Disaster Elephant Strikes Again!

This is the result of another unconscious writing exercise from ‘The Deadline Club’. You write freely for 5 minutes, writing down whatever comes into your head. Then, highlight the phrases you like. Write freely for another 5 minutes, using those phrases you have highlighted as inspiration. Highlight the phrases you like out of the second one. Then, create a poem based on the highlighted phrases from the second unconscious writing.

I’m sick of poems though, so I’ve written a whacked out story.

An elephant in a china-shop is worse than a bull. The Disaster Elephant attacks every situation as if it were an elephant in the tiniest, most delicate china-shop in the whole world.
The Disaster Elephant is no ordinary elephant. It is bigger than your average elephant. It is louder. It is certainly messier. It has bigger feet and a longer, clumsier snout. It gets everything ever-so-slightly wrong. Instead of giving you a yummy treat, he will give you hideous lollies that make your tongue fizz and froth. He will blow snot out of his nose at you instead of the water he had intended. He will eat his poo instead of his food, he will hit you over the head with the stick he was attempting to move out of your way, and he will trample your favourite kitten to death. He will create a tsunami, when he was tryingg to make a wave pool, he will light the Karelian Forests of Russia on fire, whilst attempting to light a stove and he will create genocide in Balkan Europe whilst only meaning to organise various ethnic and religious groups into viable nation-states of a post-communist world. This is what he does. He is the Disaster Elephant, and disasters are what Disaster Elephants do best.
The worst thing about it, for the poor Disaster Elephant, is that he is trying so hard to please. None of his disasters are created with malicious intentions. They are always plans that were originally intended to help or assist, to amuse or entertain, to comfort and love.
But the Disaster Elephant can’t do anything right. It is his fate. His tragic flaw. Shakespeare should have written a play about him, and billions of school children the world over should have written essays discussing how it was his actions alone that ultimately brought about the death of his friends, his family and, finally, his own downfall.
Sometimes the Disaster Elephant cries himself to sleep in his straw.

What the fuck was that?? Seriously, though, what is that? I’m too tired to turn it into anything more logical or worthwhile. I swear I’m not drunk or on drugs. Just in case you were wondering.


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