The Festival of Forever

At the festival of forever, every song is a requiem.

         His excitement should be contagious, but I am anything but enthusiastic.

         I want to be the best girlfriend he’s ever had — or ever will have — so I do my duty, nodding in approval as he sauntered into my place last week waving the tickets in his hand.

         “I finally got them!” he’d shouted, planting kisses all over my face. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to snag these beauties? And you’re coming with me, right, babe? Pretty please? This is going to be the festival of a lifetime.”

THE UN-GRATEFUL DEAD REVIVAL
A Musical Extravaganza for the Senses
Featuring:
The Midnight Dynamos
Hamilton Jetplane
Killa Pendrix
The Window Cleaners
Led Balloon
And so much more…

         I had to admire the creativity of the poster, at least.

         It was big, bright, and dizzying — the kind of design that might start spinning if you stared at it long enough (or had smoked enough hallucinogens). It was clearly a tribute to the open-air festivals right out of the sixties, and as we approached the venue, I could swear the whole world had slipped back in time.

         “Groovy, eh?” Jon crowed, grabbing my arm.

         I’d never seen him this animated. He looked like a child tossed into the biggest candy store in the world, his blue eyes sparkling as we joined the queue—

         “Urgh.”

         “What’s wrong?” he asked, as I slapped a hand over my nose in reflex.

         “Do—don’t you smell something weird?” I whispered, not wanting to offend the couple behind us. They were dressed in bell bottoms and not much else; the man bare-chested, his girlfriend’s modesty barely preserved by paper flowers.

         Did I mention it’s almost midnight? Despite being mid-July, every breath still came out as a puff of fog in the chill air.

         “Don’t smell anything,” Jon replied, frowning. “Come on, Amy. Don’t start acting like that.”

         I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but we’d reached the ticket booth — where the attendant was doing a very convincing impression of a zombie.

         Or maybe it was just the light playing tricks on me?

         Besides, zombies don’t usually pick up a matchbox, strike a match to light a cigarette, blow smoke in customers’ faces, and mutter in the flattest tone imaginable,

         “Your tickets, please.”

         Jon obliged. I fought to keep from gagging. The stench grew stronger, and when the man in the booth opened his mouth, I saw the gaps where teeth should’ve been — and a tongue that lolled as if it had forgotten how to behave.

         He stamped our tickets and grinned.

         “Enjoy the show.”

         He winked, but the eyelid refused to lift again until he slapped the side of his head to get it working.

         I shuddered and hurried after my chattering boyfriend.

         I’d only ever been to one other festival, and though it hadn’t been a nighttime affair, it had at least felt joyful.

         This one… didn’t.

         Sure, people wandered about, and stages blazed with light and music. But something in the atmosphere was wrong. There was no laughter, no shouting, no phones raised in the air. The crowd merely swayed in rhythm, faces slack with bliss beneath a drifting purple haze.

         They’re all stoned, I thought, as we approached Stage A, where Jon’s favourite band was already playing.

         Jon had spent days telling me about The Dynamos. From his rambling, I gathered they were a dance band with a black cat mascot.

         Onstage, the drummer wore a beekeeper’s suit, his face hidden behind mesh. The bassist’s hair covered his eyes. The lead guitarist — handsome, I’ll admit — seemed to hold the whole group together, while the male singer, a powerhouse in a skintight black-cat costume, prowled the stage with feral energy.

         Jon managed to drag us through the entranced crowd until we were right at the front. Something buzzed near my ear, and I swatted at it instinctively.

         Flies.

         At night. Disgusting.

         The stench hit again, sharp and sweet like decay. My eyes watered.

         “Listen, babe,” Jon whispered. “Aren’t they amazing?”

         Before I could answer, the lead singer pointed straight at me and grinned.

         “Are you ready for the best night of your life — for the rest of your life?”

         I think I nodded. A wave of warmth — or was it lethargy? — seeped into me, curling through my veins. The stench no longer bothered me. The music soared, fierce and beautiful, drumming straight into my soul. Every beat pulsed in my blood.

         I must be in heaven. I never want to leave.

         I turned to my boyfriend — my beautiful, perfect Jon — and kissed his cold cheek.

         “Thank you for this experience,” I whispered. “Thank you…”

--

         “…for everything…”

         “Did you hear something?” Pedro asked, fingers still working the zipper on the body bag.

         Alan, crouched over another, looked up impatiently. “Hear what?”

         Pedro hesitated, staring at the pale, blood-streaked face half-hidden by glass shards. Was it his imagination, or had a single tear escaped from the girl’s eye?

         “N—nothing,” he muttered, sealing the bag and rising to his feet.

         “Goddamn drunk kids,” Alan grumbled. “They never learn, do they?”

         He turned toward the wrecked convertible — now barely recognizable — and didn’t notice the black cat licking its paws nearby, or the flutter of a pair of festival tickets rising into the cold October sky.

         As somewhere in the distance, the band played on.

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Winning Entry
Word Count: 891
Prompt: Use in your poem or story the following and bold it for tomorrow's judge: Midnight dynamos, dance band, out of the sixties, black cat, matchbox, open air
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"