The boy was tall, thin and what others would describe as gangly. He was awkward in his movements and he would travel from area to area, meeting new people and being as deliberately friendly as possible. His skin was tan, his eyes blue and those who met him would either be annoyed or have a fondness in their hearts for him, akin to that of a much cherished childhood toy.

As he entered the homes of people in the neighbourhood, people would look at him and in silent wonder think, ‘God lord! Who’s this goose?’

As he made conversation with girls of his own age, making awkward progressions into puberty they would think to themselves, ‘Not this goose again.’

The goose would make high proclamations of himself. Claiming all manner of things. Claiming that he could fly, claiming that he could soar far above the heavens and that he had a gift. As to what that gift was exactly, nobody understood, nor cared. For they were too busy in their own undertakings to be bothered with his. And so the goose continued on in his ventures. Creating all manner of chaos and disruption as he sows the seeds of confusion and disorder. But the seeds that the goose did sow, although seemingly destructive at first, would later to be revealed as cherished memories.

Those cherished memories were of calamity after calamity. All that transpired, everywhere that he went, there would be a story to tell. And given his high proclamations, it seemed that he was self-assured righteous and justified in all of his acts. That being, what is the essence of the conversation, without some story to tell. Without some goose to point at and state, ‘There, that is the goose. And I, the hero.’

But this goose had tan skin and was no ordinary goose, he had a golden hue to him. An aura that upon careful scrutiny, would shine forth a radiance of pure joy. Such were the memories of calamity and from whence question was issued. For all those that befriended the golden goose used him as a tool. They would proclaim highly of themselves, “Look at this idiot goose, I am not as he, I am the hero.” And once they told their stories of their heroic exploits, condemning the golden goose as a cretin, the golden goose’s reputation was in ashes.

But time passes and as the time comes to pass, the truth is revealed. The golden goose was no ordinary goose, for if ever there was a goose, he would certainly not be gold. And as all those that proclaimed themselves heroes, their reputation was then revealed to be falsified. The stories that they issued forth from their lips were of a false account, as some detail was left forgotten, and with that one detail the outcome of the story would be reversed.

And as the ‘heroes’ were revealed as cretins, the seeds that the golden goose did sow flourished and those that did remember him, would remember him in joy and cherish said memories of the golden goose.

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