Motley Feudal Ties


I’ve come to love the silence.  Sheer silence follows the baying and bloodshed of the hunt, which makes a trampled cacophony of what the forest was born for.  The inescapable baying and the riotous bloodshed follow a frantic chase into oblivion and delight.  The inexhaustible chase follows closely all the paths and dimensions of mockery, I feel, although I could be wrong.

But if mockery creeps in then it creeps alongside the procession and paraphernalia of horses and hounds.  The proud trotting of the horses and the salivating of the hounds follows the donning of red, tightly buttoned-up with gleaming brass.  The fashion statement follows the unfathomable rise of etiquette.  Etiquette follows education and the glorious stay at Eton.  The little masters’ rifling alma mater is carved from mucky stone identical to the teetering stately homes, stained by tall chimneys and shown-up by chandeliers.  Their glittery crystals follow the sparkling, slimy design of sugar, sailing in from plantations.  The planter aristocracy follows after the money and money follows slavery, like hounds chase a bitch in heat.

Slaves, like emperors, are the offspring of empires – they lay kicking in the colonial womb.  The rationale for those colonies of ours follows on from the discovery that “god is an Englishman.”  And god’s Englishness blooms, mysteriously, from the sleight-of-hand announcement that our creator was made in man’s image, or vice versa.

But I digress.

This unchartered silence I’ve come to love so much… it cloaks all that dense sense of history and progress under tall, majestic canopies of leaves; these slowly begin hissing insults from the side-lines.  I applaud.  I taught them those insults.

Then silence pervades the forest again as slaughtered stags are dragged off to have their antlers mounted as trophies or hat-racks on custodial walls.  Generations of atrophied heads nod an acknowledgement of the ornament and sport.  I watch them pass down the long corridors like mammalian germs in hard arteries.  Yes, gazing in, endlessly, through ornate windows, stood sentinel by the family mausoleum, I swear by my deep roots that I will suck dry their noxious entrails before long.


This story was written in response to the yeah write challenge #179 – The following sentence must be the FIRST line in your submission: “I’ve come to love the silence.” You must also include a reference to the media prompt.  The other stories in the link-up can be read by clicking the image below.