Quasi's Council

“What you work on?”  Quasimodo grunted as he stumbled through the door, kicking the stove bottom with his size 13 boot and dropping three pieces of firewood, one landing precariously close to my foot, it being shielded from oaf-like miscalculation by the magnificent protection of Joe Boxer tube sock.

“Well, Quasi,” I began with lilt, “I’m working on the Daily Riff--I do it every day, my brother.  It's a daily online song-writing contest I had told you about."

Quasi bent down in lassitude and picked up the firewood, flashing yellow misalignments known as teeth and snorting like an old onager backed into a narrow alley of 18th century England and blanketed in totality by dank canvas.

Quasi pointed a thick, hirsute finger at my notebook. 

“Yes,” I said.  “You want to see?”

I slid the notebook to the edge of the table so Quasi could read:

    “No sad songs for me,
    soon our love will be,
    just a memory,
    it’s all over.”

“What over?” Quasi asked. Some drool hung from his square jaw and dropped with drool-like speed, prompting me to retract my notebook from the table’s edge as if slight-of-hand was something that was second nature.

I got up and snapped a Bounty towel from its roller and returned to blot drool.

“Well, it’s like this Quasi: this Daily Riff used to be a fun thing, it used to be something to look forward to.  And in fact it used to be a contest.  But now, there’s been a takeover--the same person, who goes under the name of, “Shadow Dancer,” wins every single day!  Seems to be their “Star,” so to speak.  Oh, there’s no question she’s immensely talented, but there appears to be bias. Of course, this is just subjective on my part, and I could be wrong.  But what I am not wrong about is that she wins, at will, day after day after day, and when that happens, the contest is no longer a contest.” 

“Qweed!”  Quasi blurted, his mispronunciation causing me to chuckle.

“Yes, Quasi, I think it’s greed, as well as ego.  I know that if I won two or three days in a row, I would take a break, out of sheer humility and regard for others.  But hey, that’s me.  Mama taught me some good things, Quasi, like humbleness, kindness, and sharing.  But in this world, there are some people that have a completely selfish attitude, people bereft of conscience, people who are amoral.  I’m not for one moment ascribing any of this to her.  There could be reasons I am totally oblivious to.  Yet that hardly changes the reality of the takeover.  In truth, I would be ashamed to write my name on any contest.  Yes, Quasi, I would be down right embarrassed.  But like I said, that’s me.”

Quasi harumped and thumped a weighty hand on my notebook, shaking a pale blue china knick-knack centered on the table for aesthetic consideration.

“Wite, you still wite, you like...you wite good songs!”  And with that, he labored into the living room.

He was right of course.  So I scrapped my previous lay down lines and started a new one with, “Live and let live.”


554 Words
Writer’s Cramp
November 15, 2013