charlie don't surf reality: part 5. holly

the story is a typical romantic intrigue of paranoid proportions that begins here, with her, somewhere in FLA, and a code transmitted by the tap shoes of a 12-year-old ingenue in a musical rendition of “benny, fetch your lighter.” in the audience, fingers snap and necks crack. she dances like a pawn on the 50-yard line of a board divided into six proverbs, only five previously disclosed, the sixth waiting for the mouth of a love child to cry its name.

the song meanders, en passant, through the early stages of rhythmic cryptography. her feet tire at the inclusion of footnotes, subscripts, formulaic equations that tell of age, hair colour, cup size, and the temporal confines of the human condition. her eyes grow weary as the shoes tighten their grip. she reaches through camouflage for relief, for her identity card, unsure suddenly of her rank, her position, her place in the game.

not a game for children, she thinks. as the houselights dim, and the sirens wail unheeded in the distance ...