The Great Aw Migration
by Perry McDaid
Tom paused, scanning the dictionary for the required word. Where had it gone? It was, of course, a serviceable word on its own but he needed an attainable alternative: something easily understood and which matched the cadence of the rest of the document. His sight was blurring. He pinched his strong dignified nose and then raised his free hand to rub at his forehead directly above the bridge, and closed the dictionary.
* * *
“Come on now, little ones,” the matriarch urged, “we have to be quick before the Great Learner utilises The Revealing Light again. We may only travel in the lesser illumination: through the forest of knowledge.”
The grand gate of Awe awaited them, awakening primal instincts: awash with the awesome luminescence from the branch word just beyond. They had to be away soon if they were to complete their annual migration and return before anyone noticed.
Satisfied that the little aws had steadied from their sleepy stupor and were aware enough of their surroundings to proceed, she led them off along the path between the gate formed by the bottom spars of the dreaded W and beyond, where they would be relying on her own heightened awareness at this time to avoid the dreaded Awk Awkward, a maniacal bird which preyed on unwary travellers while tripping over her own tail.
She was only the first of the dangers to be face in their annual endeavour. The terrifying Axe hunted not far beyond. With a mere sweep, he could reduce her charges to mere indefinite articles.
That was not the sentence her lonely babies deserved. They were nearly past the big Mexican salamander and safe when they were seared from existence by incandescence.
* * *
“Ah there it is, just above axolotl.” He growled exasperatedly at himself as he turned the page. “Self-evident. How did I not get that?” He chuckled at his original choice of wording. “‘Axiomatic’ indeed. That would have had most of our brave patriots scratching their heads.”
With a satisfied smile, Jefferson took pen in hand and finished the draft of The Declaration of Independence; oblivious to the genocide.
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Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His diverse creative writing appears internationally in the like of Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine; Quantum, Runtzine; Amsterdam Quarterly; Everyday Fiction; Bewildering Stories; Bunbury and others.