The Man, the Field and the Porridge Oats.

I don’t know how we ended up in this place. My memory doesn’t allow me to remember. We walk up and down this field many times each day. Those that escape through the hedged borders of this field only return solemn faced. Never again meeting anothers eye. There is an electric power line running through the centre of the field. Standing tall and defiant. Outside of the man’s reach. Some try to climb to the top but they never come back down again. The clouds forbid us to see.

No matter how hard we try, we simply cannot talk to eachother. The words do not form in our mouths. It’s been so long since another has graced my ears with conversation. All we do is endlessly walk up and down this field for a reason I cannot fathom. Every week the man will come in a range rover through the gate and unload a mound of porridge oats. This is our excitement. I’m too hungry to question what’s in the porridge oats. We scramble over each other in a frenzied race to reach the pile. shoving as many handfuls of porridge oats down our throats as we can manage.

He will observe us for quite some time while we eat. Removing those that begin to form words with their mouths. Those that learn to stand upright from all fours. Those that begin to question the porridge oats. Those that are simply unhealthy, no longer providing whatever it is the man needs.

While I chew my porridge oats I look up to the powerline. The clouds have dispersed. I can see them clearly. I stand upright and gaze above me. I hear laughter and conversation. They’re forming words! The man in the range rover cannot reach them so they are happy. Yet they can’t eat. Soon they will have to come down and share the same fate all of us are bound to. I quickly fall down to all fours. Every day more and more join us.

I don’t know what will happen in the future.

 

 

Author: Jack Bennett

Born and raised in Torquay, England. 21 years old. Teeming with thoughts that need an outlet, working a full time job at his local supermarket. Unfortunately born a poet, he will most likely suffer from this contradiction most of his life.

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