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Seth of the Cesspit
Seth Smith had a stinking cephalic cold. He resided at Spring Farm in South Surrey.He arose slowly and sniffed. He had a sinking feeling because it was Sunday.
Slowly, he stumbled across the farmyard - passing sheep, calves, sows, swans and cygnets. A centipede sidled by and sat in the sun. Cyrano the Springer Spaniel squatted under the Cedars, which were somewhat ceduous.
A sinister sound soared through the celery seedlings sewn by Cyril the celibate Cellarman. Seth shivered subtly as Salome the secretary slunk seductively by - her sleepy eyes surrounded by Surma.
Certainly, it was a spooky Sunday.
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Seth strode toward the centre of the farmyard. Several Centurians in surplice and suspender suits swaggered past in stony silence - their cellophaned shins shiny in the sunlight. Seth saluted ceremoniously. In doing so, his foot slipped and surpassing all suprising situations, Seth suspired on the sward, his sandals circumambulated the air for a second, then he sploshed into the cesspit.
Slowly, slowly he sank (squelching somewhat chagrined) to the seventh cervical veribrae. Seth shouted,
"Save me, someone. Cyril is censurable - cursed cesspit. Save me, I need censing..."
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Sadly, Seth was silenced in his sibiliance as the slime swamped his oesophagus. Suddenly, Seth was completely swallowed up. To summarise; Sullen or sultry Sundays seem to summon the spirit of Seth Smith from the sump. His spectral shape is seen superincumbent upon the cesspit at sunset, and supernatural sounds saturate Spring Farm.
A supertragic story for sure!
©The Poetic Priestess 2002
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