Sorry for the ugly mug in the road there.
Who we are gets ignored until our own identity immerses a little deeper and further into thee ultimate telling, or stealing of our real story and name.. [Scott. Not Elliott. But please still refer to me as Elliott, or Link if you really want to (nicknames are the best).. I am not trying to deceive or trick anyone. Elliott T Lyngreen is name i created for a character that was going to be the literary counterpart to yours truly here.] becomes the one thing on everyone’s mind; establishes that…recognition of being someone.
Let me tell you about Scott real swift; release him in our time period, the spirit that emerged in the last decade of the 20th century; the way we just storm the courts, and rush the stages, moshpit stain arenas, raved, left every trace of the experience in the media and simultaneously everywhere in unknown places mingling and shifting through warmbodies surrounded by the power, sounds, and spirit of the day.. darting from the backyard court, where he invented a basketball team, even with a left hander, Michigan Tech; like a gym rat but out in the streets – always at basketball court, where they call him Mickey – cuz he was always smiling- just another one of them squirrels LOOK OUT! crossing into
-Into the wrinkly tar entrance, twisted and bent in abysmal shattering, the separation of my soul cooling from the half sun burned magnified knot that framed unawareness from this end or area, into the concrete vanishing point of all of Time, the central portal that opened the all-mad hysterical twinge of everything prophetic about a blackhole staring down at that very end; absorb the horn renaissance tussling the awesome ripple, eliminating silence, then a sullen like butterfly effect))))l((((out of touch pierced proverbial flash, and into the air spin violently…
In the most excruciating scene, pinpoint quiet burnt whispering, “oh dear God I seen it coming” crowd steadily, unforgettably forming the angles of angels yet deep in these textured neighborhoods; sirens from the serene noiseless corners, bended around busy streets. The twisted facial expressions became unanimated, as over detailed as gestures in the deepest presence can outstretch; and the first wave of spirits arrived; then another; started a circle, followed by an outer ring that surrounded; then another; layers began crowding the center of my great ripple, a stupid mistake but scarring curious upon mine soul. Modulations hoarded, conversions radio an indeterminate traffic jam crippling a tremendous dread across the small subcity… no. A line in the traffic accidents of the newspaper articles the next morning.
But nothing about the speckled freckles of fragments, white blasted stars across a convex bumper, the crunched image of consumed glances around some jet stream length, praying upwards cuz a newborn’s stare got glass in the shards of colors; the moaning, twisting and twitters and blind chirps, vacant hallelujahs constantly swayed into attachments, dipped into wherever, in the malleable concaved hole. .heads immortally blended into the mightiest mind scars; exploding the sensations of absenting stars…. the caved area exaggerated the ghosts or standing souls fluttering as blips of bad connections transparently wavering, rolling silhouettes, the holograms, the beams of light, peripherals reoccurring in the wildest ways inverted, merely sketched, shaped within the light, the shadowed parts of the phenomenon flick, into the collapse, into the fading, into the disintegrating miraculous event…..
Then, rip a child back onto the road at this triangulated horizon, rip–oh graceful angels-rip thy destiny breathing up and out to hear ‘—–’ the rage -gasp! (and the world becomes wavy) ripped-open flash and the song, and the same remains as I…yeah me, we wanted to ride on home along. On my own shrinking as the world but gnawed again, again by purls; first tear, then cut this young lifeless body, y-incision a T-shirt like wings, open these frail protrusions around impressions of whiplash …..scatterbrain consume the exalted 12 year old; form—“did you black out son?”—together, harmony and rhythm hum again slipped but inside the body of work you now swim in world; ahhhh the slow rising view into the out of place ramble, click-starting startledly engine motor-developed-further into vehicles through automatic gears creeping the one lane through the scene, below the tiny air, breathe a plane from the low concrete view into some jet stream length as they harness my head down, lift, load me from that untouchable quicksilver, vaporizing, stretching the skin of the pavement, snapping all completely glazed; the dark castaway..
A smooth like raindrop nub that never collapses upon my knuckles, 2 bumps actually, remind me… that here or there (see pic) at 4321 Douglas Rd. acknowledges in some manner an expression of the scars, marks, strawberry roadburns on my knee and stuff, frayed drips of the gashes petal onto the brim of my favorite ballcap; the aerodynamic coincidence of a Brown Honda, the futuristic shaped low enough to throw me over the top, colliding at over 40 miles per hour and me at a drift from the wrinkly tar entrance, from the bottom of driveway, into the road, on my way home; and the twilight gloam..
Now let me show a couple of squirrels winning a 3-on-3 game 2-on-4.. or try to imagine cuz this is all i got so far
If it is here when we get back it is ours
(title credit Texas is the Reason)
by Elliott Lyngreen
..my peeled jukes frustrate faces with no-looks, so they mutate. elbow tap his jumpers -with no whistle-out where little shoves, hips, hands, words too “awe he off” slide loose my cousin “ew no legs” as phew phases faked “broke- he broke” as he pulled up smooth–“he a drizzle”–“naw he comen with d-flood bro” –carmelized in the sun dappled flickers, chewed rrrips-crunched….ahhh we were meant for so so much more than a 4 on 2.. “Primo we killed those dudes”–and in my gray sunken mood, “wasn’t me; that was all you.”-“not true, could not have without you.”
May 18, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a squirrel. It can be about a squirrel, for a squirrel or by a squirrel. Think nutty, naturalistic, dinner or ironic. Go where the prompt leads and don’t forget to twirl with imagination.
Respond by May 24, 2016 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!