It's all about the STORY!

Posts tagged ‘storytelling’

My Psychedelic Cat – Rev2

My Psychedelic Cat (Revised)

By Daphne Taylor Street

As soon as he heard the clinking of ice cubes in the near empty highball glass behind him, Eliot’s head pulsed in time with the percussion to an explosive clash, flinging his hand above his head to catch the diamond cuff-linked wrist of the menacing middle-aged noise-maker who winced in pain when Eliot’s claw clasped unforgivingly, cutting off his circulation. The highball glass fell to the overly-polished teak wood floor, sending shards of glass in a kaleidoscopic display underfoot of too many gleaming and sparkling dark shoes. And all the senseless and grating chatter was silenced by the first crack of the glass and replaced by the frantic pace of the hired help in the background ushering in the clean-up crew. The host, too dizzy from a high gin buzz to react, and the hostess too numbed from Xanax to bother lifting her head off of the red velvet arm of the sofa. It was late. But not late enough for parties such as these to end. Just late enough for all of the degradation of the wealthy to show through their pasty masks, and the banal plainness of their true characters to step forth and begin their first authentic introductions past midnight, or later.psycat

Eliot decided to leave, and he made his way through the obstacles of countless uptight mannequin-posed humans robed in formal wear and through the double stained glass panel doors, the size and weight of tall forest trees, swinging on easy hinges. His lungs inhaled an herbal infused smoky frigid winter breath, and his sense-recognition kicked into overdrive. He pivoted left, swayed his head in snake-like elegance and emerged as an apparition to the boys, appearing at once through the smoke-filled valet caboose–a blend of sweet hookah herbs blending with cigar and cigarette tobacco wafted through the air, and whiskey poured liberally. Without a word, he pulled up a stool to take his turn at the shiny red dice bouncing around a beautiful felt-lined crap table. He laid two one hundred dollar bills on the table that was quickly scooped up by “The House.” A late night game of craps was a young persons ritual in this house, reminding him of times past and moonlight dancing in clear skies and upon summer-tanned lakeside thighs glowing in natures reflection, marveling at how bright the night could be. As he tossed the dice against the back of the table, he looked at the faces of the young eager men surrounding him. Eliot doesn’t even look at the dice–just the men’s faces, and he stacks a set of 3 hundred dollar bills in front of “The House” and walks away—his philanthropic gesture for the boys’ kind hospitality. He could afford to be generous. He owed this and a hell of a lot more back to the world for all it has given to him. “The House” winks at him. He nods back.

He removes his own keys from the valet board, and begins strutting ever so slowly towards his car, distracted by a set of enlarging headlights and the small green reflection on cat’s eyes just up ahead. Disturbed by the inevitable end that is sure to manifest within seconds and feeling the full extent of his powerlessness of this soon-to-be lost life, he begins walking towards the upcoming scene of a very sad occasion. And screeeetch! Shreeeek! It’s done. Old Sammy the beloved tabby is no more. Eliot decides not to progress any further and instead hides in the shadow of a large tree examining the goings on as a few unexpected tears well up and drip down his cheeks, which he wipes swiftly away. From the driver’s side of a silver BMW unfolds a youngish and very tall gangly man in an awkwardly-fitted and obviously rented tuxedo. His shoulder-length dark hair is a bit stringy, hanging around his angular face. He stands staring at the squashed mess that once was a cat and scratches at his patchy beard, which is too short to be intentional. He turns back, folding himself again inside of the car, turning the wheel, bouncing up over the curb and onto the circular garden surrounding an ornate limestone fountain, glowing in soft a light that lies just before the front lawn of the estate. He parks there, under another large tree, then makes his way with freakishly long strides carried by stork-like legs with a black leather guitar case swung onto his back.

Eliot is intrigued, and decides to leave the poor cat. After all, he’s dead now. Nothing can be done to reverse this misfortune, and he did live a long, luxurious life, even by a cat’s standards. He winks and says a silent, Goodbye Old Sammy, my friend, to the loving cat that always greeted him fondly upon every visit to the estate. Perhaps the only authentically friendly face you’d ever find around these parts. Oh, he’ll be missed. He’ll be missed dearly. Eliot turns and follows back to the party, after the stranger with the guitar.

