A Dance With Orthodoxity
Kristoffer Lawson
4th Jan 2004


Cone people. Hats inside. They took their bags with them. Fortified. They
walked their way. Black circles within one another, pleading to their
mothers for mercy never-given. I found a small apple inside one and tasted
it. Dropped it on the floor in horror. Cleaned it with a spade. Die, vulgar
being. Squashed it tired. My cute friend.

Within the apple I found a rusty piece of wire, tied up in a knot. I put it
in my mouth, it tasted spicy. Tied it to my teeth, they broke. I swallowed
them.

Three days later I excreted them from my body. Fine white pearls, cultivated
within me. 

I took them outside to see the cone people. My teeth said, "Hello". The cone
people looked back, blank expressions victorious. I told them they are my
very own pearls and I took care of them for three days. They said that
was horrible. I told them they shouldn't say that. Pearls are valuable
and I made them. I used a rusty wire from my friend the apple. My cute
friend. The one I killed.

The cone people took me by my hand and showed me a bright fountain on the
outskirts of the city, built of marble. They told me to put my pearls in the
water. To let them go and grow. I dropped them one by one. Plop plop plop.
Ripples swimming across the surface of the water, mixing with each other.
Liquid swirls. The cone people held tight to their bags. Please, don't drop 
bags into the fountain. Pearls only. Maybe a coin.

They said not to be sad. The pearls would grow and grow and become part of
the marble fountain. They lied. My pearls never grew into anything. They
just disappeared forever. My beauties. I hate cone people. Cone people and
their promises. Cone people and their fat leather bags. Cone people with
their toothy grins eating apples. I cleaned a few of them with my spade.