I was standing in a field carpeted with light blue flowers. They were so small as to merge together into one mass, giving the illusion that there was nothing beneath them. I stood on a vast blue cloud. The impulse to touch the flowers was too strong to resist, so I crouched down and ran my palm across the tops, just skimming them. As I'd expected, soft as feathers. I closed my right hand around a bunch of the flowers and pressed my fingers into the cold, soft dirt beneath, pulling my fingers towards the centre of my palm and obtaining a handful of wet and compact earth. The ground that I had separated it from gaped back at me. In my upturned hand I studied, looking for anything moving in the dark mass; slithering, crawling, emerging from the nurture below ground. It dawned on me that despite the richness and imperative nature of dirt it was derided. Being dirty was looked down upon and being dirt poor was a term reserved for those in the direst of straits. Even though essential for human life it was marked as unsavoury by humans, for its baseness. The whole clump did seem to be moving; rich with life despite there being nothing discernible, and I brought it up to my mouth, pressing the whole lot to my lips. As much as could fit between my teeth squeezed its way in and the rest pushed in front of my teeth, packing into the region where my gum and inner lip met, the scratchier parts grazing over the surface of my teeth. At first there was no taste, only these textural sensations. My tongue pushed to the base of my mouth as the entire cavity was made full, the firmness becoming wholeness; a well packed clod. It was hard to draw in breath through my nose, but eventually I settled into a rhythm and the dirt sat where it was, my flared nostrils pushing in and out the vital air that I needed. An old man was crossing the blue field as I looked up. He wore a dark grey, or faded black tracksuit, the jacket zipped all the way up, under his chin. On his head was a soft felt cap of a similar shade which threw a band of shadow over his eyes. He shuffled in a manner that said very old but still very fit and healthy. There wasn't anyone else around and I wondered whether he'd noticed me crouched there as he was only some fifty metres away, at the most. The field was completely flat and I could see him as clear as day. As he dissected my line of vision he turned to his right, in my direction, pulling his cap up off of his forehead and baring his tanned skull which was bordered with a thick tuft of white hair. He squinted as he removed it then yanked it back down over his brow, the shadow returning to aid his vision. In his left hand I could now see that he was carrying a rolled newspaper and with his right hand he waved at me. The wave said this: “Hello there stranger crouched down. I'm an elderly man returning from the small shop on the other side of the field where I go to pick up my morning newspaper. I don't usually see anyone on my way there or back, in fact, I've never seen anyone in this field before so I'm a little uncertain as to your purpose here. I'm in no way perturbed but I am equal parts curious and wary as to your presence. I'm designed to offer a greeting but also give you an opportunity to gesture back to me in a way that might reflect the nature of your situation. I'll move side to side a few more times and then relax myself” after a couple more waves the man brought his hand back down to his side and stood still, his shadowed eyes waiting for a response. My breathing was now relaxed and I'd become accustomed to the fixture in my mouth. I tried to move my lips but they were pretty much set in their position, unable to budge. What’s more, there was flavour developing in my mouth and something like a grassy raw meat taste sat on top of my tongue. Underneath it was something else, reminiscent of bitter honey. As I turned these unexpected flavours over the old man was still looking and I wondered how long he would wait for a sign from me. It seemed cruel to want to find out, so I waved with my dirty right hand and after a few seconds he started over towards me, stepping gingerly on the small blue flowers. The sun was shining directly onto his approaching figure and the belt buckle at his waist glinted with each step, catching my eye in a dazzling way that made my eyes sting. ‘don’t ruin my sight’ said my inner voice. His shadow dragged behind him. Once he was in range he called out to me, not shouting but in a raised voice “Hello there son” he continued, shuffling “I saw you crouched down there and thought I'd come say hello, I hope you don't mind. I've never seen anyone around here is all.” I couldn't answer so I just nodded my head. Then I gave the thumbs up, remembering that it was my mouth that was full of dirt, not my hands. The old man pulled up a few feet short of me, looking down at my crouched figure, and I up at him with his slight stoop. He had a quizzical expression but also one that held some recognition. “How queer.” he muttered, and unfurled the paper in his left hand, shaking it out so that it was crisp and flat. “Look at the headline for today.” He held the paper by the top and bottom, facing the front page toward me.
