The Roast Party

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 13, 2017

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Submitted: May 13, 2017

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Once again the window had been blurred way out of context. The thing that was new this time was the aboriginal décor taking up one side of the room. I was at Sven’s party. He had a pathological tendency to strip his guests of their meat with clean cuts then bombarding them with the most zealous of seasoning and eating it rare, the blood dripping all over the mouth and into the wine making the already red to quintessentially red. I asked Bartley if he had had enough of this kind of a party but his demeanor suggested he was not far from where he had intended to be. I left him to his amusements and wandered off towards the buffet laden with an almost nostalgic amount of food and an obscene amount of paperwork. A pitcher of cold something and a hot plate-o-buns. I walked away disgusted. The music wasn’t so bad so I decided to give dancing a shot. In the midst of the smoky steam rising off the nearby gyrating bodies sent another wave of nausea over my flimsy excuse for nerves. I squatted with my head in my hands in the middle of all of that, bitter tears escaping my fingers wherever they could and when unable to take the pressure of two opposing forces working at highly irregular angles I sat down and wept for a long, long time. Camping in on my composure just as the third song ended my body went up like a rocket and began dancing on its own I was nowhere inside any of the movement of that dance but I came back into it with one particular pelvic thrust move I was rather partial to. Am I the only one here, I wondered. Am I the only one? Reason said no, as did many other complimenting features of absurdity, hardly anyone said yes except for a brief timid yes lost somewhere so deep inside that even I didn’t hear it. The man said some people saw cold and isolation in the falling snow I thought I was one of those people. New beginnings are easier enjoyed than lived. But that was not my motto. I did not have a motto. Where are the others? I banged with both palms at the sides of my head maybe a bit of old rumble jumble could help it find some core. Maybe not then hen! Hen. Hmmmmphhh interesting it was a new one. Ahhhh the something new out of the old of the new and the old into the new of the used and the borrowed and the fresh out of the heavenly buns-wait stop- buns? BUNS? Are you frigging kidding me Mr.Todd? van damn this party I was out of here. It was turning me into a person I recognized less by the second. Recognize less by the second? I think I’ll stay a while then.


© Copyright 2017 Jay Bee. All rights reserved.

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