Edicius Ran From A Runner
Edicius Ran From A Runner
Part 1:
Before time was ticking I was walking and whisking my way around a bit of land we adamantly argued against each other that it was referred to as Miscommunication Nation in these parts and over the land before though it was for sure referred to as something other than that which we are referralating to it now as. Regardless and henceforth, me and my journal will be keeping track of what it will be called and that is to be the being of it all.
It was Hermes. Yes e’er so fast and credulous with those boots so flashy I wished upon a morning star that I had one. I shall wish as well to that I could crack him in the abdomen and vanish with those sequined foot bitches. They say Hermes was born in a flash fire that was burning a firefighter, fighting, strangely enough, an old hag armed with a jalapeno bush. Irrigation wasn’t enough to quench the fire of his mothers loins and sprung forth like a spruce Hermes sprouted flamingo legs in a sprint forward. As you know flamingo legs aren’t that fast on land and to which we will get to the discussion discussing the ample toe covers stretching up through and beyond the ankle, very well considerably even, to his thigh which was at least a flaming flamingo high. It matters nothing anyways, the story could douse itself out of the flaming foot fetish we are debacle-ing, if we don’t move on.
Part 2:
It was ever so long ago, maybe a minute or two back when we were miniature versions of our elderly selves, basically a time period sometime about now, I met this flaming phalanges on a track of earth and to a spinner spider duel I challenged him. Even before he accepted I began shaking my hand and exploded out of the gates like the Challenger space shuttle. His flamingo legs began whirl cranking around in his piston shafted hips until he finally caught a fraction of traction. His pointy knees flipped and flailed about causing several on lookers, who even now I know were just my journal and his pages, a bag of bruises. Those knees whipped and whistled, beating the earth backwards and as I domino’d my way across town he was barreling backwards, several miles behind the start line which we also deemed the finish line. I still had most of the earth to cover and he was nearly done with the race!
Something had to be done fast, so I asked a passerby if he could bless my feet to which he said he had no time, but behind him was me and a few others of whom were dressed as priests. It came to me as if a dream occurred that there I realized I was asleep on the road merely a few feet from the finish line but one of the priests must have overheard me ask the elderly man streaking past me for a miraculous blessing. He took the dirt in his hands and chanted a bit that sounded like buzzing bees and dogs barking and formed the dirt to a throne, a dirty throne the bastard tried to give me! I mistook my foot for a sock and socked him in the socket and Haberdashery, he was the referee, gave me a white flag as I blazoned past the finish line. It was true! The priest was no priest perhaps a prophet with dirty hands who was betting on the race.
One more lap to go, oh no I can see Hermes in my rear view mirror and he’s crossing the finish line! I thought, but it was just that, a thought that perhaps a series of mirrors was strapped to my head. But then it was true and the good news is they were strapped on backwards and it wasnt Hermes in my rear view it was me!
Barnacles became his name after he lost that race to me. Me and my journal decreed in an odd sort of cadence reminiscent of a really long and unpopulated cave, the kind where you find grizzly bears and abnormally huge but otherwise harmless spiders that you cant see because its dark.
