a nameless yeast
I’m beginning to hear voices…
The arterial red curtain, the black and white checkerboard floor…they sparked an immediate sense of déjà vu. For a brief, uncomfortable moment he was back at the greasy spoon where he ate last night. The cherry pie and coffee had been delicious; the chili-burger, he still regretted.
In the sudden shock of a spotlight two figures appeared on the stage. They seemed normal at first, but as his eyes adjusted to the light their garish clothes and demented dye jobs became apparent. The show started, but that weird scene was seared on his retinas. It left him adrift in time and space, dislocated, like waking up from a particularly bad dream in a cheap motel.
He’d stopped in Branson, Missouri on a whim, almost as a joke. He was lured by the prospect of cheap entertainment, some bad country music, and all night buffets. Now he was riveted, enthralled by the lurid scene before him. He surreptitiously scanned the rest of the audience; no one else seemed to see anything odd. He blinked his eyes, but even though the music had started and the show had begun, all he could see was the red curtain and the checkerboard floor.
Editorial note: The text was written by Lori Hale Williams.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
