He had done it. Hosted his first party. The spell had been cast.
Clear thoughts in a foggy head. Weird. Counts roach ends and cigarette butts left in plastic glasses. Liquor bottles. One handle half full of black rum, his favorite. That should last a while.
Or not.
The very first line of his very first poem comes to him:
Once there was a cat,
A very good party it had been. Many friends had shown up, some in hospital scrubs. A few people he didn’t know, drawn by curiosity after reading the poster. His big sister and his brother-in-law had come, seemed to have had a good time despite turning down the proffered joints.
He weaves forward to the flute crafted in 1932, his father’s, now his. Weaves? He thought he had shown some restraint, as the host. He tries to straighten his gait.
“That would make one hell of a weapon.” she’d said.
“The flute is an instrument of love.” he’d countered.
Failed to ask her to stay behind so he could prove it to her. She’d walked away, smiling. Another opportunity lost. Fool.
And it was very black.
Still, he smiles even as his stomach roils. That regret aside, it had been one hell of a party. Red ribbons swim and twist before his eyes. A few partiers had left them behind. Most kept them on their wrists.
They’d gotten into the spirit.
“Repeat after me: Henceforth, Friday the 13th will be a lucky day!” They said it. Some appeared bemused.
“Again! Henceforth, Friday the 13th will be a lucky day!” They repeated, with more enthusiasm.
LOUDER! HENCEFORTH, FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH WILL BE A LUCKY DAY!” They did it justice!
Clapping, cheers, laughter…a couple of neighbors came to complain but joined the party.
That cat it crossed my way,
And it was Bad Luck Day.
Cross legged on the floor, he raises flute to lip. Old songs. Summertime, Willy the Weeper, Three Blackbirds. Then improvisation as it bubbles up. They had enjoyed his jamming with the guitarist.
After a while he is satisfied, stands up to put the flute away.
“Am I free?” he asks aloud. “Finally?”
Feels someone in the room with him. A Shining One? Hair rises on back of neck. A breath, somehow warm and chill at the same time, enters his left ear:
“No.”
He turns, thinking to see a goddess, but his gaze only falls upon a big bottle of blackness.
”One day you will be.”
~ Wry Welwood
December 2022
Written in response to:
J.D. Harms’ prompt in Scrittura.
Previously published by Wry on Medium.