tragedians are…

Island Deluge

Tragedians are people who belong in ramekins but somehow slipped through the net and live on a Godot-like wasteland, without the gnarled tree, but with plenty of tumbleweeds constantly blowing through the landscape.

Discordant bird chatter is constant as well, yet a single bird is never seen — not the bullet sparrows alighting in bushes or hovering hummingbirds flitting about.

Somehow the tragedians are continually bombarded with bird droppings of every kind — green-white blobs here and there, alternating with a hail pellets on occasion — it’s as if they were marooned on an 18th century guano island.

The deluge never ends.

The tragedians speak in tongues, nothing even remotely comprehensible is uttered. One of these tragedians is forever wiping the waste off their jacket and making snacks of it.

Another tragedian conducts an imaginary orchestra, acknowledging an invisible audience that claps every so often as a line of phantom performers present themselves on an unseen stage, before commencing another desultory jag conducting the absent orchestra.

The remaining tragedian sits on a large rounded rock holding on to their pith helmet trying to avoid the worst of the bombardment.

As daylight fades there is one full hour of confusion before “The Internationale” plays at varying, and warped, speeds.

Then the jaundiced sun disappears and the world goes dark.

“I pay little attention to the audience. The worst thing a writer can do is give the audience what they want. The more you give them what they want or what they tell you they want, the less you are true to your muse.”

— Harlan Ellison

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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