Sunday, February 06, 2011

flash fiction: judgment day

Buster creamed his coffee; his disarray straddled table, on and around, teeming room with conga lines of turbulent creases, thundersnow, vagrant absence. Where in hell's name was solace for the passing jello-minds, frivolous ubiquiters of this brave blue Sunday morn? No chance up against Buster's hirsute avalanche, fire-breathing postmodern daddy in the throes of peace-bondage and mommy-come-lately revenge.

"Space in the next room," said the cup at my elbow. "Beats hell out of this opera."

Next room is the chin-level window-slab: ogle the street traffic, wonder the whys you always wonder. Buildings across the way stripped of logos, mirroring Buster's rumblings in the back room. I'm feeling stripped today, too, John Lee Cadillac-stripped, naked before the judge. I'm guessing Buster's done his own cough-and-turn in front of Judge Judy in recent days. Sagging jockeys in they own shoddy grey disarray.

"Spare me the change, Buster." Judge J always was a charmer.

Just exactly who is the grey lizard back in Buster's rumpus room, scaring off all the Sunday Times debutantes? Sabbath day therapist? Nose-cone attorney? Baker's dozen-stepping sponsor? Innocent slob strangled by Buster's albatross? That lemon yellow v-neck was enough to scare me off, why not Buster?

My Michelin eardrums pop to the sound of "And how does that make you feel?"

Buster seems wrapped up in a soliloquy that signals danger up ahead; he seems hellbent on meting out justice to one and all, when in truth his soul covets nothing more than time on the grey beaches of Port Angeles, if only his spinal fluids could ooze him to another land. God hasn't the rosaries to hand out for this chapel of disquiet.

"Sizzled," says Buster, an adjective I can applaud: his cranium does, if nothing else, resemble a foggy marshmallow. Or blackened pompano, if you squint your eyes enough. I tried both, settled for the fish, all yummy in its uncertainty.

Lemon pledge seems befuddled by the less-than-standard, closed question response. Beyond the ejaculatory color of his own togs, he is bereft of a conversational palette up to the turbulence in Buster's grey breast.

I toddle on: my day is calling, lemoning and sizzling in its own pas de deux. I've prayed between sheets, opened tonsils to night sky, evangelized in poorer straits. There ain't mirror enough in those around me can't make me shiver.



Blogger Teresa said...

This was fun!! Strange but fun. The mental images of a hirsute dude in greying tighty-whiteys may have damaged me for life, but otherwise, I enjoyed the piece. It made me smile and laugh.

3:23 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Hey, girl: Consider yourself lucky: I was damaged in person. Actually, I left the room, but left the writer to take (make up?) notes.

3:26 PM  
Blogger Teresa said...

Memoirs of a Third-Eye Peeping Tom. I see.

3:59 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

T: Touché.

4:16 PM  
Blogger Dee Martin said...

Buster come in from the cold with less than appropriate fashion sense? You've had a prolific couple of days - I may never feel the same about lemon pledge again....
Loved this flash/fiction/prose poem visit to crazyland. Not unfamiliar landscape.

10:22 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: Cold? Hate to say it - and I was not clear about it at all - but temp yesterday was 75 and blue. Awesome day. In truth, Buster's growling was understandable, if entirely disruptive of my desire for java and a quiet read, but it was his listener in the lemon pledge v that was more than mystifying, not only for his attempt at, but lack of, fashion sense. Holding pseudopsychoanalytical court in the galley-sized sitting room seemed the zenith of impropriety.

5:47 AM  
Blogger Miss Alister said...

A hell of a state of affairs, from a Metallica “King Nothing” image on down to makin’ blues with Johnny Lee The Boogie Man Hooker and the almighty Santana! Mercy! Grey lizard’s pro’ly in cahoots wi’ da blackened pompano, all yummy in ‘is uncertainty. They cain’t know the glories of a Cadillac… But Port Angeles, they can. Don’t matter none nohow ‘cause Buster’s jockeys know more’n the Lemon Pledge poser. Palette schmalette. Anyway, the last paragraph of fireworks, the grand finale, it blows creation away, like the last days: “There ain’t mirror enough in those around me can’t make me shiver.” Yow!

5:47 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Duchess: I'm glad you got the real poser in this menagerie; nasty as they is, I'd put the greyjocks up against Lemon Pledge, too. Only one posing even more is Mr. Shiver Me Timbers.

Nice to see you 'round the livestock show.

7:15 PM  
Blogger anno said...

Brilliant -- loved this flashy turn! Have a hunch that Mr. Powell would love this, too.

10:09 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Thank you, Anno. I'd like to think PP would go for it, but I'm afraid he'd consider it too derivative of the Powellian vibe. Ain't my fault: I just writes it like I sees 'em. Or hears 'em, in and out my head.

5:45 PM  
Blogger San said...

"There ain't mirror enough in those around me can't make me shiver." A stunning conclusion to an odd episode. And as happy as such endings get.

1:02 PM  

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