Daily Prompt: Parochial

Daily Prompt: Parochial

Jul 28, 2021

Photo by Jakob Braun on Unsplash

Parochial  

Parochial isn’t exactly a common word, not in my circles at least. Yet, it exists for some reason. Maybe just to stimulate my ideas for the day, I say in a parochial fashion. However, as narrow as the word first appears, there is a wealth of scope to explore. There is the obvious religious can of worms to be opened if you so wish. Then there is also the vaguer definition of narrow or small-mindedness. Perhaps, everything does revolve around me and this word was invented just for me to happen upon. Or, as evidenced by the quality of my writing, it exists apart from me and I am delusional. No news there.
Here is the story, which links only tenuously:

Their feet were being led by the rumble of drums. It was a mixture of dancers and marchers. You could tell them apart by their outfits. One was adorned with tassels, flares and sequins. The other was holding signs, balloons and had lungs full enough to chant. They stood amongst each other, side by side on the stone avenue. Clasped hands and skipping children. From neighbouring streets the laughter sounded like thunder. Songs through broken speakers. A barge was rolling in between the crowd. It was projecting a voice of its own accord, a faceless mantra. We are together, it said, weaving the people like their banners. We are one.

Outside the lines of tape, that marked the crowds boundary, were witnesses. An even larger group, cheering them on. 

At the front a little girl followed her balloon forward. Chaos loomed on all sides, flailing limbs, stiff legged giants, fire breathing dragons. She had a plastic bucket of sweets, which was being knocked back and forth. The other girls were throwing them to the crowd. She tried to keep her still. 

The moon had fallen onto the stone slabs. She couldn't see the end of the road. It seemed to extend infinitely to a point. As they walked, she was squished and packed in. It became harder to see. Glitter masked figures displaced her troupe. Her head was waist height. She tried to peek ahead, between the shifting slits of flowing trouser silk. She reached for a hand, any hand, but they were all busy. Clapping, dancing, waving. The only thing she could see was the tops of houses. Red tile roofs met with blue sky, slowly blocking out the white moonlight. 

Everything was cast in shadow. Orange flickers erupted in gaps of the crowd. The dragons were still breathing. Still no one would hold her hand. She tried to push through, but she couldn't part the legs. They were pressed together tighter and tighter. Her arms pinned to the side. The string of her balloon was slipping. An elbow nudged her in the head. No one looked down. They were all sardines now.

Her fingers slipped. She tried to reach up, but couldn't free her arms. The purple sphere floated into the sky, barely squeezing between the roof overhangs. They were almost kissing. Blue had been replaced with grey concrete. Her legs had stopped but she was still moving. There were less people, but more bricks. The street had swallowed them up. A clay collective returning to their origins. 

There was only a pair in front of her. She tugged on the back of shirts. They didn't look back. It was now possible to see ahead, but there was nothing to see. A slither of black was consuming the sparkling people. One by one they strode into the void. The people at her side peeled away. She was held in by the flaking plaster walls. They marched in single file. The world had been reduced to a crack. A silhouette. There was a slither through which to travel, but nowhere else to turn. She tried, she spun, pushed back, but the bodies didn't stop. The sky was lost, she was lost, a tear never to be wiped away. 

Here are my notes:







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