Boy Found on Speedwell Field with Mouthful of Dirt
There was no picture, but it had to be referring to me. “Must be a slow day around here. I wouldn't even consider this news, but there it is in black and white.” he crouched down and ran his hand over the flowers, just as I'd done. “So, what's the thinking here son. What's with the big mouthful of dirt?” he chuckled to himself “Why, if you're that hungry then I'd be happy to bring you something to eat. That is presuming you don't want to move.” he kept brushing his hand back and forth “Doesn’t seem to me like you're going anywhere.” He flopped the paper down on the grass between us and without prompting, proceeded to read the article. A young man has been spotted this morning crouched in the local Speedwell Field. Reports suggest that he appeared there, rather than making his way. He appeared alone. Since arriving he has gone on to inspect the ground beneath him, dig out a generous handful of dirt and stuff this into his mouth. The behaviour is noted as being out of the ordinary, though not threatening. It is expected that he will be in his current position for some time with spectators likely to arrive before long. Here he stopped reading and we looked at each other. The old man peered over my shoulder and his shaded eyes widened a fraction. “Well, they weren't wrong.” his finger pointed past me. I turned my head and saw a small group of people walking towards us, their shadows leading the way. Turning back I clocked another group approaching, over the old man's shoulder. As they neared, the taste in my mouth was changing, and the raw meat flavour had become that of tender roast lamb, cooked in butter. The honey under my tongue had sweetened and this combined with the lamb was so sudden and so good that my mouth started to fill with saliva. The liquid began dripping over my lower lip and onto the little blue flowers below. The spectators had now arrived and the old man was reading out the next paragraph of the news article, with the twenty or so of them leaning in to hear his recital. Upon receiving the first visitors the young man has begun drooling and somehow transmitted to them that he is in thrall of a most divine taste sensation. The means through which he is communicating is unknown but undoubtedly effective. Our reporter at the scene has it on good authority that the combination is roast lamb and honey; a curious mix. I scanned the faces of those surrounding the old man and slightly set back from the crowd was a diminutive woman in an oversized tan suit scribbling into a palm sized notepad. She could have been taking orders at a bohemian restaurant with that look, but I concluded she must be the reporter. I found myself in a curious position now as I had filled my mouth with all of this dirt in seclusion, not expecting to have any company. Now that this news story was unfolding I was being encircled by an increasingly large throng of people, and to add to the freakish circumstance the dirt seemed to be transforming. Some of the crowd were pointing at me, or the ground, or the paper, and talking animatedly; doing all of these things in different orders, but all to suggest that they were following the story and knew now that I wasn't tasting dirt but something very different. One of them scooped up a pinch of earth and dropped it into their mouth, as you would a nibble of trail mix. A trickle of crumbs fell onto the old man's shoulder and he looked up to see the person chew the earth and then swallow it down confidently. “Well, it didn't taste anything like lamb to me. Just regular old dirt. I wonder if I did it wrong?” and with that they picked up a slightly larger pinch and did the same. “Nope. Same again. I wonder what the trick is.” I have to say, I was feeling quite uncomfortable with it all. The flavour was becoming more and more irresistible to me, but I couldn’t swallow any of it, whereas other people were following the lead and chewing on clumps of dirt of various sizes, pushing it around their mouths to try and extract flavour and eventually swallowing it, coughing and spluttering as they forced it down. “This seems to be getting out of hand.” said the old man, to me. “It doesn't seem right, does it?” he asked. I shook my head as I saw more and more of them arriving and following suit, the whole area around us being dug up by eager hands, the people chewing like so many farm animals, swallowing dirt en masse. “I can see this ending badly.” he said and stood up straight, pulling back his shoulders in his shabby tracksuit and pushing his chest out. “Everyone, listen up.” he bellowed in a mighty roar. I was surprised by the fierceness of his voice and those closest to him clapped their hands to their ears in shock. “I can see you've all been reading the story in today's paper and now you're down here looking at this young man and eating mouthfuls of dirt.” he looked at me as the saliva ran in a thick, steady stream from my mouth, soaking into the unreplaced divot of ground beneath me. “I don't know what's happening with him.” he said, pointing a chunky old finger at me “but I definitely wouldn't recommend anyone else eating