Some Word Slingers product from this morning's session and their associated prompts.
The ground was uneven, a little soft in spots, but we were dancing, dancing on a cold New Years Eve, on the impromptu graves of the lumpen futurists and dystopian world builders who had gone back to starvation wages and dug themselves spider holes to wait out the dreadful, unforeseen year.
If anything, they were good for a quick lash-up and had had a nice living as late arrival disrupters for visionary CEO's with an opening in the calendar. The last pitch I'd heard was for an exchange of a 12-month hi-desert August for the entirety of 2020. It might have gone down too if the negotiations hadn't been undermined by a loud and barely maintained swamp cooler drowning out the nuances of the barter.
Now it was time to dance again, Emma Goldman-type dancing. Imagining the end of the world had gotten easier, and imagining the end of Capitalism was re-illuminated and back on the menu.
Prompt: You should be dancing
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The marketing was intoxicating and I was drunk on France, or rather some part of Northern California not reduced to ash. Freely flowing and with a hint of a stolen mother from a religious cult's kombucha brewery, the bouquet wasn't quite the punch in the face I'd hoped for. Still it was flowing and my limbs were melting, not from the heat of the loud, darkened cavern, but some cold glacial slide. My legs and arms like stretches of permafrost awakening to a warming season, and my body began to feel porous and open to opportunities that only the next few minutes might provide. Breathe, remember to breathe, I remembered. Agustina nudged me and I refocused momentarily as a glistening waiter approaches us tray aloft and floating above his decorated arm. Keep it flowing, and upright for the moment, Agustina indicated with her glance and whispered "More prehistory later."
Prompt: Keep the champagne flowing
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Planning was not my strength after all. It was a fault of our times and I take no personal responsibility for it. We were all being curated, or complicit in deejaying our way into the abyss, while missing the journey and oblivious to the end, even if there wasn't a recognizable end, like the flickering black-and-white title card on a imported Swedish film. I'm saving myself, the best for last, despite all those heads and torsos bobbing up and down around me. The last look at the night sky, the cold plunge, dipping beneath the surface, one warm breath, held tight, exhaling a final performance followed a few sustained moments later by a violent bow. The last, not necessarily my best, but the last.
Prompt: I'm saving the best for last
* * * * *
A celebrity in debt is a fascinating object and ultimately a wonderful investment opportunity. I offer you this premiere financial product before it's official debut on the platform. Risks are substantial but the rewards are astronomical and participating in this fund is a pleasure that you'll be proud to flaunt. The initial offering is a collection of Coreys, Amandas, and syndicated chefs. Rebooted sitcoms, mall openings and car shows, public humiliation and psychic meltdowns, threatening paternity suits and slow, drawn out public suicides, all to a schedule of returns and options. It's fleeting fame and money-in-your-pocket fortunes!
Prompt: Fame or fortune
