Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Three Word Salad





  1. In a small, dark closet, a red candle burned slowly.

    In a busy mall, families rushed around from store to store, searching for the perfect dose of prepackaged happiness with easy-to-follow instructions .

    In a small, dark closet, a red, drip-less candle burned slowly.

    In a grocery store the size of an airplane hanger, families hustled about with carts full of clearly labeled satisfaction and quick-fix salves for untold hungers.

    In a small, dark closet, a red, drip-less candle slowly evaporated under its own heat.

    In a cozy little museum, tourists crawled about the exhibits like insects devouring exotic cultures as if they were obstacles in the path to final enlightenment.

    In a small, dark closet, a red candle sat burning on one side of a scale.

    In a pulsing disco, throngs of men and women flaunted their fertility amidst flashes of light – flashes of color – flashes of sound – and the musty undercurrent of sweat and stink.

    In a small, dark closet, a scale slowly tipped as a red candle dwindled away.

    In a quietly secluded boardroom, men of genius and women of talent tossed about strategies and tactics, dealing in other people’s fortunes as if their own breakfast menu.

    In a small, dark closet, a red candle burned its last.

    And a scale tipped.

    And in the world of progress, five bombs exploded, ripping away from the soul of humanity some of the clutter of spiritual cancer, allowing the spirit of the world to be just a little more free.

  2. Un cha un cha un cha un cha

    And so it goes. All afternoon the strobes mark the beats and fry the outlines of spastically jerking drooping Boomers onto my retinas.

    Not that I mind the gracefully aged mothers bumping to my 1's and 2's, but when the white hair fellas start dropping it like it's hot, I have to slow the flow.

    The money's good playing the Progress Center Mixer Wednesdays, but there's this one beardface that won't let me mix. He rolls his chair up to the fold-out and bla-bla-blabs about Morse code and ham radio and his days on the 'waves. I can't ride the music if he's harshing my mellow. Keeps talking about some disco club Studio something.

    I don't think his candle is burning at either end if you know what I mean.

  3. Nevets, I think the FBI just started reading Flashy Fiction. Ha ha.

  4. Brilliant, Nevets. Disturbing and brilliant. (If the FBI is reading this, more disturbing than brilliant for the record.) (Total lie, Nevets.)

    Nagel, I know what you mean.

  5. Nevets, I love those images, very yummy. Nice pacing too. Bravo!
    B., I'm still laughing. harshing my mellow LOL!!

  6. The elevator reaches my destination with a shrill ping. I’m thinking that some progress might be had today. But as soon as he opens the door I know otherwise. I’m disappointed for once again giving in to that relentless desperation chipping away at my fragile self.

    I turn to go, just like that. He laughs and pulls me inside. My eyes close, willing it all to transform into what I know I deserve, not what I settle for.

    He shoves a glass of wine at me. I gulp it down, wincing at the vile after-burn pulsing in my throat. I should have taken a Valium, for Christ’s sake. I face him and motion for a refill. He hands me the bottle, how sweet. I don’t bother with the glass anymore when he slithers over to flip on the sound system.

    “You like disco, right?” It’s not a question.

    No. No, I do not like disco you idiot. “Sure baby, anything you want.”

    But then again, Donna Summer does tend to bring out the warrior in me.

    He watches me drain the bottle, eyes wide with delight. I crook my finger, motioning him closer.

    Twice I have to thwack his pasty head with the bottle before he goes down. One more time to break it. I needed to break it.

    The elevator reaches my destination with a shrill ping. I’m thinking I made some progress today after all. The least I can do is go light a candle for the poor schmuck.

  7. The FBI file on me is about five inches thick.

    Nice tone in your piece, B. Well-delivered.

    And I love the peek at your dark side, Deb!