A gift from the Gods squandered by dogs

Everyone forgets that the skies are heavy. They are held up not by air but by Atlas as a sentence. For betraying the Titans and joining the Olympians in a great war nearly three thousand years ago. Atlas’ brother, Menoetius was banished by Zeus for the same crime to the Tartarus a pitch black pit for all of eternity. Atlas however was sentenced to hold the heavens for just as long. Atlas carries a permanent Grimace on face from straining to hold the load he bears.

Metestophles is flying through the air looking for fun and sinners souls to collect. He flies softly through the air and spots the giant holding Ouranos (the Sky). His pace slows and he feels an odd sensation of pity coursing through his veins. He stops, “Atlas” he says. “Not all punishment need seem so bleak! I will lend you my generosity and will ease your torture if only briefly”. Metestophles looks around himself and sighs loudly whilst wiping his brow. “Hungry work this holding the heavens stuff” he says teasingly. “And so close to the sun too, you must be parched.” A strange look comes across Atlas’ face. It’s definitely anger but not as you would usually expect to see it. As if after all these years he had forgotten how to be, if not show the emotion. Probably a cause exacerbated by the more pressing matters at hand(s). “Come now, I meant nothing by it. Here take a gift that will refresh, revitalise and remind you of how strong you can be. Take the weight of the heavens in one hand and hold out your other, there will be a reward in it for you, so I can pay you for your hard work.” Despite a lack of enthusiasm, and a distaste for the extra effort he would have to endure, he was to say the least a little curious.

So obediently he follows the lame-legged beasts’s command. Within seconds his hand is filled with the most mouth-wateringly beautiful strawberries. Atlas’ mouth gushes with saliva like Pavlov’s dog waiting for a door to open. He is overcome with temptation and greedily gobbles them down. But in the gregarious guzzling haphazardness of it all, one elusive berry gets away and plummets perilously closer to the earth. Down and down it goes faster and faster, quicker and quicker. Atlas winces as he braces the full weight of the heavens again. Old Beelzebub begins to laugh demonically, and when his final chortle is chortled he like the sound is gone. Vanished into stale air. Atlas, alone again is left emotion-filled. Anger, perplexing thoughts and sorrow are present but what sticks with him the most is this more-ish , unquenchable taste left in mouth. His tongue now cotton in texture makes his hell more hellish, his torture more tortured and his anguish, well you get the picture.

Back to the strawberry, hurtle it hurtles a long blurred streak pink, red and purple. If this giant strawberry had a brain, a mouth and an education to try in this moment, to articulate its final thoughts – Nothing profound would come out. The word “Splat” would be seared on its mind. Land is approaching, an island to be precise, with the half crooked smile of the Thames becoming ever closer and larger. Buildings become visible ,a town square in its surrounding with a large woodland area in the middle. It looks as though this is where the monolithic berry [if only a brambler could be here to see this, they would have a field day (I know bramblers bramble in fields all the time but you know what I mean. So stop being pedantic)] is going to... “SPLAT.”

But this ‘splat’ doesn’t quite describe the efficacy of its meaning. That word on this paper in this font is small. It’s like a baby slapping away the spoon his mother is trying to feed him with and his mushed up carrot mash gloop-s onto the floor. All because the baby is thinking ‘ doing the train noises are we? “choo-bloody-choo” I think not. It’s the plane or nothing at all. And it’s first class both ways love’

No! This ‘splat’ must be colossal, like that of a volcano erupting liquid hot custard or a geezer firing peanut butter fifty feet. Imagine if you will the word ‘SPLAT!!!’ written on a piece of paper covering a football field in Times New Roman font, formatted in the blackest of blacks. Bold no less. With three exclamation marks the size of Mohican-less palm trees, under-dotted by freshly inked ‘mini-cooper’ sized pogo sticks and yes it’s underlined the whole hog! So in laymen terms “splat”! On impact the strawberry looses a sixth of its mass like an optical illusion it appears to sink into the ground, when in actual fact it just mushes into it (for lack of a technical term). Pulpy mess everywhere... I mean everywhere! In schools, zoos, in a vicars eyes as he blindly baptizes a baby in strawberry juice not Holy water (inconsequentially that little boy grew up to be the lead singer of a well known band called ‘Pulp’ . Coincidence? Probably not really). Pulp in glasses, faces, trousers, pants, highways, it hits people in the front, the back and even from sideways. It didn’t hit the Denton family home though (they had recently had it refurbished and it would have been quite an inconvenience. Well for now anyway. Karma raises his head after hacking on a Hookah pipe and slowly exhales his thick strawberry tobacco smoke, like a heavily fanned fog and calmly says ”it hasn’t gone unnoticed dear reader, what goes around comes around).

