Lord of Barns
The Lord of Barns jiggled his bejewelled rack of black smelling keys locked like birds in his great tailored pockets of salt and old comets and, panting like an onion of parrots, took up the nearest telephone in that great old hallway and began to beat several large helpings of conversation out of it. There were a number of especially prickly conversations he was dragging from the device. The one about blood clots made his head blossom into eight great blisters of crumbling pie crust, and an especially vibrating one had his eyebrows smoking peculiar secret codes nobody outside of one lonely French outcast in a cabin in the North Pole could decipher. When he did decipher it he made the decision to draw maps of imaginary cliffs for the next several years in dark rooms with faltering lamps, and the whole thing became extremely unsettling.
Driving from Melbourne to Adelaide, the Lord of Barns lights the radio dial with a sweet pile of odd cigarette glow which flickered against the numbers decalling the perspex radio screen. There was still a long series of corners and hills to negotiate with his Stingray vehicle, and he had not even really approached Mount Gambier yet. Outside the moon hung like an arbour of wheatgerm over the bleak road he was forging along. Fish hissed in the far off oceans behind numerous outcrops of petrified pine. The night wore on.