PAGE 4 .... short story board


It is a prettyparticular beach by brightnight. Three friends walk along the boardwalk, pretending to be tramps on a starmission. They
named Snookypants, Bigman and Gigglegirl. So named just by me,
names of Taty, Brian and Shavana are witheld for privacy), but they know who they are. Winkwink. They are having fun being poor and doing nothing but changing the world twice a minute so that no-one notices and try to stop them before they can escape up the sky ropeladders they keep in their back pockets for immoral emergencies.

Pretendme richlike people watch themselves closely and suspiciously in three-way mirrors in their new beachview apartments full of cheap rubbish like reallish gold and silver ornaments and diamond studded chokers around their skinny ankles and fat slimy throats, turned angry frog-green by the secret copperalloy content. Snooky, Big and Giggle leave footprints in the sand so light that they must be made of cloud sugar. As they walk on side-by-side the prints, all different colours not invented yet in movies, float gently up into the sky and hang for a while before popping like silent shimmerdownbombs.

It is not as if the beach is strangely a rippling escalator carpet, it actually is that way not unnaturally. Walking needs no effort, they are light as anti-air.

So they walk.on with no room for twenty dollar notes in their souls and no pockets in their minds to keep even the small change they plant in prankish patterns (mostly space alien four letter words) for the metal detectorists.

And they talk fitfully about the sadness of the scareful richlike personages looking out of their spectacle windows for a miracle which never comes. The miracles do come, but only when they are not looking out of their windows, and they all look away at the wrong moment, to miss these eternal surprise gifts.

Shooting stars from Andromeda which make smiley motions and loop-the- loop twice before going home again for a cup of tea and a bath in Milky Way juice.

A cheeky fox cloud chasing a flumpy rabbit cloud across the sky in half a second so marvelously amusing that Jumbo Jets stop for a good look but nobody will believe their own precise memory. Miracles are believed only when they are funny at the time. Afterwards, everyone with sadness in their shoes just says it has been done before.

It might be so so-so and maybe-if-but never and quite messageless drivvle altogether for the turkey people who gobble up newness with no relish on their tongues. But for the conniseur of miracles, every moment alive is a holiday for the heart. So the three friends know that anti-sadness must begin first in the shoes, for all the soul is based in palm of your feet where sensations are fed by the runny, gurgling centre of the earth is laughing through its toasty crust. Laughing at the silly sky for being so blue and then so black and then cloudy and moony and rainy and frosty and shiny and so many twos and threes of bashfully unpredictable things at a time so it can never make up its mind to be one thing or the other.
The centre of the earth is always making up jokes about the sky, but it isn't cruel humour, it is magmaminous. The night sky can take itself too seriously, it has a very dark kind of humour, without punch lines raining down all the time.

And the changing positions of the stars are hardly ever detected either.
Telescopes of menstronomers and ladystronomers and their dogstronomers keep quite still on one point inthe darksparkly sky as the universe revolves around eskimoland looking for an igloo to eeeon. So the world asleep or at all night parties would get the impression (if they weren't asleep or drunk or half drunk and getting there soon) that stars were parked up for the night, just too bored to move even a bit side to side just to keep their legs from getting stuck in black hole quicksand duckponds.

Snooky, Giggle' and Big' have stopped walking and have been looking up at the fox chasing the rabbit for at least half an hour each (a total of one and a half hours) but the beach is rippling underfoot like a horizontal escalator magic carpet. It is now acelerating at five hundred miles an hour to make up for the space time condiminium.

Many minutes or years ago the three pseudo tramps have run out of Brighton Beach (New York origami style) and they are skimming over the becalmed Atlantic Ocean in a bucket, still watching the rabbit, who is now chasing the fox's nose with his tail in an effort to slow the earth in a cup down backwards like Superman saving Lois Laine again.

Under the surface fillions of fish swim at half the speed of lighttttt,
chased by dolphins and sharks a thousand or million miles long each.

Turning past Cornwall, with an instinctive lean of their hips, the sea shufflers take a quick left at Brighton Beach, England. Breakfast is all day long, a year at a time there. A year is soon over though, because the sky of earth fills the entire visible universe for only enough time for the friends to grab a free breakfast of everthing over easy before all goes back to normal in the crack of a one finger click.

It is bright daylight, my first over the sea at light speed jet lag is having strange effects on my mental equilibrium. I am beginning to doubt the miracle trip and the rabbit and fox and the angry

My friends have returned to Brooklyn by yesterday mistwishtaxi and I bet they will not back up my tale.

Goodbye to Snookysocks and Gigglewiggle from Biglump. See you next time for a trip to New Zeland by rugwingbike.
Brian Wright
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The Glympton Global Gazette magazine features poetry, lyrics & short stories,
artwork & photography, plus animation, short film & music clips.