by Glenn Davies
It is a warm summer's day, so I lie in my hammock, book in hand. A breeze floats past.
I open the cover of the book, and smile as the small actors stand to attention.
"The Tale Of The Sea Saw!" is the high-pitched unison cry. The narrator moves to the far corner and sits down, rarely offering input. This is a character driven novel, and the little men and women pull on their bright coveralls.
Colour-coded characters make it easy to understand, despite some convoluted plotting, with more than a Shakespearian share of love triangles and mistaken identities.
Partway through I lose interest. The red herrings annoy me, and I whisper as much to the narrator.
The dialogue pauses.
The miniature cast meet in the centre of the page, surrounded by white space. They confer in a whisper, much like the breeze.
Just before I lose patience, they return to their positions, and resume the narrative. This time the plot is transparent. Predictable.
My brain switches off, and my eyes and ears take in the story with ease.
"A perfect summer's day of escapism in the performed word," I think.
The story draws to a close and the small people take a bow.
The narrator reaches over and pulls the cover closed. As the book closes with a slight noise, I think I hear a voice inside.
"Bums on seats, boys. Bums on seats."
© 2006 Glenn Davies