So Fenly Close is now a mishy-mashy and dare I say it mushy mess! But my word what an exquisitely delicious mess it is. People are literally eating their way out from their viscous prisons. Once everyone has escaped, the town crew together (it’s strange how it takes shocking things to build community) to adorn the Rudolf-red strawberry that is perched drunkenly on Fenly Close in its own juices. Oh the rumour mill begins with quiet speculations which build up to large interrupting estimations like an audio speaker version of ‘connect four’.

“is it me or is that a giant strawberry?” said a local.

“Yeah and where did it come from?” said another.

“It’s from Hell!” said the vicar brandishing his crucifix aggressively.

“No it’s a miracle father” said Jeremy Denton completely dry, bar the lashings of man-made waves he had made whilst wading through the shallow end of the jam in his wellington boots. “look at our house” he said whilst pointing proudly, “not soiled in anyway”. Murmurings of discontent circle through the crowd.

Eventually everyone calmed down and went to their homes some of course more soiled than others. Everyone had agreed that for now the Strawberry would be left and that tomorrow a decision would be made as to how to deal with the epic fruit. That was of course failing anymore aerodynamic God-sized Ma-Hu-sive fruits arrive from the sky before then.

It is night now and the night is still. The moon is bright, the air mild and there is not a single cloud in the sky. It is a nice night to fall asleep on. But people aren’t sleeping though, no one is. Everyone is hungry and everyone has the same taste to quench. One-by-one, not to any of each of the neighbours knowledge the whole town goes to the Strawberry. One-by-one they chisel large pieces of strawberry out, some as much as they can carry.

The next day is born, grey clouds loom like moody, bloated velvet vultures. Everyone in Fenly Close seems to leave their homes at the same time and upon seeing a space where the Strawberry should be everyone runs to see what’s happened. But running is made difficult as all are weighed down with guilt and full bellies. Everyone is low, heads held down surrounding the remaining core of the strawberry.  Even the vicar after previously wanting to exorcise this devil-red demon admitted all with one distinct vacant look of culpability.

But then he notices something sticking out of the core, it’s a yellow container small in size. “it’s a Kinder egg surprise” shouts a boy.

             “I know” says the vicar fibbingly.

“can I have the toy?” asks the boy

            “No you bloody can’t “ snaps the boys older plumper sister. “You’ve done enough greedy guts” she says even more viciously than the last. The vicar interjects,

“that’s enough! We’ve all done enough, some more than others” he says whilst gesturing the plump one to wipe the evidence from her mouth. She proceeds to blush Strawberry-red. The vicar opens the egg shaped box with great care. Inside is a piece of paper which opens to A4 size. There is writing on it. The vicar reads “Sons and daughters, you have been impure, you have sinned and must be punished. To be tempted and thus succumb to greed is the most impure of sins. Adam and Eve fell first, Cain and Able second and now you have followed suit.  It appears the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I will enact forty days of rain, forty days of drought and fifty hours of the same Fraiser episode. From this day Fenly close is no more it will be renamed Strawberry Hill. The fruit was a gift from the Gods and you squandered it like dogs! Learn from your mistakes and let shame be the fuel that gets you there.

 

P.S. Yours sincerely GOD...The Holy Ghost, oh and Jesus says hello too.

 

Metestophles is laughing from a nearby cloud. I knew there would be trouble but this is great. This is how TV should be. What is it with Humans and fruit? A quince a strawberry I think I’ll try a banana next for Faust’s sake.  Back at the circle of doom the township remain silent. But after awhile Mr. Denton looks up with a little bit of cheer. “Well it’s not that bad. Forty days of rain ok, well it is England. And forty days of drought, well ok so it’s a hose pipe ban big deal. We can save the water from the forty days of rain. And anyway there’s Sainsbury’s, I personally prefer Evian anyway. Plus I like Fraiser! Every cloud and all that, I think we got off lightly”.

“Lightly eh?” says God, “Let there be light” he bellows as he simultaneously fires a bolt of lightning from his infallibly moisturised hand directly onto the Denton family home, which blows up immediately.

And then through a fog of strawberry-tobacco-smoke not too far away and as calm a Hindu Cow, Karma says “I wouldn’t like to say I told you so, but...” and just like that he was gone.