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Rated: E · Short Story · Folklore · #1866169
This is an odd wee story.
The Meox

It never dawned on he on approaching the town
That the story's he'd come by were true.
And the silver smoke rose from the hill by the meadow
And all who befell the sight knew.
That the Meox was stirring, as out from his bed
With inflatable hands and a spiky blue head
His, skinny as chicken legs, knee's knocking loudly
To warn of his rising, so leave at his stead

The children had told him, as often before
That the Meox would wander confused.
Not a soul came around him, as often was said
There was venomous rage in his heart crimson red.
He tore and he mangled and left in his wake
Destruction and squalor, and fine smelling cakes.
A peircing shrill wail, not a howl or a snarl
Would signal the Meox's ensnare

Then silence ensued, the air rang in silence,
Heads peaked from house doors ajar.
Unnatural silence, the eye of a storm
With chills in the sunshine, and shadows were warm.
Ludicrocity. He muttered. It couldn't be true.
Such a being was fiction, was something he knew.
Took upon himself, sword in hand
To seek out the truth, free enslaved in this land.

He strolled, not a care, past the meadow and hill.
Where the smoke was not rising, but hanging quite still.
To where the Meox lived, a shack made of pickles.
Ludicrocity, the muttered, it felt all too fickle.
Still to the shack, he crept like a shadow
Knelt by the door, by the pickles and meadow.
Pushed open the door, it felt cold and quite sticky.
And looked on the Meox, it looked almost pretty

Astonished, he looked at the being in question,
It's weeping, it's shudders, too much to mention.
Tears fell down quick from its silvery eyes.
But silently sat by the fire to cry.
He stood for a moment unseen by the door.
Till the Meox sat upright, then jumped to the floor.
In a flash, in which that he couldn't have moved
The Meox lept for him, and suddenly glued
To his chest in an almighty hug, which he used
His inflatable boxing glove hands, and felt soothed.

He peered at the being, attached to his breast
It's tears staining his tunic a mess
But he smiled and he sighed, and he bought him in closer
And in an less than an instant, he knew.
But his story was lost there, he was not seen again.
The rumours ran thick far and wide.
Then how did we hear all the story so true?
When only the Meox knew.
Consider this also, as you sift through the sand
How difficult's typing, with inflatable hands




Meox. adj.
         (1) To Meox. S/he is Meoxeded
         (2) To completely U-turn on a situation. (a)"she Meoxeded and changed her mind. (b) Driving Instruction          "Perform a Meox after the next junction"
         (3) To result to ultimate Ludicrocity.

Ludicrocity (1) The place where the Meox lives.
© Copyright 2012 M.R.Baxter (timmytomato at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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