The Drink Cart
I dreamt a story last night, about two farms on a rocky coast. The two farms were about five miles apart from each other, this proximity making them neighbors by virtue of the relative desolation of the surrounding land. It was a time of war, in a nation run by militaristic fascists. One farm embraced the call to arms and cooperated with the war-hungry government while the other refused to cooperate and fought to maintain independence. Each became the focal point for the two perspectives in this rural district, and the conflict between the two ultimately came to a head: the people who lived on the independent farm caught wind of an attack being launched on them by the militaristic farm.
Hearing of this, the grown-ups on the independent farm sent all the children to a safe place, miles away. By contrast, the children on the militaristic farm were given bits and pieces of old uniforms, and the older ones were given old rifles and shotguns. On the day of the attack, the independents assembled their best defenses, coordinated their escape plan through an old tunnel, and went about concealing as much of their valuable seeds and stores as possible. As they went about this work, one of them spotted the squadron of children headed toward the farm. There was no sign of adults to follow -- somehow, most likely through an error in planning -- the children had arrived early. The independent farmers hid and quickly came up with a scheme to keep the children out of the fight.
It so happened that the pro-military farmers had ignored their farming in favor of preparing for war, and had been forced to cut back drastically on food as a result. When the children arrived, they walked in amid the farm buildings, weary from carrying their heavy guns, and couldn't believe their eyes. In plain sight, with not a soul around, was a cart piled high with clean pails of chocolate milk, coffee milk, and fruit juices, with giant straws.
"Alllright!!!" shouted the children. They dropped their guns and piled around the cart and drank greedily, their soldierly aspirations forgotten.
Hearing of this, the grown-ups on the independent farm sent all the children to a safe place, miles away. By contrast, the children on the militaristic farm were given bits and pieces of old uniforms, and the older ones were given old rifles and shotguns. On the day of the attack, the independents assembled their best defenses, coordinated their escape plan through an old tunnel, and went about concealing as much of their valuable seeds and stores as possible. As they went about this work, one of them spotted the squadron of children headed toward the farm. There was no sign of adults to follow -- somehow, most likely through an error in planning -- the children had arrived early. The independent farmers hid and quickly came up with a scheme to keep the children out of the fight.
It so happened that the pro-military farmers had ignored their farming in favor of preparing for war, and had been forced to cut back drastically on food as a result. When the children arrived, they walked in amid the farm buildings, weary from carrying their heavy guns, and couldn't believe their eyes. In plain sight, with not a soul around, was a cart piled high with clean pails of chocolate milk, coffee milk, and fruit juices, with giant straws.
"Alllright!!!" shouted the children. They dropped their guns and piled around the cart and drank greedily, their soldierly aspirations forgotten.
posted by Mark at 11:13 AM
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