any more dirt. I'm no doctor, but you're going to get really sick if you keep at it!” he bellowed this last line out like a drill sergeant and cast his gaze around the mass of faces staring back at him, pushing his message towards them all. The crowd had fallen silent and the chewing sounds had all but stopped, save one or two that had started on a big mouthful mid speech. I was impressed. This small, unassuming old man in his shabby outfit had the lungs of a foghorn, and he'd managed to reach the ears of everyone in the field, stopping them in their tracks, as it were. A few of them looked at each other with their muddy faces, dirty lips and clothes covered in stains from wiping their hands and they started to laugh; the comedy of the situation having become clear now that they'd had time to think. Gradually the whole crowd started laughing and cajoling, bouncing back and forth at what a strange compulsion had come over them. Some of them had already started turning to leave, getting on their way back home to clean themselves up when a shout rang out from the back. The crowd again fell near silent and a faint noise came from the reporter a few feet from me, scribbling avidly into her notebook. “Look, you haven't read the next bit of the story.” the voice from the back shouted. “Read it out loud!” they screamed, presumably at the old man. The old man turned to me and gave wide apologetic eyes, knowing that he had to read the news out, as if it were his calling. The reporter scrawled away and the old man shook his paper out, to again flatten it in the right area. I looked at the reporter and saw that her hands were covered in dark soil, her mouth also smeared. The crowd at Speedwell Field has been subjected to a tumultuous time so far and despite many of them consuming an inadvisable amount of dirt, they are still none the wiser as to why they're doing so. It seems that the young man that first appeared is sending out some kind of signal which those gathered are finding difficult to resist, thus it's presumed that he must have an important message he is trying to convey. Of course, his mouth is full so he can't just come out and say it. An old man at the scene has warned the crowd off of eating more dirt with a vibrant and powerful speech which seems to have had an effect on them. The question now is this: what will happen next? Surely the situation will develop before long. As this last line was being read out I felt something odd taking place. The dirt in my mouth had remained much the same since I'd put it in there, but now it seemed to be shifting and changing shape. The areas pressed against my tongue and roof of my mouth were hardening, with the intensity of flavour multiplying time and again, until it was clear that I no longer had a mouthful of dirt but a succulent leg of lamb wedged into my mouth, the juices from the tender meat sliding down my throat, the intoxicating smell inescapable. “Hey.” said someone at the very front of the crowd, right in front of me. It was a burly man with shaggy black hair and beard to match. His white shirt was streaked with mud and held wide were his big arms and the filthy hands at the ends of them. “Can anyone else smell that? It smells like meat!” he barked out. “and look, look at his mouth, there's a bone sticking out of it. That's a leg of lamb in his mouth!” and at that the uproar began. Those further back clambered forwards to sniff the air and see this quite remarkable sight. My jaw strained with the pressure within it and I fully anticipated being trampled by the hoards of wildly excited people grappling to get closer. All of a sudden a gunshot rang out through the air and those that had been the most raucous dropped to the ground and cowered. A bustle from one side of the crowd was occurring and gradually a narrow passage opened up which allowed two people in matching uniform to appear. They stepped into the small circle around me and the old man and turned to the crowd, one of them waving their pistol and shouting at them to get back. “You're like a pack of mangy dogs. Get back now unless you want to get a good hiding!” shouted the smaller of them. The other one was quiet, but of almost unseen stature. They stood a good head and a half above the burly man with black hair, and just stepping towards those fronting the crowd was enough to convince them to back up. Me and the old man were looking at each other in bemusement. He narrowed his eyes as if to say ‘could this day get any weirder’ and I looked back at him to respond ‘I really, really hope not’. The reporter was scribbling again but as yet no-one was calling for the paper to be read. Now, the two in uniform had brought some kind of order to the crowd and the smaller one, presumably the leader, stood above me, looking down with a mixture of pity and condescension. “Sir” they said, holstering their pistol. “I have no idea what’s happening here, but it has got to stop.” The entire field of people were silent, listening intently. “We’ve got a whole town full of people here getting worked up and it looks like it could get really nasty if it isn't sorted out