Lotus Blossom Swan Song
They knew the score; I was here to punch their ticket—a final act in life’s audition for whatever came after.
I sang and danced my way into the finals, a lyrical carousel in a carnival of carnage. The winners moved on while the losers passed on.
Second place went to a soprano diva. Her consolation was in being drug to stage side where they opened the wind bag and left her to bleed out.
The victory performance and main event was with the big man himself—a parasite in a pinstriped suit, lounging as an audience where hitmen became sycophants. They jeered and sang retorts as I flowed through my sunsetting routine—my swan song. They had disarmed me. They were confident. They were wrong.
The crescendo slid me to the stage’s forward edge, ten-feet from the big man in the front row. In memory of my late wife, I had surgically implanted single shot chambers in my forearms—good for up to twenty-feet. When it came to glasses half-filled, I had twice what I needed and I had done more with less.
A wrist flex broke the skin, the protruding death announcing, ‘I waited in the wings.’
Another flex broke confidence—the pinstriped suit sprouting twin red-ribboned death blossoms. He knew his own addition had gone poorly, his terrified look said as much.
The crowd rose—a standing ovation amidst a chorus of flashes.
I collapsed back as a final curtain descended to blot out my sight.
I smiled.
I had won.
Constraints met:
- WC: 248/800
- Score
- Audition
- Act
- Ticket
- "They opened the wind bag."
- "I waited in the wings."
- Contains an audience.
- Suspenseful undercurrent.
