I made a joke on the Twitter yesterday:
- @blondefabulous: green, PMS rage, Sheboygan
- @wellreadhostess: violet, hysterical, Duluth
- @theBitchinWife: vermillion, acidic, Dubuque
- @polargemini: orange, happy, Massachusetts
- @TouchstoneZ: green, grumpy, Starbucks
- @ourladybeth: obsidian, euphoria, Tierra del Fuego
- @thursdayschild: fuschia, frustration, men’s restroom in an Atlanta Denny’s
- @CabbageDan: blue, horny, up your bum
- Burn: persimmon, persnickety, 2 inches inside Hitler’s ass
- @LeSombre: chartreuse, self-absorbed, Madagascar
- Dee: puce, abject terror, Oklahoma
- Biz: purple, horny, Hershey, PA
- @SuperJules: purple, crestfallen, inside a Lego castle
- @gavmartell: purple, confused, New Delhi
- Shannon: blue, sad, snowy hillside at twilight
- @TravelMamas: lime green, silly, McDonald’s in Berlin
So what else could I do except improvise a blog post from all 16 of these highly creative prompts? The following will use all 16 of those prompts in the order they’re listed above . . .
The clock turned five on this ordinary morning. For most people, this is the time to slumber and dream while the world is quiet. For the rest, there are stories to tell.
“A Sheboygan woman went into a Hulk-like rampage today after being denied chocolate…” the news blared on the old television in Apartment 5B, where Ms. Beauregarde slumped on her sagging couch and wailed uncontrollably over her broken fingernail, oblivious to her neighbors in the decrepit Duluth building.
Next door in 5C, a well-manicured hand curled into a fist and pounded on the hideous wallpaper, which was covered in yellow butterflies and vermilion lizards. “Turn down your goddamn TV, Violet, you pathetic sack of a woman!” Originally from Dubuque, Mr. Deel longed for the days when he was carefree and happy working in Boston for Tropicana, or even his days as a grumpy green-frock wearing barista at the solitary Starbucks located in Iowa. He slumped back into bed, covered his ears, and hoped for a few more hours of sleep.
Two floors down, in 3C, Adriana’s alarm went off. Her hand, slender and smooth, switched it from “alarm” to “radio”, and tango music began to play softly. Laying quietly in the obsidian blackness, she let the music bring her back home to Tierra del Fuego, before she left her mama and papa behind in search of a better life. After being sold into prostitution by slavers who promised her safe passage to America, she spent two years in Atlanta pleasuring sexually frustrated men in a Denny’s bathroom and living under the watchful eye of a pimp named Louis. As difficult as that was, he treated her well, and she would never forget his fuchsia and black spotted hat and fur-lined fuchsia coat. She finally escaped, though, and now she relished each second of her new life working in a small restaurant as a waitress, sending money back home every single week.
Across the hall, Travis was on a roll. His alternative comic, Smurfin’ Crazy, about a man who suffered a psychotic break and believed he was possessed by a perverted miniature demon living inside him, had recently been picked up by DC/Vertigo, and he was already planning the prequel about a persnickety World War 2-era demon, the color of a ripe persimmon, who occupied and manipulated Hitler from within. He had sketched out all 22 pages and was taking a break to play the Wii with his roommate, Mahefa. Also an artist, with peculiarly green eyes, almost chartreuse against his inky black skin, Mahefa expressed himself vividly, painting pictures with his words almost as well as he did with his brush. Extremely self-absorbed, he was once again recounting his first trip to Oklahoma, riding in a truck with his uncle, seeing the sun set, splashing gold and crimson and puce and magenta and saffron, across the barren, desolate landscape, and sharing his complete and abject terror of the environment being such a change from the lush jungle environment of his home of Madagascar. Travis merely grunted and continued with his game.
Pulling into the apartment building’s parking lot, Francis drove a giant purple monster truck emblazoned with the logo of the energy drink company that employed him. He was tired after a long night of hitting bar after bar, promoting their new alcohol-infused caffeinated beverage. Still, Duluth was better than the other locations he’d been. There was Hershey, where none of his usual tricks worked and he went to bed alone every single night. There was Orlando, where he fell in love and has his heart broken inside a giant Lego castle at downtown Disney. And, worst of all, there was New Delhi, where his promotional efforts were met with confusion, apathy and derision. At least here, Francis thought, the men just want to stay up and drink, the women want to dance as long as they can, and the bars love his product.
Watching Francis from a nearby hill, shivering from the cold snow under his body, Gunther whined a faint, sad whine as he curled up and tried to tuck his cold, blue-tinged nose under his paws. He knew that the sun would be up soon and he would be warm, but for now, the cold was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes and his memories as a puppy kept him company. A small boy, wearing a lime-green coat, feeding him french fries. Giant golden arches. Rolling on the ground with the giggling boy. Feeling the tension between the boy’s parents, not understanding why he and the boy were sent away. Being packed in a crate, marked “Berlin”. Traveling for hours in the cold, cramped crate. Being released by stern looking men who said words like “unclaimed” and “pound”. Going home with a new boy. Excited to see his new home. Sitting patiently outside the door while he heard yelling. The new boy coming outside, tears streaming. ”They won’t let me keep you.” Gunther kept his eyes closed and waited patiently for his next experience.
The sun streaked over the horizon and painted the building with a faint yellow. Rumblings began to tap against the quiet of the morning. The clock turned six, and the world started up again.