Your Chance To Be Famous

Gaius draws nearer.

What if it isn't a stick?

What if Terence has met an eastern brown snake and annoyed it?

He approaches with caution.

Go on, says Terence. 

No, says the stick. 

This is your CHANCE! says Terence.

For what? asks the stick. 

To be famous, says Terence. 

How? asks the stick.

By writing a poem, says Terence. 

I don't write poems, says the stick

Are you a stick or not? asks Terence.

I am a stick, says the stick.

Gaius breathes a sigh of relief.

It's a stick. 

He comes closer.

And a stick's like a pencil, says Terence.

Yes! says Waca. Like a pencil.

See! says Terence. Waca agrees. And Waca is wooden.

Why don't you let Waca write your dumb poem? asks the stick.

He's not pointed, says Terence.

Allow me to intervene, says Gaius.

Who is thissss? asks the stick.

I am Gaius Plinius Secundus, says Gaius. A natural historian. Initially I suspected you were an eastern brown snake, but my fears were allayed by your statement. Sticks do not normally pronouce thisss in that manner, however.

If it's a snake, says Terence, it's a stiff one.

I AM a stick, says the stick. 

Terence would appreciate having his words recorded in the sand, says Gaius.

You don't know much about sand, says the stick.

On the contrary, says Gaius. I know a great deal about sand.

The stick seems to understand this.

Okay, says the stick. Do it quickly.

Can you do it? asks Terence.

Certainly, says Gaius. Let us find harder sand.

They leave the sandhills, for harder sand, nearer the sea..

Gaius writes the poem to the peregrine falcon in the sand, with the stick.

That was quite moving, says the stick, when Gaius has finished. I'd like to meet this Camoo.

You cannot. He's away buying dinner, says Gaius.

I'll be off then, says the stick.

Gaius puts the stick down. 

It slithers away.