The stranger enters through those remarkable stained glass doors and makes a bee-line for the intoxicated host, Eliot’s father, who seems to come alive at the gleaming aura beaming from the stranger’s smile. He shakes his had vigorously and leads him to the parlor, and as they make way through the guests, Eliot’s dad actually looked excited, gathering the crowed to follow after them, saying, “This is Badou, Tallon Badou! He’s from South Africa—the Ivory Coast! Come, and hear this. You won’t believe your ears!” Even Eliot’s mother arose from her Xanax-induced coma, rising off the edge of the velvet sofa to revel in her husband’s delight and proclamations.

And so Badou began to play his guitar and sing and tell stories of decadence, obscene excess, war and injustice, greed and depravity—things hey could all relate to in myriad ways. And then he sang of skinny dipping in lakes on the moon and sniffing on stardust, licking the spicy trails of comets and taking trips through wormholes to new universes where gleeful aliens danced in bright waves of light.

As Badou played, the crowd packed into the parlor, and not one soul was outside of that room. Shoulder to shoulder they swayed and tapped their pointy toes, hummed and fixed their eyes upon the performer. And swirling colors of spectrum light incantations playfully petted the heads of each spectator, beckoning them ever farther, deeper into the magic of the bizarre world that was unfolding before them.

And they all danced and laughed and dreamed. And the walls transformed to puffy clouds that transported them above the Earth. They laughed and twirled and the music turned into something no longer audible—it manifested into being, you could feel it. Like the fabric of crisp linen bed sheets, you could feel the sound and be shrouded in it and play with it like warm ocean waves splashing against your skin, and you could dive into it, like a pool of colorful plastic child’s balls. And they did all of that. And Eliot watched. And they all glowed warm auras of moonlight. And Badou played his music.

And Eliot wondered when the last time was that any of them had dreamed—really dreamed of things never before imagined. If they dared, they might find themselves far less dull, he thought. Far less dead inside than he knew them to be. Maybe even alive.

And as enchanted things are, they go. So this was no different. Badou’s music came to a close. The cloud descended, the music ended, and the afterglow on all the faces of all the men and women dripped from their chins and arms and fingertips, like a haunted ectoplasm of pale pink happiness, it melted off of them, and their weary frowns returned to their rightful places. And things were once gain exactly as they were to be, as they always were unfortunately. The crowd applauded with exuberance and their plastic smiles shifted beneath their steady noses violating the statuesque botoxed cheeks that hate to be bothered with damn smiles.

Eliot feels a stirring in the pit of his stomach. It has quickly augmented to a deep burning. Hs nerves were unsettled at first and now it’s as if the rage of a thousand abused and banished souls have taken refuge in the pit of his gut. He feels something snap, literally snap, like a green twig in his brain, and his eyes blaze fire. He blinks and finds the calm needed o breathe again. And a cool, mad creature has become him.

Eliot sees Badou walk carefully through a crowd of praise and adoration with his guitar slung onto his back once more. Badou thanks his host who slides a wad of big bills into his palm and continues his slow journey out the door. But something makes him pause once more. A deep pain radiates from his side and down his leg—too sharp and agonizing to even make a sound, he falls to his other side, instinctively try to escape from the vicinity of the trauma. It’s still there. Wet, hot to touch and gut-wrenching. He can’t breath. He lifts his had to grab at his throat to find it covered, dripping in blood. Eliot sees blood pouring out of Badou’s side, and he looks down to view a sterling silver dinner knife, with deep red blood souring its tip clenched in his hand. Eliot drops the knife to the floor. He shuts his eyes again only opening them when he feels a warm, strong hand soothingly gripped around his shoulder. He opens his eyes.

Badou is standing in front of him, as healthy as the day he was born, holding Eliot’s shoulder. “Hey man,” says Badou. “You look like you just saw a ghost, huh? You okay?” Eliot nods. Badou gives him a friendly pat and smiles a gleaming happy grin, a great dichotomy it seemed in this place of misery. Eliot succumbed to the contagion and smiled back.

psychedelic_catBadou finally made his way out the door and towards his car, silently noticing Eliot following close behind. This time Eliot truly was wielding a knife, and Badou could he soft sobs whimpering from him. Badou continued to his car. Suddenly, Eliot lunged at him with the dull blade, and Badou caught his arm, struggling with him to the ground, near where Eliot saw Old Sammy lose his life. But Old Sammy wasn’t there. Instead, a crushed Heineken bottle rested before his raging eyes when Old Sammy himself, came up rubbing against the wrestling men, butting them hard with his loving head and shaking their bodies with his loud purr. Eliot immediately rolled off of Badou and onto the grass. Old Sammy was now between the two men, cleaning hi face. Smiling. Badou hopped up onto the hood of his car looking down at Eliot, “Friend, what the hell is your problem?”

