My dress filled with air, and I knew what had happened. A crooked wind again. My hands worked hard.

 

       A crocheted loop came undone and the flag slid down the greased pole; ropes saved it from total downfall. Catching on the hooks, they hung the flag in midair. The crowd chanted in an odd pattern, in narrow words at the compound, hung not in effigy. Myriad views were shown on slides for those who decided to stay inside and sit in style, wine passed around.

 

        An edge of the flag had a small tear in it from the pressure of the fall. The camera panned slowly to show the drama, the tear got bigger until finally the flag tore off of its last holding strings, to be taken away with the wind. Away. Away.

 

        The film also tears. Or appears to.

 

        Dankers sat on the sidewalk ready to see a flyer disclaimer. No one to take the credit or blame. No one to be involved in raptive dramas. No credits at the end.

RIVER BED   63

copyright © 2017 d.jaffe  - all rights reserved