Saturday's Storyteller: "You better start doing it right..."
by Belinda Roddie
You better start doing it right, my dear. Because Lord knows, there's no Messiah to save your hide if you sink too fast in the molasses. Not even Social Media Jesus could pull you from the sickly sweet quagmire, and without the Christ in Christianity, it's just Ianity - and Ian next door is useless, too.
I've given you time to perfect the dance, time to practice your dexterity. Knife juggling doesn't cut it if it cuts you open instead and leaves you to bleed out like the oil of a crushed corvette. And swallowing fire isn't meant to leave your vocal chords as thin as ashes. You can still sing, for crying out loud; if not, then whom will your sister accompany when she plays drums?
You are as frail as the plates I spun when I was your age. This circus act is a circus act in the way I didn't want to define it. I broke porcelain between my teeth; you carry yourself as if you were a disgusting, lumpy doll. No frills can substitute the clumsiness buried in the folds and scales across your sad, non-acrobatic aesthetic.
You may as well dry your sticky feet in hot steam and leave the tent because I blow my top like a broken chimney. You may as well string your wrists up with spun sugar so at least you're of value at the concession stand for the spectators. You better start doing it right, my dear, before the I feed you to the lions.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. I don't look good in orange. And Social Media Jesus would drag me on all my networking profiles - it's just not worth ending my career over.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Genesis's "Dance On A Volcano," which you can find here.
You better start doing it right, my dear. Because Lord knows, there's no Messiah to save your hide if you sink too fast in the molasses. Not even Social Media Jesus could pull you from the sickly sweet quagmire, and without the Christ in Christianity, it's just Ianity - and Ian next door is useless, too.
I've given you time to perfect the dance, time to practice your dexterity. Knife juggling doesn't cut it if it cuts you open instead and leaves you to bleed out like the oil of a crushed corvette. And swallowing fire isn't meant to leave your vocal chords as thin as ashes. You can still sing, for crying out loud; if not, then whom will your sister accompany when she plays drums?
You are as frail as the plates I spun when I was your age. This circus act is a circus act in the way I didn't want to define it. I broke porcelain between my teeth; you carry yourself as if you were a disgusting, lumpy doll. No frills can substitute the clumsiness buried in the folds and scales across your sad, non-acrobatic aesthetic.
You may as well dry your sticky feet in hot steam and leave the tent because I blow my top like a broken chimney. You may as well string your wrists up with spun sugar so at least you're of value at the concession stand for the spectators. You better start doing it right, my dear, before the I feed you to the lions.
Metaphorically speaking, of course. I don't look good in orange. And Social Media Jesus would drag me on all my networking profiles - it's just not worth ending my career over.
This week's prompt was inspired by a lyric from Genesis's "Dance On A Volcano," which you can find here.
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