Eliot began to sob, “I thought you killed my cat.”

“That cat?” Badou pointed to Old Sammy.

“Ye-es,” Eliot screeched out through his tears.

“Why would I kill that beautiful creature? Why, friend, would you think I killed your cat.”

“I thought you hi- hit him with you ca- car.”

Badou sensing the danger was gone, hopped off of his car next to Old Sammy, scratching him gently behind the ears, “No, friend. A beer bottle. And it retaliated. I could use some help changing my tire if you think you’re up to it.”

And Old Sammy watched then wandered off. Eliot and Badou took a look at him as he sauntered back into the garden, and his tabby fur began to lighten to a strange translucence, then took on an electric glow of pastel lighted colors as a fiber-optic fantasy in psychedelic patterns. “Did you see that?” Eliot asked Badou.

“I’ve seen that and a whole lot more, friend. What matters now is that he’s let you see, and you won’t be able to see anything the same way again. You should follow him. You won’t fit in around here anymore.”

Advertisements

Creative nonfiction: Nearly eaten by zombies in back of the Columbia in Ybor City (true story!)

 It all began most innocently, as most things do. A festive Sunday evening, celebrating the birthday of someone I barely know with a moderate crowed of good, interesting people. I was mostly a stranger but warmly welcomed, sharing bread, stories and laughter. The 1905 historic building of the Columbia Restaurant was most comforting. The surroundings were hauntingly familiar, though I’ve never been there before. Memories seeping through the rich history and decor as though they were true memories of eras past, but it was just my imagination getting the better of me again.

 Soon, the festivities were to come to an end. Photographs clicked through various brands of smart phones, and we embarked on a long exit through the building, still enchanted by the beauty of the surroundings. We all collected along the outside facade, blocking the doorway of the restaurant as the warm Floridian night air fell hard and closing time had recently passed. We lingered there a while longer. Annoyed by intrusive cabbies begging for work, we took it upon ourselves to annoy them back. Taunting them with prospective business then quickly waving them on–an economic tease. The humor seemed to be lost on the victims.

Eventually we all began to part ways. A few crossed the street to their cars, and the rest of us grouped together and rounded the corner behind the restaurant to the rear parking lot. As we all took part in that strange female custom of hugging one another, and making plans for the next meeting before departing, a strange man approached us. He wanted a hug.

 “I have this map, and I was hoping you all could help me,” he said. “The map said this is the place you get hugs. Can I have a hug?”

 All of us were smooth and swift, laughing uncomfortably and darting to the interiors of our vehicles. As for me and my co-pilot, we had to walk a few steps to get to my car. Just short of running, we got there in a flash, and I quickly unlocked the door. Not quick enough.

 As we walked, we noticed one very thin and disturbing looking man with a very long and flimsy tree branch in his hand. He was walking towards us. Suddenly, another thin and disturbing-looking man turned the corner, also heading in our direction. They looked like zombies! Then, just as my friend and I were safely locked in the car with the engine running, the huggy guy comes up to us again.

 “Hey, what’s wrong with me? I can’t get a hug? I’m a likeable guy,” he says.

 We wave at him, and I begin to back up the car, until I notice that the two zombies are dead-on in front of the car, the one with the tree branch appeared translucent in the glow of the headlights, staring straight at us. The huggy guy was directly behind us. We’re trapped.

 I quickly maneuver the car, trying to back up in an angle, away from the two zombies and the huggy guy. They seemed frozen, though I was fearful that at any minute they would dart in front of the car, making me hit them. Yet, they just stayed still, staring at us in the car. I was able to drive around them and escape. Perhaps, despite what many zombie movies show, perhaps zombies move quite slowly. At least that was my experience.

I am happy to report that my co-pilot and I escaped all physical harm from this experience, but today we find ourselves more vigilant of the presence of zombies than ever before! You may not believe that these persons I’ve described are in fact zombies. I will remind you that you were not there, were you? No. So, maybe a bit of healthy caution and awareness of real zombies in your town would be in your best interest. Just a thought.

Tag Cloud