The scream pierced through the air, assaulting my ears – it was almost convincing. I am stuck in Christina Agile-ear’s pipes. Not the ones she’s trilling with, the pipes inside the drain of her bath. Her bathroom is her favourite rehearsal space. It magnifies her warbles and wails of multi-octave scales, reverberating treble, mids and bass.
Who am I?
I started life as Mangel Wurzel, an oversized under-ripe beet, whittled into a fairy for the harvest reaping. My sculptor loved me so, that as he worked he fantasised I’d become sentient. ‘Twas on the morn of All Hallows Eve, a day when magic becomes real. He christened me Sam Hain. Thank goodness he didn’t hew a Jack-o’-lantern!
So how did I get trapped in a bathroom conduit listening to a diva practice her scream? This is the last thing I remember.
Being Caterer’s fare, I entered with an egg chair as edible party decoration. An intoxicating bouquet under the cloak of invitation stimulated a salivation sensation. They tabled me under Dorothy Draper exuberant drapes. Wearing an eye mask of potato pancakes, I put on the brakes and bluffed an inanimate existence. My legs began to shake. Standing stock-still, I saw a pie cooling on the window sill, the source of aromatic thrill. At last busy hands vamoosed. I needed to move. Unable to resist, I licked and munched the pie while boogieing to Let’s Groove.
The ground shook beneath my feet. The vibrations strong enough to rattle teeth. I tried to escape out of the window but shrank and fell beneath into the emptying kitchen sink. The garbage disposal roared. I circled the steely fjord, flailing and trailing in the drink towards…
Is it curtains for me? I clink and plink. With my last glance at draped cabbage-rose chintz, I cannot grasp a chink of the slippery foaming rink. The mechanical roar ceases. I blink. Perhaps I caught forty winks on the brink of drowning and being eaten by the engine in that dastardly sink.
The rush the gush of water evoked was legendary. I whooshed through the dark and scary pipeline, dreaming of carving barrels in Hawaii. The wave of water dumped me. I awoke to Acappella frenetic phonetics Christina sounded out, echoing through the spout; the fancy tap-work of her feet and song into the faucet’s mouth.
After a blur of slurs, whirs and non-demur purrs, her dragon calls to her. She lopes on ballet toes, adroit in every pose. I clamber out of the bath’s plughole and shadow where she goes.
On my way out the bathroom looking-glass mirrors my thoughts, ‘I wish I was a real fairy instead of a waterlogged beetnik.’
Celebrity doppelgangers arrive by the boatload. Smiley Iris and Wee-anna vie for least fabric in Mini Cooper dresses. Grinneth Gal-glow coaches Sliding Doors open. Be-young-says bangs match her golden Dreamgirl dress that a blue crested Jay sees best. Style icon Kim and Can-you Rest discuss the direction of North’s future quest. Winter Anna breezes in like fashion cyclone spin. Brad Spits and Angel-leaner Jolly stand By the Sea with Eleven Ocean’s worth of pretend famous friends.
Overcoming Star-struck overwhelm, I realise I can use the distraction to skedaddle before I’m toast or at least fried fairy beet!
Cross-eyed fierce, Christina bellows, ‘where are your Halloween Costumes?’
All eyes turn to Christina. I lurk in her shade, hoping for concealment. I am a tiny unknown in a palace of Faux celebrity.
Everybody laughs. Nobody is who they’re are supposed to be, but they’re masters of imitation.
A giant grassy jukebox in the shape of an eye descends from the sky and plays Eye-tunes.
A sheep wearing sunglasses jumps out and says, ‘Hi, we’re Ewe2 where should we set up.’
‘But there’s four of you, not two?’ Quizzed Christina.
‘With or without you, we will play, where’s the stage?‘
Christina stares at the sheepish tribute band climbing out of the Lawn-done eye.
The sun-glassed sheep searches for a raised platform and shouts. ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for!’
She locates a nest of electric power points. Her crew plugs in a plethora of speakers and amps. Mike-Rophone’s little ones connect joints and light techies clamp neon lamps.
A little lamb tests the drums. Her hooves don’t reach the pedals. As she reaches for the metal she succumbs to the plunge. Nosediving into the snare drum without a prayer as the others strum, (without a clue she’s askew). ‘All I want is you.’
Goldplay (a Polypay/Rambouillet lamb tribute band) disembark their multi-masted Barque, singing Yellow on the Beach. The festivals’ songs pleach into a mix of each.
In one fluid motion, Christina turns from the commotion and sees me, a tiny fairy beet at her feet. I grow, glowing and showing the gift (of my thoughts on) Halloween has bestowed. I am a real fairy. Since she noticed my miniscule self, it’s not only undone the pie’s diminishment, but my size multiplies before her eyes!
Christina applauds. ‘Well done, Maleficent.’
Shouldn’t that be Female-efficient? I am a girl.
I manage to abscond while the throng crowds around to the top-charted sounds as an acrobatic winking Pink Merino gets the party started. She flips twirls, flies and struts, from on high as she rocks and sighs So What!
Hiding in the forest, I wonder what now? My memories as a plant taught me how to bend with the winds of change. Now my life is rearranged, what shall I be?
I hike the entire island until Goldplay’s Clocks strike midnight. To my surprise, I’m still alive. I jive with joy as a boy with a flying toy approaches me. If I can fly, I may leave. Time to test my wings. I watch the boy control the kite with strings.
After a few tries, I flap and flutter like a happy butterfly in the sky. Where shall I go?
I will flow as the stream in Bruce Lee’s dream of water. I won’t do what I ought to, whatever that is. I whizz away from the din of ritzy Showbiz to answer the quiz of where I belong. My mind wanders to the white dove in Bob Dylan’s song. The answer is blowing in the wind. If my status does not rescind. I’ll find the answer when I get there. For now, I feel like a millionaire!
Thanks to the following for inspiration: Planting a Lyric Seed at the Writers’ Hub, Featured Fiction #36 and #37, Mindlovesmisery Menageries Taleweaver and Fairytale Prompt #32, and Stream of Consciousness Saturday-Memory