The storm of scuttling rats dropped from the barren palm fronds and began carving an elephant head out of the copious trunk of a lone tree on the deserted tropical beach. They performed under the spotlight of a half moon, which provided only a head and chest shot of their nocturnal work.
Roused before dawn, Lolita thought she smelled fresh bagels frying but realized it was only the malodorous funk of her mate’s nocturnal secretions…
Coral laced burnt umber hues of the island sunrise roused her from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker many seasons ago. The gnarled snores of her horny lover overtook echoes of sugarplum fairies, bleating through the prattle of children dressed as rats and backstage cacophony.
Lolita peered from her nest with the horn headed Horatio behind a thicket in the dunes of phosphorescent sands, but couldn’t see what the offstage hands were doing. Whatever game they were playing would soon be apparent she surmised before curling back into the armpit of the hairy beast and returning to her lofty dreams of broadways of the past.
Blowing her two and a half year long bangs out of her eyes, she wiggled out of Horatio’s thunderous grasp and crept out of their burrowed ditch in the banks of white sand.
Trickling back in to her psyche, like the tears streaming down her face, memories of a long forgotten past plunged her back to Manhattan. Her performances came first. Emotionally charged scenes with Ken, her boyfriend for the past year before the plane wreck, were all there. She had been on her way to meet him…the plane wreck!
The Ganesh glowed in the early morning sunlight on the beach. It wasn’t something she was familiar with, this elephant headed figure with a pot belly. She had vague recollections of some Hindu stories from yoga dharma talks and posh Indian restaurants she had eaten at in mid-town or the village.
Owing to the dramatic nature of her theatre career off Broadway and her more persistent acting stints in dingier places preceding Ken-doll’s arrival in her life, she fell to her knees and wept dramatically under the perfection of the elephant headed palm tree trunk.
Looking more closely at the elaborate carving she could see the indentations of the rat’s teeth and claws. They had carved it all in one night, by the light of the moon on a castaway beach somewhere in the Bermuda triangle. The tirade of her memories washed over her like an angry storm. It added vocals to her gushing tears and Horatio stirred from his slumbering.
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