Listening to Scott Joplin, few beers down, I want to tip-tap a little finger dance on the keyboard. To speak softly to avoid detection, how wonderfully seductive! And to place an exclamation mark as if writing for the silent movies, how joyful! Yet the irony is to speakeasy in an era where speech is extended to the world.

Those of the 1920s and 1930s, nested around their waxy glasses of whiskey, huddled little whisper parties, would hear our catewauling and hiss, “Hey, are you trying to get caught or something?” We’d push back our long sweaty hair, allow our minds a full fizzy circle and reply, “Good question. I don’t know.”


The police look for ________ !

As the bullets whip through the thick mahogony bar we’d try to retreive something from our dazed mind; the bar keeper-illicit pressed down in a puddle of broken glass asking, in a voice way too high, “why did you blog kid?” We’d stand wobbly in the foolish hope that the cops would know that even if what we shouted was irreverent we at least shouted it, plotting in a kind of honest way that somehow puts us on the right side of the law, right? And then to the sounds of Pineapple Rag we’d fall to our knees, blood gushing from deep inside, right from the heart itself.

Lookout! Too late…

The Tommy gun is not a machine that likes a single Period, period. It spits more of its hot little packages through our disintigating thorax…

Finding it hard to breath we can only spit out our final words in the white on black blood of the silent movies.

Whatever you do, speakeasy!



Linked to This is Your Life Daily Prompt. Just finishing this post I felt it subtely resposponded to the imaginative nature of the prompt, the idea that a your whole life could be written.



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