Jazzmin Flush (33)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (33)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush safely secure in wolf-forged igloo, reclining in REM, dreaming of quixotic fairies pouring her the cup of life while the bells are sweetly ringing.  Thomas outside in the glacial conditions, digesting an arctic hare, blood-stained beard stoic and grateful; next, trouble telepathically finding Girthy Gilda; thus, he mystically communicates with Fredrica, his sister.
   
THOMAS
Where's Girthy Gilda?
   
FREDRICA
Oh Thomas--it's a daymare.  Her family views her as a living burden in that wheelchair.  They let her sit in urine, refuse her entertainment, changing the holo-tube onto their preference--loud gunfire and Pop-Culture Shows that freak her further phobic.  Don't they know--she needs to be rubbed with sage and herbs, fed healthy, exercised, played cards with, taken outside, and most of all--loved.  They've had her dead for four years since her diagnoses.  Her existence infuriates them while they thieve her money, thinking she's not conscious, putting it away in their pockets and insurance policies for them to one day collect and plan their selfish pleasure; indeed, champagne will be flowing when she passes.
   
THOMAS
Can't they even let her watch WHEEL OF FORTUNE and take her outside underneath daystar's luminous glow.  These things relax and give spirit to the elderly.
  
FREDRICA
They despise lame existence.  They're willing her to death.
  
THOMAS
Once I get to Alberta, I'll need money for an anti-gravity, commercial flight to California.
  
FREDRICA
I'm living in a box next to Jazzmin's basement.  Girthy Gilda's family sold the taco truck.  They've got her doped up on a perpetual prescription of nerve pills.
  
THOMAS
I'm sorry sister.  I'll huff it with Jazzmin.  So, get Girthy Gilda's diary.  Like the weirdo poet did, make copies and bury them throughout the city.  Years from now, when her sublime ghost haunts the good glam of humanity as her words are unearthed--it will give delicious birth to the potent and patient losers--a cause for the individual.
  
FREDRICA
Yes.  The individual always transcends the collective nag of it all.
  
THOMAS
Always.  Because sometimes--the individual becomes us all.