soon. So, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know what it is you're doing and why it is that all of these people are here pushing each other around and digging holes in the ground.” I was looking for a badge or some sign of what authority they stood for, but there didn't seem to be anything. “Ah, you're wondering who we are?” they said, following my gaze. “We solve the problems that no-one else can handle.” the leader's face beamed whilst delivering this line, exultant at the proclamation. Their partner stood straight faced and stoic. “Let's just say that we don't have a name or a title for a reason. If we’re handling things then there is a serious issue and if it doesn't get resolved quickly then we're going to make someone sorry. Does that help?” Of course, it didn't help at all. I was none the wiser as to who they were, or why I would want to help them. They had guns and to me that spelled bad news. Authority with guns was not my idea of help. Sure there were some pretty excitable folks around but we didn't need some unnamed militia in charge of the situation. To make matters worse, this leg of lamb was causing me real problems. As if the size wasn't uncomfortable enough, the meat was so tender that it was starting to come apart and make its way to the back of my mouth. A small slither had just started to slide down the back of my tongue and I was doing my best to swallow it without choking. Remember, I could only breathe through my nose; it was a precarious position and if I started coughing now it could spell disaster. I looked up at them, trying to signal my current struggle and focused all of my energy on correctly swallowing the divine morsel. “Sir, I understand that you're in a bit of a bind right now, but if you can't inform me of what's happening then I can't help, and if I can't help then I'm going to have to seek other solutions.” The word solutions was said through almost clenched teeth. The reporter had been scribbling the whole while and I nodded in their direction, hoping that they would be able to offer at least some appeasement. “Sorry, if I may?” the old man chimed in and my questioner looked at him dubiously. I nodded at them and then at him and this seemed to offer enough signal. “Go on.” they said, crossing their arms. The old man deftly flicked his newspaper out and scanned down to where he'd left off. The reporter had stopped scribbling, and for the first time looked over at the scene, waiting for her words to be transmitted to the crowd. As expected, this bizarre spectacle has taken another turn. Two unmarked enforcers arrived on the scene just as things were about to get out of hand. There seems to be a level of tension in the air which has made everyone nervous. What is now clear is that the young man has some powers of metamorphosis, having made a simple mouthful of dirt turn into a most delectable cut of lamb. The crowd are understandably shocked and envious of this. Why, who wouldn't want to be able to turn simple soil into the finest of foods? The enforcers are demanding answers from the young man, but as we know, his mouth is full, he cannot provide answers. With this stalemate in play it is feared that tensions will rise, but there is still hope for a peaceful resolution.
The old man stopped reading, folded his paper and placed it under his arm. “That's all it says.”
The leader of the two stood cross-armed for a while in silence, looking off into the distance. They seemed to be weighing things up in their mind, and given their temper the lack of words instilled a degree of worry in me, to say the least. Not being able to do much at this point I thought over the whole thing. I'd come to the field in the morning, I supposed, though I couldn't exactly remember arriving. If I wasn't so sure that this was real then I'd have said that it was a dream; that I'd appeared here out of nowhere, and all of these strange events were so haphazard as to not actually be occurring. But I really felt that it wasn't a dream. You can't have these types of lucid thoughts whilst dreaming, it just doesn't happen, does it? Also, I'd surely have woken up when I'd nearly choked, or the gun had fired, or one of the other natural points at which a dream usually ends. It was odd, it was somewhat unnerving and as confusing as any reality I could have imagined, but I was convinced that it was reality. I was here and all of these people were here. But why? For the first time I became aware of my role in all of this. I didn't want to influence anyone; I didn't want people to be harming themselves and I definitely didn't want some gun wielding maniacs showing up, but the fact is that they were all here because of me. Wasn't I within my rights to come to this quiet field and solemnly eat from the ground without all of this commotion? Couldn't I live my intention of being alone and doing whatever I felt like without it being made into something else? Without people finding other meaning or purpose in it? My jaw was hurting from the huge wedge pushing it outward and I stroked the soft blue flowers next to the hole; my hole in the ground. I only came here to do this, I thought, as I hovered my hand