Ch'lirul
In the mists of the ancient world - where great beasts lumbered across cracked, dusty plains where every scenery is set in the tone of sepia - where the seas foamed with unmanageable waves and where those same seas writhed with every form of tentacled horror - Nature produced a creature so unquestionably bizarre, so lacking in self-preservation, that only tales of it exist today.
It was serpentine, but not a serpent. It possessed no physiological symmetry. It had no mode of locomotion. It had no visible modes of sensory perception, yet were it not for its ability to scream in terror whenever threatened, it could almost be regarded as some form of vegetation (although it was neither green nor leafy).
The natives called it a ch'lirul.
Its flesh was warm and tender, its blood sweet and syrupy. And every creature that encountered it found it to be the perfect form of sustenance. Except for the parakeet who preferred the sweet nectar of small children’s eyes.
It would exist today if not for a curious difficulty in its reproduction, depending on fairies for transport of its genome. As industrialization, and the necessary rationalization, encroached on the ch'lirul's territory, fairies vanished. And with them vanished this remarkably tasty beast.
This has led to a curious phrase - "If you love ch'lirul, clap your hands" - intended to reclaim the native lands for the fairies in the hopes that they might return and start the new race of ch’lirul once again.
Centuries later, all that remain of the ch'lirul is a pale shadow, a culinary attempt to capture the sweetness and warmth of days gone by.
Weep for the ch'lirul. Weep for its passing. Clap your hands and pray for its return.
This was written with the help of some man I have never met, and it truely a reminder of what great stuff could be written with the bizarre thoughts of two committed individuals.
It was serpentine, but not a serpent. It possessed no physiological symmetry. It had no mode of locomotion. It had no visible modes of sensory perception, yet were it not for its ability to scream in terror whenever threatened, it could almost be regarded as some form of vegetation (although it was neither green nor leafy).
The natives called it a ch'lirul.
Its flesh was warm and tender, its blood sweet and syrupy. And every creature that encountered it found it to be the perfect form of sustenance. Except for the parakeet who preferred the sweet nectar of small children’s eyes.
It would exist today if not for a curious difficulty in its reproduction, depending on fairies for transport of its genome. As industrialization, and the necessary rationalization, encroached on the ch'lirul's territory, fairies vanished. And with them vanished this remarkably tasty beast.
This has led to a curious phrase - "If you love ch'lirul, clap your hands" - intended to reclaim the native lands for the fairies in the hopes that they might return and start the new race of ch’lirul once again.
Centuries later, all that remain of the ch'lirul is a pale shadow, a culinary attempt to capture the sweetness and warmth of days gone by.
Weep for the ch'lirul. Weep for its passing. Clap your hands and pray for its return.
This was written with the help of some man I have never met, and it truely a reminder of what great stuff could be written with the bizarre thoughts of two committed individuals.
posted by T A Lucas | 4/07/2007
1 Comments:
This has led to a curious phrase - "If you love ch'lirul, clap your hands" - intended to reclaim the native lands for the fairies in the hopes that they might return and start the new race of ch’lirul once again.
This phrase reminds me of a song once written for a friend of mine, Angie Nowat. Her mother was always trying to get her to clap her hands. And she was so stubborn, that she wouldn't do it. So her mother wrote a song for her: "If you're happy, Angie Nowat, clap your hands."
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