Me...2013 Jigsaw Puzzle
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Today is my birthday, thank you for your visits and comments; and wishing you a lovely day too.
… so sit back, relax, I’ll tell you a carnival story…
(All the characters in this story are fictitious and do not refer to anyone in real life)
I now invite you to read and enjoy “A Chicken In De Fridge” a carnival haiku fiction; appearing in 3 Parts, right here, at Lunch Break, February 11 – 13th 2013
Part 1 – De Fete
“Here, I brought you a chicken” said Drusilla offering the frozen bird wrapped in a grocery bag. Gemma accepted this sharing of goodwill without fanfare or pretension. “Thanks girl, we sure to have something home cooked to eat over the weekend” she laughed. The fridge door slammed and Gemma swiveled pointing the direction of the bedroom her friend was to occupy during the weekend stay in St James. It would be her first Carnival in costume and Drusilla was ready.
Having unpacked and settled in, she ventured to find herself the bathroom on her own. “Aa, you have real nice soap here girl” Drusilla shouted through the cold water as it splattered over the clear plastic shower cap. Her friend oblivious to her observations offered no reply, she was absorbed in conversation with Alard, over the telephone.
The street was alive with tourists, and St James folk going to and fro. The side walk vendors put on their busy faces so as not to show how pleasing this season was to their pockets. All they wanted to communicate was the hard work this busy time was bearing down on them. Alard’s car swerved so as not to get his front hit by an on coming driver. A riddle of expletives issued from the car of the protagonist. But this was the tempo of the street especially now the alcohol imbibing was heightened.
As if cognizant of her settings, nature cooled the evening with breezes ruffling through the trees in the neighborhood, but no one noticed. There was too much hype, it was after all Carnival Friday night. The main street bars spilled their patronage into the street, making it extremely difficult for cars weaving through revelers, who either had no money to spend on fetes, or shows in The Savannah, or didn’t want to dress up to carry no woman to sit down to watch no show, when they could buy some beers and wine up here in the road for free.
And so, the Friday night, so special, so sacred to the zeal of bacchanal, progressed on the Western Main Road in St James. Alard swerved into the corner and stopped in front of Gemma’s house. He didn’t have to blow the horn, as if by instinct, she knew he was outside the house. She shouted something to Drusilla through the closed bedroom door and was out the wrought iron gate in a flash.
Their lips touched briefly in a pouty kiss, in the darkness. Alard glanced, he tried to imagine her as if she was under bright lights, he didn’t have to turn on the light in the car. She asked if she could take the wheel from there but he declined. To his mind the kind of madness on the roads these carnival nights, he had best master the wheel.
They got to Lion’s fete, but neither of them really wanted to be in this aspect of the carnival. For them, their contribution to the bacchanalia, was to be dressed in costume dancing in the hot sun all day Monday and Tuesday. But the compel of carnival rhythm, drew them into the fete, only for a short while.
The waves from his waterbed were gentle and calming as the ship of their loved sailed through the dawn hours of their after party sleep in. She awoke to his urgent kisses and a quick glance of sunlight streaming through the green leafy poui tree outside the window. Eeling out of his insatiable grasp, she slipped into one of his shirts and headed to the bath room. He stretched and pressed the play button on the portable bedside radio. The tape spun quietly for a mere second then the strains of their favourite lullaby echoed through, “…but time keeps flowing like a river to the sea to the sea” filling him with even more longing.
No one sees the garbage
Pile up in the street