Harvester of Horror
And they stared into the abyss. Underfoot lay damp crumpled leaves, mingling stones and twigs, all enmeshed with unctuous woodland squelch. The Timberlands held firm, the logo visible – but tarnished. Trails, wisps and eddies of curdling fog slowly wound and wound, in-spiral tango - upwards and upwards towards oblivion. Beneath the precipice shone the 80′s film set under-glow. Half human, and half cinema they stood there, motionless.
“Its not safe here, is it, it…”
”No off course it f-fucking isn’t”
“Dont you think…”
Until this moment, time had followed its usual course. The sweating BPM blips, the clammy cold sweat hands, and the flick switch glances had all died down – they had all died down to simple, simple, fear.
“Derryl, how did we get here? I mean this is so kind of, offff…whats tha///”
1,2,3,4,5, snap fracture and splinter. The bark from the surrounding trees cracked and split, revealing white husks unseen. The trees leaned in. The stars switched off and across the cold black sky the rustling canvass caved in. As the first leaves touched their frozen bone white cheeks someone flicked a switch.
Derryl stared at the remains of his ‘Chicken in a basket’. He was laughing at a joke that had eminated from his nuclear father. It didn’t make sense but everyone else was laughing- so he did to. As the steroid pumped swill churned around his mouth he wondered why his father kept glancing at the waitress. Some breadcrumbs plunged towards the peas and mayo. Once again he realised he really, really, really liked Harvester.
The waitress slipped on slapstick prop & dad broke wind
Mum said: “This isn’t fucking garfunkles you spanner”.
Everything was in its right place.
The room temperature was approximately 22 degrees Celsius, and it would remain so until the sun died. Nothing would ever change here, becuase here lies suburbia in all its polysterene glory.
Zone 4 forever.