Like mushrooms towering over grass and roots and stone and peppered with morning dew, these tents grow like giants in red and white stripes looking down with a cryptic grin over women and children and dogs and surrounded by men in awe. The fun and excitement, crudeness and cruelty come in two bright alternate colors, as a pack of weirdness and misunderstood begins a promised performance of a lifetime. The quirky rendition ends after a prolonged applause and a shower of thorny roses under a blinding spotlight, crowd pleasers march back to their dark rooms, with nary a word to each other, like a wounded squad counting the steps, each a defining moment, to its execution chamber. But the ghosts can hear the quiet sighs.
Photo from www.pixabay.com
(Thin Yarns is my amateur attempt at "flash fiction." I was inspired by Logo-Ligi’s Friday Fictioneers posts and The Sill of the World’s Week in Seven Words.)