The flutterbug ending

I'd like to say that this is what it sounds like, but, it isn't...

The business end of an hour came and went like an overloaded train going over the hill of dreams and left doppelganger Smith flat as old beer on the turn with two tired legs to stand on that only wanted to go home and never go to work again.

A consanguineous flutter-bug that flew in the window just then agreed with him as it bumped into the hot light bulb over and over, until with a pop it bumped itself out.

When a Millie squillionaires came in hanging up coats into waiting hands, everyone sighed the big sigh and divvied themselves up right quick about the place and smiled their dismay at everyone.

Strangers of the night stared in through the glass window to disappear forever until the next stranger would come to be lost, and all were faces hidden under suspicion of something that wove into their dark destinies never to be found.

As some another tune played in the background that was worn out of all patience and ground its teeth for a change, any change, but preferably one that made a difference and couldn’t be fallen back into, the night wore on until all pretence that life was anything more slipped away and never looked back there again at the dust that swirled in the dry desert of doom of that place.

APPETITE OF A DONUT

A chicken breast with the appetite of a donut and dressed up as a tree was watching football in between the ads as slowly, slowly one foot went to sleep.

Outside, the big sky was taking appointments to joyride to heaven; while under the ground, the worms were eating all the dead bodies into mulch.

A clock that was ticking someplace else and had been incredibly patient up until now suddenly bonged and disturbed the ghost boiling the kettle deep in thought.

The kettle began to whistle that it was boiling so the ghost went to make a nice cup of tea.

And from a dark corner where a thousand skinny people were singing in the opera a clash of cymbals signalled the end, so everyone went home, none the wiser. Bye, bye.

ENDING NUMBER 12

The next bus to Shanghai roared out a cloud of smoke and made the chickens in the road cough blue eggs.
Ding, ding sounded the bell for the off.

Everyone was looking forward to the trip and in no time at all were sound asleep and were rocked back and fore with their dreams along the hungry road.

Quite a few pot holes later the bus passed into history and was never heard from again.

An ending with a difference that was contrary to opinions bold and wide came up with a simple solution: FINI

A split infinitive struggled with this but without a leg to stand on became delirious and was carried away on a stretcher calling out loudly: “This is not the end.”

THE FULLMOON ROOM SERVICE

In the square of happenstance big things were going on: bridges fell, tides rose, gravity expanded, dreams de-materialized and hot air went to new heights of abandon in the cities of doom. Whatever.

I turned the TV off and called down for room service.

A quintessential sidebar to all that has been said turned up to make its mark, but couldn’t get past the lion’s belly flip flop ju-ju machine. So raising up its voice it called out: “Ten dollars on SeaMillion.”

A reply came back: “It’s already run, came in last.”

So that was that.

When later came at the hotel that night, room service was called for and came running to be delivered under the full moon. Someone got lucky.

TEN CENTS AN HOUR

An old explosion in the spiritual wasteland and far from the golden 9th was using an odd expression to set up shop with a woman of pain and was doing so-so.

As they made progress in the rain of their meeting and without an umbrella, the pigment began to wash from their masks to expose the hidden places for night to become day or perhaps vice versa until the hotel with the full moon room service was called for that had emblazoned on its walls: Enlightenment is a state of being that doesn’t have a state of mind.

In the source of this the undercurrents left them both exhausted, entwined and speechless.

When ten cents an hour banged on the wall for extra time they laughed.

“Where are you coming from?” they said.

“Nowhere,” said ten cents an hour, deciding then and there to get out and go for a walk leaving his hat behind sitting on the rack.

LATE FOR THE ENDING NUMBER 33

“The appetites are here,” the blag man shouted and ran for it leaving behind a single streak in the dust that caught up with him later under the overhang scribbling in the dark but without the ability to fly and said: ‘nothing,’ which wasn’t much to say but fitted in perfectly to the dark silence.

“Cut,” said the movie director. “That’s it folks.”

Images from Pixabay

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