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In Prompt option: A marachi band of mice have to play a gig on the cat side of town and it's a rager.
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Dec 17, 2021 05:50
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 17:49 |
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what if emotion were extremely infectious and also you needed to stop a nuclear reactor from melting down + A marachi band of mice have to play a gig on the cat side of town and it's a rager. Nuclear Blues 1280 words “I think this is the place,” says Jorge. His fur tingles with electricity and he grasps his guitar strap tightly in his paws. ”You sure this is safe, Gabrielle?” “A gig’s a gig,” replies Ramon from under his sun bleached cowboy hat. He spits congealed tobacco juice to the ground and stuffs a pinch from his pocket into the corner of his mouth. “I was asking Gabby, hombre.” “Nuclear power is safe. Hasn’t been an accident in years,” responds Gabrielle. “I mean the cats.” “They’re white collar cats, it’s a work thing for them. We’ll be fine. Besides, mice work here too.” “As janitors maybe,” quips Ramon. The cat at the security office motions for them to move up to his booth. He stares, unblinking, from a stool, a flickering fluorescent light spills from the sliding window above the booth spills into the night. Gabrielle’s rhinestone duster glitters like a galaxy of swirling colours in the white haze as they approach. The guard absentmindedly swipes at the light dancing on the walls then plays it off by licking his paw and straightening his comb over. “Papers,” The guard asks in a hiss. Jorge pulls the documents from his suit jacket, and unfolds it three, no, four times and slides it through the glass. Ramon grunts. “Can’t you see that we’re the band?” He says as he shifts his giant bass guitar strap from one shoulder to the other. “Doesn’t matter what I see,” Says the cat gruffly. He squints at the papers in his hands. “HR signed off on this, makes sense.” Ramon looks like he’s about to say something, but Gabrielle gives him a tilted look that forces him to reconsider. He spits on the ground and makes a show of grabbing another pinch. A good musician is nothing if not dramatic. The cat slides the heavily unfolded documents back. “Follow the balloons. Party is in the lobby.” “See you there?” Asks Gabrielle. The guard waves her off. The balloons lead to a double glass door. The smell of cigarettes greets them there, but the hostess was a breath of fresh air. She’s a ragdoll cat with fur like creme brulee. “Oh, you must be Ratondito,” she purrs. Jorge lights up like a headlight and the eye contact between them is unmistakable. They both smile, awkwardly. He fidgets with his guitar strap again. “Stage is at the back, they’re ready for you.” They start heading over but Jorge stops himself. “Didn’t get your name,” He says. “Zoe,” she says, “Better hurry up, you’re late.” “Fashionably.” He replies as he straightens his tie and turns to his friends, already halfway across the place. The party was at a dull hum when they entered, but it died out pretty quickly as they made their way across the lobby to the assembled stage. “You think they knew we’re mice when they booked us?” Jorge asks as he catches up. “They will when we’re done playing,” says Ramon, “Let’s show these cats what mice are made of.” “For once Ramon, we’re in agreement,” Gabrielle says with a mischievous wink, “Boys, give me Diablo Rojo, uptempo.” “Gabby…” Jorge replies with worry. “Trust me Jorge.” He shakes his head but relents. “We’ll never get paid if we wreck the place.” She pulls out her French horn. “Uno.” The boys nod and flip their guitars around their shoulders. “Dos.” Gabby swings around to the mic, her rhinestones glimmering in the light. “Tres!” Ramon starts slapping his bass, each strike blasting out a note with concussive force. Jorge strums his five string rhythm guitar and the melody dances around the room like fire. The cat’s tails started moving. Ramon takes the lead, slapping a beat that shoots out notes like a machine gun. The fancy glasses at each table start bouncing along. Cats start stomping their feet in tune to the beat. The glasses shatter. Gabrielle sways her hips, and Jorge comes in hot. His expert fingerwork dances across the frets. The cats are on their feet, dancing with each other. Gabrielle yells, “Rapido!” and Jorge plays faster. She yells again. His eyes narrow, sweat beads on his brow as his fingers work like lightning, spraying sparks as he goes. The crowd is frantic, tables overturn. One of the cats turns on the intercom, it sends the jam throughout the whole plant at the speed of light. Cats drop their pens. A mouse drops his mop. Gabrielle comes in on her horn, laying on the brass like a church organ. She improvises notes to Diablo Rojo playfully, but hard and fast. The walls vibrate like they’re dancing along. The lights glow bright. Brighter. Blinding. And then they burst, one after another. Somewhere, control rods dancing like the LEDs on a sound gauge. The emergency lights all flash, as if in rhythm. Every living thing bounces and sways as the stark white lights flash off Gabby, leaving a reddish hue across the lobby. A klaxon blares, “Danger, danger, meltdown imminent. Evacuate, Evacuate.” The band stops, but the chaos unfolds unfailingly. Cats slip on spilled wine and dance on the floor, their circadian rhythms all in tune. “What the hell is happening?” yells Ramon above the ruckus. “This place is gonna go, and take the whole town with it!” replies Gabrielle. “The engineers are too busy doing the fandango, we gotta do something,” says Jorge, “Let me try a song.” He steps to the mic and strums an open fret slowly, once, twice. He sees Zoe in the crowd, dancing in a maniac Jota style. He shouts “Hola!” into the mic. All the cats turn to look. The intercom listens raptly. He plays some tearful notes on his guitar, careful to pluck the strings in a way that gives them a sad tremble. The room seemed to shrink and grow