Finish the Fiction Story Contest - Week #25 - @bananafish

Fasnachat

In the eyes of the couple, the slate-paved street of the village revealed a cornucopia of crafts, sweets and jubilant peasants. Along the noisy main street, colourful festoons hung from the balconies of typical mountain houses, made of solid stone and original woodwork. The buildings themselves, due to the abundance of decorations, seemed to curve over the long snake of stalls.

There had been an imperceptible moment of silence when the two had laid their feet on the dark pavement of the village, nothing but a quick counterpoint to underline the next wave of noise of the festival in its full becoming.

It had been enough to turn left on the path between the conifers marked by the navigator and their journey had moulted with grey scales now transformed into coloured harlequin’s diamonds.

"Fasnachat". That bizarre writing on a shaky sign had tickled their imagination.

"If Google had reported this village party we could have left two hours earlier." At her voice’s sound, Ben instinctively thought of two Dolce & Gabbana sneakers on the 100 meters starting blocks.

"A break cannot hurt us, but let's not forget about our timetable," he replied, not without a trail of scepticism in his voice.

Ben's senses captured fragrances, widened eyes and inebriated laughter. That joy was as disruptive as it was contagious.

"We do not need to remind ourselves of what it means being late for Grandma Maude's birthday dinner," he said, turning to his wife, whose hand was already wriggling from his, ready to compulsively stuff the car with the many bits and bobs offered by the fair.

Debated between the growing curiosity and the thought of his father-in-law blaming him for the delay, Ben had not even noticed that he had already lost sight of Joelle.

Like a pebble escaping the river’s current, the flow of the crowd had carried him in the middle of a small square dominated by a soaring wooden stage. An acute, strangely cacophonous, chant of stringed instruments enlivened a typical traditional group dance, where couples slapped each other’s feet and bodies.

Under the ever more pounding rhythm of the dance, among almost hypnotized and swaying villagers, his eyes increasingly focused on the show.

For a moment, he thought he saw Joelle surrounded by villagers who invited her to eat something viscidly black. The substance seemed to smear the white aprons and faces of the women, perhaps even that of Joelle who had joined them in a wild chortle. She seemed so lighthearted and it felt good. There was one thing Ben could not remember and squatted in the back of his head, but maybe it wasn’t that important.

He returned to plunge into the dance: it was simply wonderful. He felt he could not miss a movement, not even a note. He smiled at the villagers as a strange heat flared up inside him. An empty and collective smile painted back on the villagers’ gaunt faces.

In a frayed embryo of thought, Ben recorded the distant verses of Joelle, who, strangely, had fused together in a long animal bleating.

My Entry:

The mammal bleating turned into a blood curdling cry.

Thuds and screams, as people began running toward Ben in panic. He searched wildly for Joelle in the bizarre still unaware of the danger. His calm demeanor eroding as the throng of bodies rushed passed him; his shoulders taking a beating as his feet began to slide with the flood of human bodies.

For a moment all seemed frozen in time like an evening snow storm at Zermatt during the twilight hours of the ski lifts, people carving down the hillside making no sound except a low undefined buzz.

Then the shock of hitting heads with an alarmed stranger. It knocked Ben to the ground. A woman stepped on him. He got up as if he were running with the bulls. Looking over his shoulder he finally discovered the man made disaster.

A package van tumbled through the Fasnachat festival in Zurich. Pedestrians who had arrived earlier in the day to indulge before Lent started, now felt their faith being tested, as God allowed their lives to be chewed up in the rubber tires of a terrorist attack.

Ben waded in the current of common man until he found a doorway to stop in. People continued to file passed him. He searched in vain for Joelle.

Ben could see the wild fanatical gaze of the package van driver as he plowed through fallen civilians. Blood smeared fenders, and the raw carnage of wasted human meat, his wife somewhere in this sea of red.

Love for his wife now the commanding emotion of his will.

“Guess we’re going to be late for Grandma Maude’s birthday dinner,” Ben laughed to himself before slipping back into the street to return to the former glory of the pageantry, now a post apocalyptic nightmare.

Moans and cries from the dying survivors.

“Ben!” Joelle screeched like a banshee.

Ben could see her raised arm. She sat on the sidewalk amongst corpses, where she bled from a maimed leg.

“Are you OK?” Ben said now kneeling next to her, both feeling frantic in the chaos.

Then the gunfire began to ring out. They looked down the blood stream to where the van had crashed against the plastered wall of body bags. All the doors to the package van now open. Four terrorists with machine guns began executing the begging souls at their feet.

Ben grabbed his wife around the waist, dragging her out of harms way, as the thunder of death drew closer.

“I wish I’d proposed to you sooner. We should have got married on our first date,” Ben whispered into his wife’s ear.

“I love you,” she responded in pain, trying to use her one good leg like an oar through the lake of bloodshed.

Thank you,
Cyrus Emerson

Red Roses the audiobook for your consideration at the Voice Arts Awards (NYC), and the Grammys (LA).
https://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/Red-Roses-Audiobook/B07F2LWHPN

Red Roses narrated by Kira Omans
www.kiraomans.com

Red Roses music by Rike Luxx
www.rikeluxxbeats.com

Red Roses sound by Pond5
www.pond5.com

Also, available from The Author:

Fear and Loathing in the State of Jefferson - ebook
https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B079R5KLPN&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_GsURAbAVDYNEM

Lost Angel – Introduction with Ray Manzarek of The Doors
https://www.downpour.com/lost-angel?sp=249812