The most subversive way to tell a story? The truth, naked, wriggling, peeing in an arc, bald faced, bold faced, rearing it’s ugly head truth with a capital T and no apology. You thought, perhaps, the most subversive way of telling a story was to lie. You were mistaken. I’ll give you a moment. It should get easier from here on out. You can’t make an omelet without being mistaken. You can’t make an omelet without lying a little bit. You can make an omelet without breaking a few eggs but it’ll be really crunchy and no one will have breakfast at your place more than once.
Yeah. I have an egg up my sleeve. Don’t tell the hens. As we speak (well, I’m typing and you’re probably watching the news with your laptop on) I have a rooster spinning a yarn about a fox. See, what I mean is, where the fuck did y’all go? Yes I’m talking about Flash Fridays? Were the rules too complicated? Sure they’re a lot like the rules to fight club without the actual phrase fight club or resembling fight club in any way, shape or form. I know, write something kind of short within five to seven days of a Friday that either has something to do with a prompt or not. The point of the first paragraph was, shit, y’all, you can write non-fiction (if you have the testicular or ovarian fortitude for it) whilst swinging from your perch and whistling a Baroque cello concerto (in fact that’s the first rule, subsection X and or Y depending on your fortitude, paragraph 13 line forty seven).
Doesn’t even have to be Baroque, I’m just missing most of my bottom molars (which, incidentally makes the top ones kind of useless) so it’s easier to do Baroque. I’d whistle Dixie but the part about buckwheat cakes and injun batter cracks me up. Baroque music is supposed to make you smarter anyhow, at least if you’re in utero which goes all Freudian with a quickness if you’re a grown ass man, woman or some reasonable facsimile thereof.
That’s right. It’s all about you. Mostly it’s all about you breaking my black, evil, hardened little lump of a heart. The fuck y’all, I’m going to dissemble the mix disc I made for you all, break it down to each individual note and mail you a note a month until eternity just gives up. That’s right, I’m going to be so very fucking tedious and methodical that the continuance of time as we understand it is going to throw up its arms (really short like a T-Rex or even just Marc Bolan. It’s weird; you’d think eternity would be age/arm length proportionate. Again, you are mistaken) wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, eternity will throw up it’s freakishly short arms and go “Fuck, dawg, ok, ok, ok, if I do a flash Friday will you please, for the love of all that’s sacred, quit swinging on my nuts?”
Yes, eternity, I will. How do you even buy a shirt off the rack? What’re you like a 46 super short? Damn, eternity, write a flash about that “… I am the alpha and the omega and my wrists start at my armpits …”
Ok, what have we covered?
- You are mistaken.
- The first rule of Flash Friday is there is no fight club.
- Eternity whines like a school girl.
- You are still mistaken.
- I will die one day; I’ll still haunt your ass. You’ll be at a crowded concert in front of a tower of Marshall stacks thumping deafness into your ragged earhole and I’ll whisper “Do a motherfucking flash” and you’ll turn to your mom and shout “Did your hear that?” and she’ll shout back “WHAT?”
And you’re spent.
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