A continuation of The Amazing Sasquatch and His Origamic Aeronautics
The woods were whispered, silent. The roar of the Wild One held every living thing. His wailing made them weep. The forest was in mourning.
The paper men had come from trees–folded, molded, breathed. Sasquatch in his laboratory. Suzanna, the oak who’d borne them–a light concave of open wood marking her side–held the woe the worst (mothered and robbed, budding babes…paper waste; lined; lifeless). Her leaves had begun to seize and fall, not missed and not bothered, as she focused the all of her longing on the dugged pit of their ever ending sleep. They were to be buried today.
Sasquatch spared no effort. Every method in which a hope might lay had been attempted. All of them had failed. He sat in his thinking hole, far off and far under–seldom traipsed upon by man and never seen by them–and thought. He had tried the breath of Enthor. He had tried the ancient rites. There was no book for this. His library was vast, ventilated and well lit. Here were the secrets of his order, the Earth. There were stone tablets and workings, books that man had never seen. There was no answer.
Of a sudden, a light inside the hole shined brilliant–THE IDEA! He vaulted up the shaft to the main of his earthen quarters with a freak strength and agility never strange to himself.
The three lifeless paper men lay in their bed, pedestaled and illuminated in the Room of Greatest Journey, lighted by the sisters of Elsinor. With careful hand he lifted them, resting each in his calloused palm–the three of them no bigger than a hummingbird apiece, still and nestled there like tiny eggs, warmed by the gentle hand, the bestial heat.
Outside in solemn sobbing, he clicked the handheld remote, the garage door gave a beep and opened with much tussling of twiggature and rustlings of leaves. Inside was a climate controlled hideaway, no smaller than any university’s gymnasium. Inside were parked a Lexus, a Mercedes, and a BMW–flawless and perfection. In each he placed a paper man, and in each he turned the fine ignition. Purrings. He closed his eyes. The hummings of the great all-masters, all-bated breaths, conquerors of weighted depths and gated death. A distant rumbling. The parting of the clouds. The bright flash of everything. Swallowed. Birthed.
The heaven’s harpist played the notes of eversongs of yore.
The lightening flashed to give the dashed a paper life once more!