The Wax Conspiracy

Time beat the drum and cymbals to a clang of their own discontent

Waters in the table below a farmer's black market on the outskirts of Cowra in New South Wales were far below the expected. Taking no chances by his crop, a farmer by the name of Datenda Taoust enlisted three travellers. Travellers who would be paid to provide music for the soil feeding his plants and for the livelihood of roots making purchase of the nutrients within.

Of a naked ambition and as much clothing, a brunette named Cleta danced possessed around the perimeter of the property. As of the last sighting by the group, she was to have turned the corner of the far eastern plot. Seven hours would soon pass since she began her rhythmic steps before either one of them poured a glass of water on the first groove.

Near him stood a mute, unspoken child, by the name of Erma. Short by the plight of pox that swept her small village, Erma was far taller than the corn stalks left willowing in the winds. Folding the dust and dirt below her feet, an intricate pattern unfolded with each step. In a mathematical design not unlike a Fibonacci spiral, her only obstacles were the house, the fence and rotting carcases abuzz with flies the size of her thumb.

Keiko, the assumed leader of the three and sporting the feet of crows all over her face, stood not more than one metre from daughter of Taoust and proceeded to scream.

Weeks later, as the three converged upon a point several countries from their initial engagement, a cry was to be heard as the thankful farmer now found his farm under the auspices of the local bank. Foreclosure taking hold of the property when Taoust, who had lived all his life on the land, was unable to pay the mortgage for the seventh month in a row.

Doldrums of the drummers thumb hums for the numb farmer.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 23 November 2005

The Wax Conspiracy

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