Monday, April 26, 2010

fff#18

flash fiction friday #18; see, i wasn't joking about the soft deadline, and i know at least one more fff still coming to come; inclusion: dance, glance, trance, prance, pants.

we do the dance, it never changes. each time we hear a new tune and start wining we eventually realise the rhythm still the same, still the same old winery in the same shiny shortpants. but for a few moments our ears and minds are tricked into believing it can be as sweet as it was, as what was slips away with every next person lost.
last month’s carnival was tragic; this month jouvay approaching and “heavenly devils” have no ideas for the horns for each registered roadmarcher. good thing they so well-trained. once they come out and things look like every other carnival and they go through the motions of a good time and sponsorship continues, everybody happy like pappy. horns or no horns, “heavenly devils” will retain sponsorship; not going back to being roadmarchers…we’ll use whatever horns we have left back from any carnival more than 3months ago, their memories short and we’ll distract them with the usual array of music trucks, food+liquor trucks, weewee trucks, vomit trucks, fornication trucks and truckbeds…
mass production mas.
do we need the monthly parade or just too drugged by the regularly scheduled excess to see it lost meaning decades ago, back when it was still biannual? every month i watch our registered roadmarchers prance across stages, not noticing or not minding the repetition of costumes, of music, of theme, of what passes for design at every level, not studying the unmasked masses who mass produce the bikinis+beads+feathers+sequins for the only industry left.
but the only way out is up. i getting up+out, from “heavenly devils” straight to the top so i don’t have to be part of this again. they can keep parading and producing. i escaping. i not watching them march through life, trance-like, blindly following trucks, logo-d banners the only guidance through life as a carnival.
when i see my way over and out the bacchanal i not stopping for goodbyes, not one backward glance...


walk good.

[doh know how i feel about this piece; this is not what i wanted to write but this is what came, no matter how long i stared @ screen or keyboard or space, no matter how many times i scratched and started over, no matter what edits or revisions i tried...sigh]

5 Comments:

Blogger pierce said...

here's my fff for this episode.
wait... this is my first fff. (mu hu hahahah)

http://piercechronicles.blogspot.com/2010/04/save-last-dance.html

5:21 pm  
Blogger My Chutney Garden said...

Hi Everyone,
My first fff. Thanks to Lisa for linking me up. Here goes.

Protons

Proton’s glance
In the atom’s prance
Are you neutral in
violet pants?

Proton's palance
In the violent dance
Are you frightened in
your fugue trance?

Slip says the river to the cliff
In the amber trance

Proton’s dance
In the atom’s glance
Do you see me in
your violet pants?

8:56 am  
Blogger sweet trini said...

@chutneygarden: woulda commented @ your blog(s) but no recent posts so i trying here- when you fff, since you have blogs you post your piece @ yours and comment on my trigger post (not fff piece) with the link for other fff writers+readers. but yay for jumping in with such a fun piece; new trigger friday! walk good.

12:08 pm  
Blogger sweet trini said...

for more fffs, see trigger-post for this fff, linked in this fff post. walk good.

12:13 pm  
Blogger Kari said...

Posting here because fiction is too close to truth. But you know where to find me: http://kari-world.blogspot.com/

(The word verification was "comete". Too close to apt.)

fff @18

Because we joke about it all the time, that day we met in the cemetery. "It's how we'll start the book," he says. I nod and smile and hope. And die a little inside.

Because we joke about it all the time, the delicate dance of early cryptic love notes, a tip of his morning tea. Slow revelations.

Because we joke about it all the time, the day we snuck to the beach where no men belonged, the way I drifted down to the water. The knowing backward glance.

Because we joke about it all the time, a pillow behind the bedhead to muffle the noise, writhing brown planes, unfamiliar. Steady, steady, now; steady trance.

Because we joke about it all the time, that night we both startled into 2 a.m. darkness, gazes locked, sleep forgotten. Fingers and limbs prance, familiar.

The best present, he says, was the toothbrush and a clean pair of pajama pants in my top drawer. The best present, I say, is me.

I joke about it all the time.

3:53 am  

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