Fi,fy,foe,fum. I smell the blood. Sweet nectar of fools. Stamp them down. Stamp it all out. Back and forth like the swing of a fairground hammer.
Adjust the ride. Inject the senses. Bathed in a misty surround of vibrant blue striped with lashings of orange.
Moving to the fruit machine looking like an ice cream. Staring fish eyed at the captivating peaches on display at the counter of commerce.
Trouble follows me says the curly fig bush swaying in the breeze. A magnitude of realms in which it dwells. Such luxury to come. Easily afforded by the advance received to correlate and inject the fusion. Dashing amber lights and stripes of brown liquid. The mask lives on. In kind. A mono-rail. An inner world of torrents gush and volcanic eruptions.
The girl and her pal enter the fair. A stare from jaded eyes seems familiar yet goes unnoticed as the magic of rides sweeps over and laughter begins.
Later the long square mirror reflects the room of red and white stripes and posters to gaze upon. The small box on the window sill containing natural possessions. A stone. A rock. A leaf. To reach out to the directions and elements as per book instruction.
Meanwhile the ice cream cone and fig set loose energy to many. Vibrations of many hue and form. Yet the pink orb slipped by unnoticed.
Copyright © Tammy Lana Cahill