A story of one soul during two lives
Transmigrant Blues by Indi Riverflow
Archive for the ‘Transmigrant Blues : Round 2’ Category
Is it the story of a girl having flashes from her past life?
…or a writer imagining his future destiny?
Is the girl insane? Is the writer vain?
Unbeknownst to me (though it was a predictable enough fuck-up), as I prated on about Socrates and his death sentence for corrupting the youth, among my unwilling audience sat the vengeance-oriented father of the school’s biggest and most incorrigible dealer, a sloppy, juvenile operator unconcerned with consequences because he knew he’d never truly face them.
The prevalence of crack in Washington, D.C. shows that not only is the Pentagon actively importing cocaine, but that they are also too lazy to ship it much further than Capitol Hill.
“Hi, Class!” I say, striving to sound cheerful yet cool.
“Hi, Victor!” the class chants back at me.
The program, brainchild of Warden Cleevenhoff, is the only one of its kind, as my course is the sole offering of Sunny Oak’s continuing education curriculum, and is not attached to any attempt at a degree.
“I call this ‘Murican Pie’.” He drains another voice-cracking tendril of phlegm from his gullet.
“You need a war,” Mr. Pink stated, sinking comfortably into the red- cushioned plushness of the Throne.
Shrub nodded, emerging from his daze. His father had made a humiliating gaffe once, in referring to the anniversary of that infamous attack, which had brought Murica into Double-U Double-U Eye-Eye; it would be good to supplant the event in the public memory. “But how do we get Juhpan to bomb us again? They sells us so many flying carpets these days.”
The people of Murica were duly outraged. They took to the streets and demanded the heads of Assume Ibeen Plottin’ and Madman Insane. Evidence emerged that these shadowy figures with the strange names had masterminded a plot in which everyone in or from Rug Country was implicated, except, of course, the Hash-fiends who had actually done the deed at Mr. Pink’s behest.
Stephen King? More like Salman Rushdie. “Thank you, Trombone, that was…interesting.” Seditious? Libelous? Paranoid? A good way to get yourself permanently silenced?
“John Barth,” I insist. “We talked about fucking metafiction when we read fucking Lost in the Fuck-I mean, Funhouse. Metafiction. Who can tell me what it means?!”
It feels good to walk out of prison, even after only an hour. Bad vibe doesn’t begin to describe it. Penitentiaries, are, after all, the closest thing to Hell which actually exist.
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