Frum (apparently)

Rummaging through the Writing folder in My Documents the other day (there's a lot of junk in there, it's like Steptoe's attic), I came across a file titled 'Frum'.

I opened the file to find (and I quote verbatim and in its entirety):

"Waking to the sound of Weetabix, slowly making its way northwards through pine needles and octopus. I hear elephants in the mist, between the ravines, where the men in dark shorts are carving a pole into the wood.

The stars rattle in a tin next to the bed frame. I push the limit of the popstop, and the wooden tongue lols from the face mask. A hundred beetles scurry across a tourmaline floor, polished  aqua over a frozen waterfall, There is a smell of dust and years. The pages of the book turn slowly in the flat breeze. Yellowed words, once full of meaning, songs of whats and elsewhere, but now forsaken. The man with the totem over his shoulder shrugs and bathes the wood in orange light. It is his ritual and he will die with it. The sand beneath his feet is spotted with blood. She came here once, but not again, because the tourmaline snow was too strong and burned her skin.  Somewhere there is snow again, but not in this place where the pale wood  has a fragrance of seal oil and cinnamon leaf. Too many bones have laid here in the future and in the past.

The moonlight scatters over the tendrils of the bone plants, poking their heads through the canopy of leaves, carrying their mothers in vicious jaws of ice. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Beneath the hair there is a troll, sat squat eating an omelette. The omelette is made from the eggs of the googoo bird which flies beyond the green lime shores. When the troll has finished the omelette I think he will eat Father Christmas, who is unfortunately not made of jam. If only I had a farthing then I could spin that bottle and make an ice lolly. It doesn't do to cross a zebra twice. only the rich can do that and they are more interested in water skiing, the  troll does not go skiing his legs are too short also he does not like snow."

I was confused by this at first. I've never been wired up quite right, but this seemed rather off the wall even for me. Then I remembered that I'd done it as a 'free thinking' exercise, where you have to write as fast as you possibly can without worrying what it is you are putting down, just to get the creative juices going.  So that was reassuring....I think!

Tendrils of the Bone Plants
(or possibly the trees at the bottom of my garden)

All the best, Mir xxx