Elephants Are Not A Swizzle Stick

Not quite a hospital corridor, nor the bull's eye at the end of a train's tunnel, John Kindhundt made his way through an Irish jig. Pleased with an empty audience, he slipped into Bach, and added the occassional flourish from "Smoke on the Water." He played faster, stomped his feet.

John took a moment to glance toward the end of the hall, and his gaze happened upon a giant eyeball, which royally stood and examined his behavior. Having stopped playing, the man and the eyeball stared at each other for a long stretch of time, even for crickets, who are good at keeping track of this sort of thing.

"Look," said John. "I find it awfully hard to talk to an eyeball. Don't you have an ear or something equally receptive on you?"

Loud scrapes turned John's attention to the opposite end of the hall, where he gasped in fright as another eyeball squeezed its way into the tunnel. Dust crumbled from the ceiling. What was thought to be the rumbling of the train -- there had been a yes yes get me out of here yes -- of hope was a third eye, whose pupil shakily buzzed around its white as it sealed the final exit.

Quietly, John began to play "Allegro."

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