Generation by Christopher Alen F.

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SUMMARY: Submission to the "vs." flash fiction contest.

We were high. Real high. So high that you're at that point when you cease to function. High, like above everything, so much so that concepts have no capacity to go over your head they go under it. Way under. Not just beneath you, but below you, somewhere hidden in the depths of stupidity. And we wore chef's hats. Big frilly clouds on our heads, and even the clouds were somewhere beneath us. Drifting above white powder and green fields, dancing a jig in the clouds on red shoes. Our heels are clicking. Heads spinning, there is no descent. Our life is a partygoer's life. It never ends. We were, and are, high. High up above. We need your love. Here, in this state not Wisconsin there is no end. Wallflowers float at the edge of the party, invincible.

We were part of the intellectually elite. We speak only in sentence fragments. We employ dysfunctional grammar. In our world no one matches our expectations. We are feminists, fighting half-assed battles against the patriarchy. We were then, and we are now. We are jazz. We strike chords and launch missions. We objectify men and women and sing songs on a night train. If ever we were Harlem, we've never been and never will. Always. Somewhere in between here and where we are, intrinsically different in semantics, the argument for the future castration of all exists. Temporarily we are gods. God is everywhere all the time, inhabiting rocks and rivers and eagles and French-fries. We are composed of God. And we love potato chips. Also cheesies. Luscious fields of rejected strawberries, of dreams, of ethers, of Jacobean drama. All this is woven, hidden, devoid, and built of lace. Never a semicolon.

We walk on spider's webs with legs made of iron. We have little sense of subtlety and too much sense of irony. The ability to take things seriously is a gift of burden. Walls of flowers chuckle heartily, consuming poison and birds. Listening to conversations surrounding the event of February. In this is infamy. Hidden between all the shattered illusions and ruined marriages and slipped inside the impenetrable walls of skulls and bones, the living breathing God rests. He waits patiently for them. They are not us, but we are so much of them. We are individuals together. Otherwise we are nothing. We fume and smoke. Morally unacceptable practices that are legally frowned upon but tolerated thanks to the realization that regulatory functions are more profitable than prohibitions stream inside and rage, regaling against our national better sense of sarcasm. This is an idea that is very long, requires many words, many individuals and many hallucinogenic substances.

We've grown up on farms and in cities, realizing a merger between two worlds that should be separate. Stereotypes exist for a reason. We stand back and let them rage for a while. Bedspreads conjure images of bliss. Infidelity is no more. We are decisive. We have the capacity to rage. All strong emotions are rage. Rage is a concept. It is what we are. We follow logic, illogically. We know how. We are a society of togetherness that hates each other.

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