Angels and Absinthe

A great star, blazing like a torch, fell from the sky on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water - the name of the star is Wormwood. Annie picked up a bottle of vivid blue liquid with an ecstatic smile across her face. It seems our friend procured some Absinthe on her most recent voyage to the old world. The neon blue drink was rather un-elegantly poured over a pile of sugar on a spoon. I don’t believe any cubes were available. Michael was dressed in a blinding white jump suite with a lab coat that looked far too much like a cape and a little robotic dinosaur snaked across the room smelling everyone. What led us to this madness? I remember we were soaked and running. “No fireworks now,” I had thought. What the hell were we doing? Less than an hour ago we were participating in lavish dining with company of a most precarious dynamic. At any moment one would fear being attacked with a cocktail fork. I maintained my fixed smile as we walked with our glasses of Châteauneuf-du-Pape onto the polished brass elevator that hissed to the roof with a gleeful chime announcing our arrival to watch the fabled fireworks. A fresh fruit hit me in the forehead.

Blind Tasting?

Wedding in the Garden

Emerald sparks exploded in fireflies and spread a sweet smell throughout the garden. Meagan climbed the umbrella tree, from where she conducted an invisible orchestra all night long while plucking silver pears from passing clouds and tossing them to the dancing devils below. Brandon disappeared deep into the embroidered garden and rolled in the golden moss to return holding a crystal chalice filled with turquoise jello cubes housing tiny pink fish who flickered, "My god, its full of stars." The Gilded Angel spent hours under the chocolate fountain with mermaids offering her sweet fruits and humming Alain Goraguers Ten Et Tiwa Dorment. Moments of moonlight pierced the jeweled garden canopy just enough to illuminate a smiling Michael leaning against a rosewood tree who began to speak but was interrupted by a pack of wild eyed bob-kittens who had decided to become very startled by nothing. As Gnomes frantically brought barrel upon barrel of their finest wines, The Fiddler abandoned the devils at the umbrella tree to refill his glass. My eyes drifted down to the dew glistened grass where it began to distort and open beneath me. I slipped in and the pink fish smiled and flickered, "Success."

You Need Not Worry

“You need not worry.” A flickering light, my eyes dilate. “I feed them well ahead of the arrival of any of my guests.” Flesh ripping, gargling blood. He takes hold of my shoulder and shakes me, “Are you there?” Jesus, where did I slip off to. I focus on a fleshy bit of meat Brandon’s pulled from a stained bucket as he tosses it between the bars to be greeted by shrill screams and more coarse shredding. “They would be far worse had I left them alone for a few days,” a blast of smiling white teeth greets me as he notices my return to consciousness, “they’re barely hungry now.” Not to come across as impolite to my host, I nod my head in a forced agreement. Brandon’s smile grows stale with my lack of enthusiasm and in a annoyed whisper says, “you need not worry,” then walks away.

A visit from The Fiddler

I sat, listening to the final crackling of the ambers. Night had long since fallen and I considered retiring when a violent pounding struck my door. So furious was this knocking that I was genuinely afraid to answer let alone approach the entrance to my abode. I crept slowly towards the source of the pounding that was, at this point, making the masks on the wall shift to and fro with each consecutive crash. Shivering from the unusually cool air, I approached the pulsing monolith of wood and eased my eye near the peephole wary not to get hurt by the swelling thrust of the splintering, and rapidly conceding entrance. As I brought myself to the peephole, a distorted, vibrating image of a purple figure with a horrifying grin could be seen. Nothing else could be made of the creature. My hands shaking and my body crouched over, I gained the strength to cry, “What has brought you to this door?” A silence and then, “Your beckon,” mixed with muted, high pitched laughter was the reply. The pounding, having then ceased, gave me a more clear view though the spy-hole as to whom I was conversing. Vivid purple and gold adorned a man holding an instrument of a brilliant crimson varnish that was stunning though only illuminated by faint moonlight. It was The Fiddler. My hands finally began to cease their trembling and my face relaxed itself from its prior expression of absolute terror. I opened the latch and began to draw ajar what was left of the door when it was quickly thrown open towards me. I retreated back for fear of being hit by the shrapnel of splinters that was once my entry. Squinting through the cloud of dust and wood that was illuminated only by smoldering ash, there was no possibility to make anything out clearly. Then a flash of teeth, and purple velvet followed by a gust of frozen air passed my side towards the interior of my home. Turning to its course, I found illuminated in the dull, red light of the hearth, The Fiddler adorning his instrument and a most ominous smile.

