Itâ€™s Friday, which means another work week is over and it is time for some flash fiction-fabricating.
Between the last post I wrote, the edifying discussion on hair which spontaneously occurred when we failed to identify a brown model, AGAIN (Sorry, Sree) and the most precious Gmail Iâ€™ve received in weeks (which contained this query-via-wideo from a four-year-old) well, The Papaya, he is playing on my mind. One of you messaged me regarding your surprise that I hadnâ€™t voted for Sanjaya, a secret I revealed here, but American Idol has nothing to do with my passion for papaya. I sweat him because heâ€™s so kind and ingenuous, because of his sweet nature.
Iâ€™m thinking in particular about Papayaâ€™s last performance (available in the video above), which took him from tears to a tiny bit of triumph when he customized the chorus of Bonnie Raittâ€™s â€œSomething to Talk Aboutâ€ to â€œother than haaaaaaaairâ€. That was the moment when my affection for him became solid, when I realized that it wasnâ€™t just idle amusement; he had put up with so much and he was still smiling in his typical, good-natured way. I was amazed, mostly because Iâ€™ve never been a fan of this song, but also because he seemed so poised for a teenager. â€œMy hero,â€ I thought. All those detractors piling on him in addition to the biggest hater of them allâ€”Simon–plus the blatantly racist slant to much of the criticism he received (uh…where were the anti-Italian comments?) equaled humility and niceness, not bitterness or resentment. When I grow up, I want to be a papaya.
This week, write about gossip, the blues, papaya, fanjayas or continue the weekâ€™s trend and 55 away about hair, â€˜pooed, oiled or otherwise. If none of this tickles your knickers, pick your own plot to flash some fiction with, but please play along anyway. Iâ€™m sure you have something to talk about, how about packaging it in a mere fifty-five words?