darker. “Cuando un amigo se va queda, un espacio vacío que no lo puede llenar la llegada de otro amigo,” he croons. The words speak of a lost friend that he longs for but may never replace. “I never thought I’d hear him play this song again,” whispers Ramon into Gabby’s ear as she wipes away a tear. The cats have stopped dancing, but the walls still reverberate to the tune of Diablo Rojo. Gabby steps up to the mic beside Jorge. “Cuando un amigo se va galopando su destino empieza el alma a vibrar porque se llena de frío,” They sing together. Many cats do not understand the words, but they feel the truth about how cold destiny may be in their bones. The plant is silent, enthralled. The security guard from outside enters the lobby, tears streaming down his face. Ramon steps up and joins his friends. “Cuando un amigo se va se queda un árbol caído que ya no vuelve a brotar porque el viento lo ha vencido,” he wails into the mic, to the crowd, and into the intercom. What becomes of the fallen tree that never sprouts again? Somewhere, tears emerge from an incandescent uranium core, sizzle, and evaporate in small puffs of steam. The tears give way to a river as the core sobs in it’s tiny, sealed prison. The control rods stabilise. The emergency lights dim. The klaxon falls speechless. Zoe cries into her hands. Jorge tucks his guitar behind his back and smoothes his hair. “Thank you all for coming, and sorry about the mess. I hope you all have someone you care about, hold them tightly, and never let go.” He jumps from the stage to the floor and walks through the crowd. “Where are you going?” Shouts Gabrielle. Jorge turns his head and replies, “I owe someone a drink.”
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Dec 20, 2021 06:50
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In Marvels
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Dec 21, 2021 13:57
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Promised Land When the Christians reconquered Spain, they brought with them fear. Fear of anyone who was not like them. For the Sephardic Jews, especially the ones who knew the stories of the past, knew that this meant them. At first, they merely asked the Jews to convert. This did not make more Christians, instead it just split the community into three kinds of Jews. The ones who didn't convert, those that pretended to convert, and those that did convert. To the suspicious Christian, that meant there were only two kinds: the open enemies and the secret enemies. So the King and Queen told all the Jews to leave. If they didn't leave in four months, the inquistion would have questions for them. So many Jews and ex Jews left. But to where? The Jews were not even considered people in most of Europe. Out of the pan, into the fire. My family stayed. A hundred years or so later, they would have me. As 'Christians', we thought we were safe. But we were always only Jews to them. Then they took my mother. So my father took me to visit the Rabbi in the Synagoge. The Inquisition was everywhere, so the Rabbi covered the floor in sand. This way, we could walk freely without being heard. My father told me to pray while he visited, so I did so. I prayed to God. I asked that he deliver us from evil, and that he turn the King and Queen into goats. After my father was finished, he fetched me and we left. After he had settled his affairs, we went to the docks. Father pulled me aside and told me I must do something important for him. I beamed with pride as he handed me a jug. "Fill this with sand," he said as he turned to go sell our horse and cart, the last things we owned but for the clothes on our back, and now, the sand in the jar. We waited for many days on the docks. My father told me of a city far across the ocean that Jews lived freely. "How can that be? Won't the king follow us?" I asked. He shook his head and told me that no one could just go there, they had to be taken there, and that no one would take the king there, because they all hated him too. Yet when a warship came to port my father did not seek passage. It was the wrong type he said, too crowded. So we watched it sail away. Then a huge trade ship came. There were fewer people but my father shook his head. Too many cannons he said, they would give us headaches. Finally, an empty slave ship came. They would be going to Africa, then to the Americas. My father exclaimed 'this is it!', and we paid for the passage. It was a few months before we reached Africa. The boat was loaded with slaves and we set sail across the sea. The journey was treacherous. We were hit with snow, hail, and rogue waves the size of castles. Some of the slaves chose to throw themselves into the sea. The crew would beat the rest, to deter any other losses. To me, there seemed no limit to Spanish cruelty. Finally, the storm gave way to the warm sun. The deep black waters turned light blue. My father tells me we've reached the Carribean. We didn't have to wait long after that. Another ship appeared on the horizon. It was flying a Spanish flag. But as we approached, the Spanish flag was lowered, and the skull and crossbones took its place. The slavers, weighed down by it's human cargo could not flee. It wasn't long before it drew up alongside us, and we were boarded. The pirates offered us all the same deal. A pistol in our hand, or ball around our leg. The slaves took no time in tossing their masters overboard, whipping a school of sharks into a frenzy. Then the pirates finally took us home, to the city you have to be taken to, Port Royal. Ruled by none other than Govenor Henry Morgan and home to two synagoges. My father took me to one, where sand was poured on the stone floor, in memory of where we came from. I pour my jug of sand, adding it to all who came before us. My father would live another tens years, but I would sail the high seas hunting the Spanish for the rest of my life. Yo ho me hearties, and Happy Hanukkah.
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Dec 27, 2021 10:36
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