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Once Upon A Timeshare

On the eve of a meltdown of mythical proportions, the boy set off for free market with the cow - a catalyst for economic change. Like the poor have known since crises immemorial, assets become expenditure fast. Rent was due. Again.

Jakeís mother counselled her first born on the pitfalls of permaculture, as she crouched over compost and cradled her fourth child. (The other three slept. Better than to be awake and hungry.)

"I... I donít want to sell Daisy, sweet. But..."

"Itís not strictly speaking selling; itís exchange. Mutualism is the future, mother."

"Is that right, Professor?" she said, straightening Jakeís hair with wetted fingers.

Then, "I want you to be careful of..."

"Strangers bearing beans of prodigious reproductive powers?"

"Just donít get mystified my boy. Not all that glitters."

Brought up on free-living convoys, on boats and in camps the length and breadth, the familyís recent petit-bourgeoisification pleased the boy. He liked living in a house, like normal folk-tale folk. The giant would need slaying of course.

I'll marmelise him, bragged Jake.

Dutch courage had yet to fade. His mettle had been fortified by a swig of schnapps his mother had hoped would embolden him. A nifter of the hard stuff. It was to become Jake's modus operandi in all subsequent post-modern adventures. Sign of the times.

They lived as happily ever after as it gets - though there was business with the nightmares. And Jakeís retching. And the axe.

Story by:

Phil Doran

magicphil@btinternet.com

submitted at 9:14pm

9 May 2009

Phil Doran's web:

http://thespaghettifaction.blogspot.com