Down in the town there existed a temple. The temple was vast and roofless, its columns reached up to the clouds. In the centre of the temple there stood, taller than a sycamore tree, a goat. The goat was not the only presence in the temple. As though unaware of the goat shaped elephant in the room, there also sat a troop of pedagogues and shriekers.
The unappointed troop were locked in frantic discussion, deciding what was to be done with the town's oral histories. They had decided it was their responsibility to document and index these histories. The troop used the words 'document' and 'index', but they really meant package it for sale to the highest bidder. Sway the unspendable currency.
The temple filled over time with townsfolk eager to speak with the goat, lay flowers at its feet and see it chew out fire. However, the troop went on discussing, even when the temple was ram-cram and they could no longer hear each other's voices.
© Curtis Ackie 2022
M. Florine Démosthène, It Won't Fall Apart