A Thoughtful Life

As you probably all know by now, I take part in a monthly Flash Fiction workshop. The theme for March was SchadenFreude (Please consult “The Google” if you aren’t familiar with the term). By definition, Flash Fiction is under 1000 words.  I’m playing around with a new format… kind of a stream of speech.. all from one point of view.  Let me know if it works.. or if you hate it.. LOL

Pageant Chatter

Look at that little tart up there, strutting her stuff like some street-walking tramp. I’m telling you, Cassie, she’s the one to beat. That dress alone could win the competition, all sequins and rhinestones. It’s fluffy in all the right places. Certainly hides that bubble-butt of hers. If the judges only knew what kind of junk she was carrying in that trunk, they disqualify her in a heartbeat. Alright, there she goes on her final walk, cross your fingers for a trip. Come on, just a little stumble, a wobble even. Damn, no such luck. Well, she still has to get through her speech and the talent section.

Did you talk to her before she went out? Psych her out a bit? I chatted her up over lunch. Playfully reminded her about that slip-up she had in the Georgia competition last month. You know, when she got tongue-tied and couldn’t remember that all she wanted was world-peace and a home for every puppy? A repeat performance of that little faux pas would put us in the running for the crown for sure.

Ah, don’t look at me like that. I don’t care if she is your best friend. This is war, child. You hope like hell she fails and trips up on that stage. You can console her later over hot cocoa and teddy bears. Right now, she is the enemy and you better hope she falls on her face if you want that pretty little crown.

Now, go fluff your hair, it needs to be bigger. No, bigger still. Damn it child; don’t brush out all the curls. You’ve spent the last forty minutes in curlers. Don’t undo all our hard work! Give me the brush. I swear you’d never win a single pageant if I wasn’t here to make you pretty. There, perfect pageant hair.

Here’s the tape. Try to give yourself some cleavage, then pad the hell out of your bra. We need to make you look like you have some kind of curves. I still can’t believe you are nearly flat-chested at twelve. I swear, when I was your age I already had curves in all the right places and I knew how to shake it like a champ. I won every pageant I entered. I was a champion. Damn your father, and those stick-straight genes he gave you. Well, at least you’ve got great legs. Look at those things, long and lean. The judges will be drooling by the time you get to the end of the runway, especially when you strap on the heels.

Don’t forget to put Vaseline on your teeth. I want those pearly whites to blind them when you shoot your mega-watt smile. Remember, not too big. I don’t want you looking like a horse out there.

OK, one last look. Yes, just perfect. Put on your heels and walk for me. We don’t have much time now. She’s just finishing her speech. Ha! Did you hear that? She just mispronounced one of the judge’s names. They’ll take points off for that. And she forgot to answer the second half of the question. Rookie mistake. I don’t know how she pulled off the crown in Florida last June. Pure luck, I tell you. Pure luck.

She’s grabbing her guitar now. If I have to hear that simpering warble of hers one more time I swear I’ll be sick. I mean, her voice is nice enough, but all of her songs are so sugary sweet. No need to worry this time, though. Mama came through on Operation Guitar String. I gave those strings a good tweaking. She’ll be singing the blues in a few moments. Oh! Goodness! I must have tightened them down more than I thought. Three strings just snapped. Wow! I’m better than I thought. Well, that concludes the talent portion of her show and puts a pretty little bow on our chances of winning.

Wait, here she comes. Oh, poor little baby is barely holding it together. Here come the tears. Let’s see if she can keep it together till she hits the curtain. No! I’ve got a better idea. Quick Cassie, run out to the side of the stage and give her a hug. Put on a big show of support for the poor little dear. Make sure the judges see you; they give extra points for compassion.

Perfectly played, my dear, perfectly played. Now, you’re next. Get out there and wow those judges. Bring home that crown for Mama.