At a little past eleven the wooden African Sculpture took on a life of its own. Freed from its bonds of inanimation. Its legs creaked and became supple. Its wooden eyes had the power of vision. For the first time since its creation, the world had opened up and accepted it as part of the ritual of life. And so with coloured beads and elongated neck, the wooden African sculpture flagged down the first bus to the city and took off in search of an existence.
Extract from Shock Fiction Tales: Odes to Death, Decay, Eternal Conflict and the Exaltation of the Quest for the Dream, American or Otherwise by Charles Lidgard © 2004
