Leonard knelt powerless before the glowing brazier, fresh incense rising from its bronze base. Above the fleeting flames, dancing in their own ashen and false bodies, the statue of Banan. The long curvature reaching towards him - the flesh peeled down from its peak as if to grab and pull you in. It was the golden Banaya of bountiful harvest, erected before him proudly by field workers of old, a rarely worshipped but prevalent God for all those that do not wish to feast upon spoilt fruit.

In his Banaya garment, sown together over a decade by all three of Leonard's wives, long may they rest, he curled up humbly upon his knees and bowed. As his head dipped so did the small blacked fingers of the many hundred Banaya's he wore. He was the first of his generation to pay full homage to Banan, and as such he hoped that he would be smiled up from above.

As he rose to his feet, a knee cracking like a stone beneath a wheel, he straightened. With one final muttering of 'Pot-as-ee-om', he flung his upper body forward, so that his Banaya tipped hood returned comfortably to his crown.

[@banana]