Cul-de-sac sounds like the title given to a kingly heir of an ancient patriarchal dynasty. His ancestors would be the 'de-sacs' and his first name is 'Cul'. Cul wore billowy pants, a mean fraggily beard, and nothing else. He had many concubines and enjoying pillaging and painting. The lollipop road endings that are found in most suburbs today are a relic of old temples to the gods of the 'de-sacs'.
One awkwardly liminal boyish-man just happened to be driving down one such road in his 97' Saturn. It's gold paint was shiny and unvisited by pockmarks of rust and brittle steel. It looked new, but as if it had been new for a very long time. He drove down this winding asphalt path to a cul-de-sac encompassed by aged and arthritic trees. The sun was low in the sky, almost apologetically being sad to leave so soon. It poked through the leaveless forest carrying the shadows of the trees into long swarthy beams.
The gods of the de-sacs were very lazy, but extremely powerful. They are of minuscule size and loaf at their palace in an anthill on the other side of the swamp. Before the de-sac civilization left the surface for their underground chambers, they would practice rituals of encouragement and nagging to motivate the lazy gods to act on their behalf. Chosen priest would ride in 4 chariots down a long road and into the grand sacred dome. They then rode eight and a half times around in a circle and using tuning forks, located a certain frequency that would open up a direct resonance with the anthill palace.
As it so happens, the boyish-man was feeling emotionally distressed over this, that, and the other and he sought to distract his confounded mind. He flung himself into a sharp left turn of the steering wheel and squealed around the cul-de-sac eight and half times. Skidding to a stop, he was met with a swift and short and shivery breeze which made him uncomfortable. He flicked on the radio and adjusted its frequency to the classical station, 104.3 The Cream.
The sky inhaled deeply all the air in the world and held it in till it passed out and turned a bright gray. The shadowy sunbeams fractured over the ground they covered and a tremolo of a thousand tapping needles scuttled up from the earth and click-clacked across the ashen gravel; typing out some banal office memo about an invitation to a casual event.
To be continued... May be
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