They trucked in rain from Crescent City, plexiglass, and tubes and built the house in a day. It glowed emerald in the desert dark where the Serpent Sisters bent half ways and quarter ways across eachother’s backs and shoulders until they weren’t bodies anymore. They were wire whips and fleshy chains. They were bending straws of girl.
The part time carney in the bowler hat chewed off his makeshift grin. He dodged a bullet from the tattooed lady’s gun. Her name was Percy, only her cigarettes were loaded.
On the third night of the third day in Black Rock, the city wailed. Neon cartoons walked skinny girls in hula skirts and French perfume through beaded curtains cranking out stereophonic synthesized sounds.
Someone let a boy loose to run through camps howling with oranges in his hands and paint on his brown back circling from where his wings grew.
Mr. Effervescent lit teeth on fire. Titania dressed to a crowd. This is the next year of Burning Man, the one that hasn’t happened yet, where my feet light in DayGlo red and we all fly off like shivering sparks after a bomb.
“The smell of perfume and cigarettes. Or that painful feeling in your jaw when you bite down on something that is too cold,” said my favorite Dani Smith (Something Knitty) in the whole world. As I strive to comply, this week was a tough one on the flash fiction front as I pack my bags and those of my little chickadees and set off into the Arkansas sun.
Be well and stay true.