Two Trappists

I might have taken a walk in the country. Anyway, I ended up there.
Came to surrounded by trees and the smell of animal droppings. Various.
A flame licked out of a hole in the ground and then it was gone. Maybe it wasn’t there in the first place. I don’t know.
Fast twitching feeling in my fist.
Next, I’m chewing on the bird. Waxy feathers, snapping bones and pops of blood; tough, stringy sinew and blobs of tasteless fat.
Then I’m tossing them in, one after the next.
When I’m full, I feel sick and think about vomiting.
Realise that if I do, I won’t stop. Imagine looking down at a spittly, slimy pile of feathers and flesh.
I gag.
There is a pub on the corner of a road that wasn’t there before. A replacement for the birdsong; distant murmurs accompanied by clattering glasses. The odd laugh.
Mostly, all I hear are the branches fighting for my head.

Spend the rest of the afternoon drinking with a woman who, by rights, ought to be dead.
I know her, but she’s not alive anymore and yet, there she sat, smoking and drinking like billy-o.
She tapped the budgerigars cages on her way to the toilets and cackled.
“Get the drinks in, you old bastard,” she aimed at the roof, at me, “I’m dry as a cuttlefish bone.”
Then she flashed one, young eye.
“Two Trappists.” I say.
“Right you are.” the publican answered.

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