The Dinner at Casa de la Fiesta

I had more stories to tell when the table was filled by a dish holding an enormous pig. We went on to express astonishment at such speed, and took our oath that not even a fowl could have been properly cooked in the time, especially as the pig seemed to us to be much bigger than the boar had been a little while earlier. I looked at it more and more closely and then said, “What, what, has this pig been gutted? I swear it has not. The cook, send the cook up here to us.” Poor Michael came and stood by the table and said he had forgotten to gut it. “What? Forgotten?” I shouted. “You would think a fellow had only forgotten to season it with pepper and cumin. Off with his shirt!” In a moment Michael was stripped and stood dolefully between two executioners. But Stephanie was set to beg me off and said: “These things will happen; do let him go; if he does it again none of us will say a word for him.” Meagan was stiff and stern as could be; she could not restrain herself, leaned over and said in Stephanie’s ear: “This must be a most wretched chef; how could anyone forget to gut a pig? On my oath I would not forgive him if he had let a fish go like that.” But not I, my face softened into smiles. “Well,” I said “if your memory is so bad, clean him here in front of us.” Michael put on his shirt, seized a knife, and carved the pig’s belly in various places with a shaking hand. At once the slits widened under the pressure from within, and sausages and black puddings tumbled out. At this we burst out into spontaneous applause and Michael shouted, “Thank God!”

The Tasting of February 2006

I sat there in the spotlight with only one thing to say. “Can I get up again?” Bryce’s eyes creaked to an eerie halt facing me. No words. Not a mutter of approval, just an old dusty gaze. “Retreat into the wine. The wine is good, wouldn’t hurt anybody.” The thought for once was right. The Henschke drank like sweet opulent fruit being crushed by scantily clad Arabian women just for me. Ah sweet delight. Through the distortion in my glass, I could tell Elizabeth was looking towards me but why? Had I said something moments before that required a follow up or was this just one of her caring bi-hourly checkups to make sure I hadn’t disintegrated into a smoldering gelatin. The smell of roast pork permeated in the air and, to boot, Michael had rapped that thing in some mutant prosciutto. Bastards’ trying to kill me. I really had to get up but the gate keeper to my right did not give off vibrations of approval. Perhaps he’s better now. I turn my head only to land within inches of that heart freezing bloodshot gaze. Jesus. I am a sweltering lump of fear. Beyond him is rest, release, food and wine in opulence but there is no hope here. I start to mutter the words that would surely put me in my grave: “Might I get by dear sir?” or “What the hell is that?” and scamper over his lap before he turns back to see what happened… No no, I will stay here with my friend Marcel Deiss. He is a good friend. Good ole’ Barar brought that guy to the table and he is the sweet, succulent dream that is gewürztraminer. If only life would sip this smoothly. I wonder for a moment how my dear little compatriot, Meay is doing. I turn to find her happily suckling the Deiss with appropriate enthusiasm. Turn my physical needs to something obtainable. Treat the situation as a challenge rather than a hindrance. That’s how the Junkies get by. Food. One of Michael’s more delicate dishes was an edamame spread with cute little rice flat things to scoop his goodness up with. *@&^$*%@ it’s across the table! I would have to get up to obtain it’s subtly spicy flavors. Don’t think about it. I think about it.