Saturday, January 26, 2013

Boars were not the same as octopods.

This boar, a boar that dug a tunnel so, so far was impressive --a true spirit of determination and perseverance.

Eescaping the pit by doing exactly what pits do was something the writer would never have imagined. Yet, he woke, pen in hand, ink stained lips one morning, tired, and cold.

The last sentence in his notebook was, "The pig disappeared into the earth, boring through the surface of the planet and into another."

The window onto the fire escape was open, letting in cold feburary wind and there was a bacon-y smell.

"oh shit." He said to himself. "That was a horrible pun."

What was he to do now? He decided to go for a drive. And that is when the octopus crashed onto his car, into his life.

The octopus came through half blind. 


It itched constantly.

It was weak from the journey, the writer knew, and needed feeding. He understood the magic of octopods, and this particular the Octopus deeply.

The writer also knew the octopus would need help finding the boar, now, and . . . enacting whatever the octopus had planned for the boar.