Little Boy Blues 200-word Drabble for Fat Tuesday
Prompt: Gift
Chars: DeAndre's my original character, Little Boy Blues. He's black, with blue/green eyes (depending on his mood), a jazz musician and long-time resident of Nawlins. Kind of an offshoot of gogoangelgunboy Dharma*Gun, as he was intended for a continuation of " Some Things Never Change". He might go his own way, too, though. I'm not sure.
He leaned against the cast iron railing of the third-floor balcony, watching the glory roll by below. Topless girls, so drunk they linked elbows to stay standing in the surf of the crowd, screamed for trinkets like seagulls. Glittering throws arched out into greedy hands or to be trampled under foot.
So different from the ethereal beauty of the Twelfth Night's ball, the all-kid parade of the Little Rascals, or the business men of Orpheus turned Three Kings; this was New Orleans at her tawdriest...
... and her most accepting, her most human.
The low jazz and soft voices behind him were a soft seduction against the brass from the street. His sharkskin tux chaffed his neck; the vest fitted tightly enough he couldn't breathe. Someone else moved onto the balcony.
"Hey, DeAndre, label lady's askin' for ya. 'Young blue eyes' had better make it snappy." The assistant's tone was impatient.
That decided him. DeAndre pulled off the tie, popped open the vest, and grabbed railing, flipping over to the balcony below with ease. The assistant squawked. He flipped again, landing on two girls who squealed in delight.
He'd pay tomorrow. Tonight he'd take the gifts Nawlins had to give.
Chars: DeAndre's my original character, Little Boy Blues. He's black, with blue/green eyes (depending on his mood), a jazz musician and long-time resident of Nawlins. Kind of an offshoot of gogoangelgunboy Dharma*Gun, as he was intended for a continuation of " Some Things Never Change". He might go his own way, too, though. I'm not sure.
He leaned against the cast iron railing of the third-floor balcony, watching the glory roll by below. Topless girls, so drunk they linked elbows to stay standing in the surf of the crowd, screamed for trinkets like seagulls. Glittering throws arched out into greedy hands or to be trampled under foot.
So different from the ethereal beauty of the Twelfth Night's ball, the all-kid parade of the Little Rascals, or the business men of Orpheus turned Three Kings; this was New Orleans at her tawdriest...
... and her most accepting, her most human.
The low jazz and soft voices behind him were a soft seduction against the brass from the street. His sharkskin tux chaffed his neck; the vest fitted tightly enough he couldn't breathe. Someone else moved onto the balcony.
"Hey, DeAndre, label lady's askin' for ya. 'Young blue eyes' had better make it snappy." The assistant's tone was impatient.
That decided him. DeAndre pulled off the tie, popped open the vest, and grabbed railing, flipping over to the balcony below with ease. The assistant squawked. He flipped again, landing on two girls who squealed in delight.
He'd pay tomorrow. Tonight he'd take the gifts Nawlins had to give.