across the tops of the small blue petals. The leader unfolded their arms and reached swiftly for their pistol, drawing it from its holster and pointing it at the old man. “I can see that you have an affinity for this old man.” they said as they cocked the pistol and raised it to the old man's head height. “The last thing that I want to do here is hurt anyone, but I must insist that you signal to me what is happening; how you have these people under your spell and how you've made this remarkable transformation take place. All of this so that I can restore order and send these people back home safely.” The tone rang hollow. The old man looked on calmly at the leader, then at me, shaking his head and smiling the most friendly smile I had ever seen. I looked up at the leader and tried to yank at the bone sticking straight out of my mouth. It wouldn't budge. I pointed to the ground between my knees and simulated grabbing the dirt and pushing it into my mouth. I waved my arms, shrugging, raising my palms to the sky, saying without words what had happened and doing this imploringly, begging the leader to be understanding of that which was not strictly understandable. Once I'd finished my demonstration the gun fired. The sound from this range was deafening and I grabbed my ears after the sharp noise had issued. After cowering for a moment I looked up at the old man and he was still standing in the same place, still looking listlessly at the leader, shaking his head. The reporter was scribbling and the old man took up his newspaper. In an act of unprovoked aggression the leader of the two enforcers has opened fire at Speedwell Field. One shot has been discharged and this has hit an as yet unnamed man in the crowd. The man, presumed innocent of any crime, was killed instantly due to a fatal head wound. It remains to be seen how the crowd will react to this savage show of force. Almost immediately began a rumble, first from the front and then all the way to the back as the old man's words swept over them. The leader nodded to their subordinate and the larger of the two dipped their head affirmatively, drawing a large baton from their belt and facing up to those before them, the people a mass of screaming faces. I could feel the meat falling apart in my mouth, shedding quickly now and giving me just enough room to chew and swallow. The taste was indescribable. The lamb and honey surpassed any sensation I'd had before and I devoured it nearing euphoria, but also trying to remain present in the hostilities around me. Those in the crowd were incensed, shouting at the two enforcers, hurling abuse and throwing whatever personal items they had to hand; wallets, watches, phones, inhalers, pieces of fruit all raining down on the two of them. I was expecting the situation to erupt at any moment and ate as rapidly as I could before the explosion took place. As I fed and fed my mouth regained more normal proportions and all of a sudden I felt a hand grab the protruding bone, yanking it roughly outwards, the remainder of the meat being ripped from my open trap. The flavour remained on my tongue, on my lips, and the leg fell unceremoniously onto the ground, rolling into the crater from which I'd originally taken it. “Stop!” I yelled as loudly as I could and jumped up from my spot near the flowers. “Stop, stop, stop.” I wailed and screamed until my lungs burned. Some of those nearer saw me on my feet and dampened their protests, the two enforcers also spun my way, still brandishing their weapons. The missiles flying in began to lessen and finally stopped, and as the crowd noise reduced to a hum the two enforcers cautiously stowed their weapons, their eyes wide and bleary as they realised that the onslaught was not going to come. They dropped to their knees in exhaustion and the crowd regained their calm, waiting for whatever was next. The reporter had seemingly been writing throughout and was adding a few final pen strokes to their notepad, which they duly completed, flipping it shut. The old man looked unphased, as was his way, and he unravelled his now weary looking paper to find his spot. As he silently read over the remaining article his face contorted into shapes that I hadn't seen to this point, and all of a sudden he began to weep. “I can't read this.” he said, as the tears rolled down his tanned cheeks, over the few day old stubble, through the lines around his mouth and onto his chin, the salty drops falling to the small blue flowers below. “I'm sorry, but I can't read this.” and he dropped the paper on the floor. For the first time he really looked every one of his advanced years; as frayed and tattered as the paper he’d held so dear, and he took his leave, walking to the mouth of the crowd, being swallowed up into it as he left in the direction he'd meant to be going all along. I picked up the paper and read the same words that had sent him into despair. I couldn't help but smile. I wrapped the remainder of the meat up in the newspaper, placed it into the hole I'd made before all of this madness and scraped dirt and flowers onto the parcel until it was completely buried, patting the ground level.
2026