Country Wild Kid

country_wild_kid

Country Wild Kid stands, tongue lolling and flapping in the wind, his mind loose and drifting like a plastic bag across the lonely fields. The saliva drips down onto his bare feet, sticky like honey and glueing up his hairy, mucky skin.  The itchy feeling spreads and blossoms but his mind can’t engage with tactile sensations right now, lost in the swirling trash of oblivion. He gurgles softly and the thought of a smile slowly enters his consciousness.

“Crack!”, a crow caws loudly and the rough, rasping echoes clatter around his empty thinking space. A word forms and this word is “What?” but he goes no further. He stands there thinking “What?” and the crow caws once more, a thick, gritty noise to chafe and tease a normal soul, but the bumpkin urchin is beyond reaching and he stands there still leering and gurgling by himself in a field.

No-one knows him, not here in the field where he stands and leers. Here he’s no-one and all alone he can do as he pleases. No, the trouble lies way back down the road in the town where the old ladies are scowling just at the thought of this wild child with his hanging tongue and the way he drools on the street and in their living rooms. Yes, now they know they shouldn’t have invited him in for a glass or two of lemonade and a cookie but some perverse optimism had lived in their old dresses and giving them the suggestion that such a lad would be a nice warm entertainment for a dull afternoon. But, no, he isn’t at all any kind of fun like other boys. He’s a mess and a pain and a force of his own.

So, thus, they disowned him and now this is how he came to wander up here, up the road and into the fields where he can stand.  Yes he can stand and let his tongue hang clear without those moaning, well-meaning old women huddling around him and trying to push back in his wild tongue with a big stick. He didn’t like that one bit, so he said (in his best voice) “No, thank you” and wandered off. And that was that.



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