Little Pieces in Search of A Bigger Picture

Rainbow Burning Bright

Saturday, 10/28/23

The Coven of Iris

She was about to enter Kitchen Story, her new favorite San Francisco restaurant, when the psychic warning nearly knocked her out of her wheelchair. It was all her 'son' Niko could do to keep it and her from tipping over, throwing his 200+ pound musclebound frame into steadying them both. Some nice tourists stepped out of the waiting line to see if they were all right, bless their hearts.

"Heavens!' exclaimed a woman in a dress whose flower print almost distracted one from noticing her bulk. Almost. Alas, even had she been wrapped in Picasso's Guernica, her cups would have runneth over. Still, she and her silent husband showed genuine concern, which in this day and age was in short supply.

Her cell phone began a Hallelujah Chorus of incoming messages. The entire Coven of Iris had received the alert, and of course she was expected to have all the answers. Usually that was true.

"Keep your wigs and binders on! I'll be in touch whenever I find out who the hell's to blame for interrupting my goddamn brunch!" she sent and put her phone on vibrate.

"Niko, honey, order our brunch to go. We'll make our mimosas at home. Get me some ricotta pancakes to go, along with their Millionaire's Bacon. Something tells me it's going to be a long day." As he passed her by, the Empress Eggnog slapped his bubble butt. "And tell Timothy to put Honey Boo-Boo's relatives' meal on my tab, will you?"

She then contacted the only member of the Coven of Iris who could produce such an overly dramatic spiritual shriek: Medium Rara Avis.

"In the Rainbow Goddess' name, what the hell was that all about?"

"Call an emergency meeting!" Rara's unmistakably breathy voice was reminiscent of Charo and Marilyn Monroe, only this time he sounded truly terrified. "We're going to need as many allies as we can muster on Halloween!" The sound of tinkling ice cubes suggested that he'd fixed himself some spirits of his own. Scotch, thought the Empress.

"My dear, calm down," the Empress. "Deep breaths. Think blue – cool, calming blue. Caribbean blue. Cabana boys bringing you icy cold fruit cups...there now. What upset you?"

"I had a visitation from Rudy," Rara sighed.

"Giuliani? Sweetheart, that nasty cretin is alive!"

Rara gave a cackle. "Rudy Nureyev, darling. We were friends back in the day, in my wild youth. He told me some old foes of ours are planning a gloom-pocalypse on the 31st – their aim is a mass attack on our self-worth."

"Wait. You don't mean..."

"Yes. The Necrodancer and the Dancing Queen are back, and our most vulnerable prisms-in-waiting are at risk!"

In the Shadows of Old St. Mary's Cathedral

There's a sign below the clock on St. Mary's façade that reads, "Son, Observe the Time and Fly from Evil!" Built in 1854, it was meant to shame the men who visited the nearby brothels. Vaslav laughed. Better that they had been wary of the priests, with their roving hands and hypocritical platitudes. Just like the ones in St. Petersburg and Paris.

It takes a sinner to know a sinner, he thought. Sergei recognized me right away, the old whore. Such sad, sorry lives we led. This American city is so full of us – men who hate themselves, loathe their desires, vilify their fellow buggerers, detest their jobs, their bodies, looks – or lack thereof. They lurk in the shadows, seeking a wank or a ride. Going insane from desire, from drugs, seeking oblivion in orgasms and overdoses.

How delightful! How moribund! Vaslav found himself dancing in the dark to Debussy. He brushed against anyone who crossed the bell and clock tower's shadow. His touch brought tears, pain, despair and sometimes, deliciously – a small, pained cry.