The Masquerade Ball

There is a Party, Saturday night.

“Should I go?”, thought the redhead with freckled dots mapping her skin.

The Party will be fun.

“So there is dancing?”, the redhead believes this to set the mark for fun’s explanation, but she has two left feet, so she’ll sit those out.

The Party will be in honour of the Fabulously Rich.

“I am rich with my shell and rock collections!”, the freckled redhead boasted.

The Party begins at 9:00 P.M. to the early morn.

“So then, I shall nap first.”, she thought to herself, so she could stay awake, not to miss anything spectacular.

Admittance requires state identification, but a city addressed envelope will get you in.

“Good, I have many letters sent to me at this address.” she summized that this would do.

“BYOB, (Bring Your Own Brunette)”, stated the invitation.

She thought that she could travel alone, they really won’t check for an escort.

The Party requires a blood sample to be taken.

Reddy thought that verification from her last doctor’s visit would suffice.

The Party is an offshoot, affiliated with The Majority.

She yelled out, “Oh Good, I voted for the current President!”

So, the redhead showered after her nap, had her nails done, both finger and toe,

spruced up her hairstyle, sprayed her favorite cologne on herself, as well as her dress

and left for the party.

But there was a glitch. Although she remembered to bring her invitation and doctor’s note,

she was turned away. The reason given, The Party shall maintain a formal Dress Code.

“What do they mean ‘formal’? A tux, a gown, high heels and a tiara?

Who do they think they are? I mean, just because I’m wearing my not so fancy-pants dress?”

The bouncer’s reply,

“You carry a brown paper bag instead of the more appropriate clutch.”

The freckled redhead wasn’t mortified, because she was used to being a minority in this majority-ruled world.

She only wanted to fit in, somehow. To show Them that she is not so unlike Them…

she speaks English and can read and has ten perfectly perfect toes and ten perfectly perfect fingers,

which can shoot a rich man’s gun as well as They can.

She than turned to the crowd behind her and emptied her Colt, spilling bullets and blood samples

into the shiny crowd wearing masks.

~dld october 28, 2010


T10 – The Plot Thickens, Thursday:A brown paper bag


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