Monday, May 15, 2017

Limewood’s Penchant for Catastrophe

Two poorly carved curved wooden ornaments meant
for a fancy mansion to add accents to an English
renaissance elm table in the dining room were,
just as soon as seen as having been designed ineptly,
dumped directly into some bleak yard in back where
discards, faux pas, broken rakes and other undeserving

bits of waste lay waiting for whatever next demise
would be their dreary destiny. But these two poorly
carved curved wooden ornaments would not put up
with this: to be dismissed disgustedly did not accord 
with their exalted self-esteem. Sufficiently infested with
their rage, they schemed – and planned their vengeance.

They could make a plan because the man who undertook
to undertake them into being gave them sentience.
Some artisans who work with certain kinds of lumber find
they too can do that. Grinling Gibbons, for example,
gave his carvings psyches, souls and minds because
he worked in limewood. The sad fact for their enemies

was that these poorly carved curved wooden ornaments
were limewood too. Sentient limewood also lined
and framed a good part of the mansion readily in view.
Limewood could send soundless messages to other
limewood radially within half-a-mile. And so a revolution
was fomented that quite made the elm wood table’s owner

lose his smile. How the limewood’s grand collective plan
began and then proceeded to succeed to make the stout 
elm table rot we cannot after all divulge. If we did, we fear
we’d make the limewood mad. Limewood’s penchant
for catastrophe is not a penchant we would press
it to indulge. The outcome would be very bad.


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