I can’t recall ever writing a fictional story.  Wait, not true, I once wrote a short story about how the person I was dating at the time was also seeing Godzilla.  No wait, that was based on truth.  The person I was dating at the time was seeing a guy who rowed crew who happened to be 6’5″ and 230 pounds.  Don’t worry, Godzilla didn’t end up destroying anything in the end and it all ended peacefully.  With that said, my opening statement is still true.  Time for me to try something that is pure fiction, something new.  I’m not expecting anything good to come out of this initial endeavor but I am curious to see what I come up with after trying.  I do not have a story in mind, I don’t have a point of view and I do not have anything inspiring me.  I am going to use the first thing that pops into my mind and build off it and see where it goes.  I’m not shooting for a beginning or a middle or an end, just want to write something that isn’t tangible in my existence at this time.  You’ve been warned.

The room was warm and engaging.  People smiled as they mingled among each other, some almost convincing laughs were offered.  The host was seen glad handing his way through the atmosphere, feigning interest one second then turning and providing curt orders to the catering staff.  The rhythm of conversation and the faux enjoyment undertones provided a music like quality to the cacophony generated by the masked crowd.  There were a few couples interspersed amongst a predominately stag attending crowd and the lack of familiarity added to the crowd cacophony generated musical score.  When the string quartet started playing, the initial mixture of the Art of Fugue and the crowd generated noise produced a startling dissonance.  Eventually, with one last duplicitous laugh lingering in the room out of spite, the string quartet won over the room and Bach proceeded unfettered.

The party itself was a strange adventure.  Bring together the most public of people with the promise of being seen with others of the most public of people yet require everyone to wear masks. To the lone person with perspective in the room, the setting was providing a fertile bed from which to harvest irony.  To the rest of the crowd, the masks were even more entertaining.  The masks came in many different shapes, sizes and colors and wrapped up the wearers like Christmas presents.  As the final strains from Bach were absorbed, the crowd noise musical score returned almost in time from whence it had stopped.  The uncertainty caused by the masks forced more conversations than would normally occur, presents, after all , need to be unwrapped.  The host, who was the only person not wearing a mask, stopped and surveyed the scene as if he were a director on a film set.  By the slightly upturned corner of his mouth, you would guess that he was pleased with the scene and how it was developing.



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