the paisley pattern of your handkerchief. What the hell are you doing here? This no place for a writer of your caliber. No place for someone with your delicate sensibilities. No place for a Toad that belongs writing poetry in the Garden of the Gods. It so happens, that while having a plate of crawfish and a couple of high balls at Shreveport's finest dining establishment, you over a heard a young woman sobbing while talking to an old man at a corner table. You cocked your ear and heard a story of misery and woe from the woman and a tale of a perpetually young boy of 12 who knows the Universal Truth, from the old man. You overheard directions and warnings, the exchanging of coin and a trail of endless thank you's as the woman rushed out the door. You turned to grab your bag from the back of the chair, intending on joining the old man to get more details on just what this man believes is the secret to life, the universal truth, but when you turned back he was gone. With what little description you gleaned and armed with a sense that this would make the greatest story ever, you man (or woman) up and go in search of the Universal Truth.
Deep in the swamp you come across a dilapidated wooden structure, a shack on stilts. On the porch is what looks to be this twelve year old boy. You climb from your skiff and make your way on to the porch. As you approach, you look into the brown eyes of the boy and your heart stops beating in your chest. You hook gazes with the boy whose eyes are empty and full at the same time. When you look deeper you can see the universe spinning in each eye, stars forming, planets winking out, the cries of an infinite number of organic life forms. You snap out of your trance long enough to ask him the question......"What is the Universal Truth?"
|Wall Art - Isla Holbox Mexico|
And he says......
Oh, this is your part dear Toads....please put it the form of an ancient Aboriginal stone carving. Not!!!!! You know you can use any form that you would like....poem, short, flash, incomplete sentence, billboard. But I want to know what the boy says, can it be true? Is it just hyperbola, is he Tony Robbins son? Who knows...oh wait, you do. Muster what you can and thanks for being patient and reading through this little scenario, I am sure it will produce some great writing. Off to Vegas for a wedding, will read throughout the weekend as I can. Love you all and have a great weekend.