25: Gland

Filks Wagon II -------------- Some way from the main entrance, two smokers, a minute wife with a minuscule husband, entered Peter ‘the visionary’ Edwards dilapidated tent at Peppins fairground and the name scrawled on the wad of a plot that coshed the leg. It wasn’t part of the bread and butter, the rice, potato or pasta amusements, though a gap between the larger tents that housed such glutinous entertainment, no less than Mr Richards Vintage Soap Curve and Albumens Egg Shy, did allow the small grace of a beam of light, creating a curt path to the opening should anyone happen to stumble there amongst the beginnings of the forest that stretched all around way off towards the hills, or, perhaps had in their possession a bloodied screenplay secured in a drooping fold of an empty gland. Of course some people actually paid admittance to the fair and shunned all else, bar the candy floss, to see the visionary in his element: prophesying , casting aspersions, body popping, all in the periphery, within the shadows. Lump and leg creature knew nothing of the act, though even a cursory perusal of the screenplay would have revealed what had, was and would happen to them, for the visions that conjured the babble mechanism of Peter Edwards were beyond the capacity of our linear perceiving structure. Even the sheet pushed into the front of the bound book saying please read this outline before returning had remained unread even though the leg had to constantly put it back the innumerable times it had fallen out.