The horror of goats

Stop, I beg you. Stop making these monstrosities and leaving them, in the streets. This morning I found one on my windowsill. They are everywhere now, multiplying in unspeakable ways. I am afraid that somehow they are able to recreate themselves, an onslaught of uncanny entities rising up as an army.

And yet I think you are making them, my fellow islanders. You are decking some of them with cheerful ribbons and setting them out before your own homes as though these bones could be festive.  Does no one else look at this hideous things and think of their own bones? Are they not an expression of mortality? An invitation to death?

I have nightmares that if I died in the street someone might truss me up in ribbons and display me as a bone goat. Yet the children laugh gleefully over these horrible things. I hear them chanting that the Yule Goat is coming. The Yule Goat. The Bone Goat. The Hungry Ones in ribbons.

I’m sure this is Mark Hayes’s doing, or that he is driven onwards by his most accursed ancestral trousers. Whenever I see that troubling weave, the dark that is too dark, the cloth that seems to watch you, I feel my skin prickle with apprehension. In my nightmares he leads the flock of bone goats, and they dance for him.

(Text by Nimue. The bone goat image started life as something Nimue made, and that Keith has developed digitally. There is no doubt that it exists purely because of Mark’s cursed trousers.)

2 thoughts on “The horror of goats”

  1. One would like to state for the record one is innocent of inciting, orchestrating and indeed of any involvement in this crazy for yule goats.
    One would like to state that
    One would also like to state one has not danced in the moonlight on the high moors playing a bone flute made from the femur of a distant female relative who died at the hands of a lonely goat herd, while wearing naught but the trousers
    One would like to state that

    One always has regrets

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