Challenge: Write for 20 minutes using the following phrase as your first line.
"Collapsing under a canopy of green. . ."
Collapsing under a canopy of green my spirit has left my body and is soaring over the city embracing every smell, sound, and moment. So this is what pure, unconditional love feels like. I am madly, no desperately, in love with a man who's name I do not know. Don't worry this isn't going to be one of those unrequited, Romeo and Juliet type affairs that leaves everyone feeling melancholy. Instead this is a tale of love in the truest sense of the word.
I should start from the beginning where all great love stories arise, my parent's basement. (Wait, you thought I was serious didn't you?) Sadly my parents do not have a basement and this saga of love instead begins at a county fair. Picture it: the faint aroma of fried food wafting through the breeze; skin glistening with late August sweat; lights flashing in every direction; ears buzzing with bells, whistles, and the occasional carnie attempting to lure your money away.
Had I known this would be a life altering moment I might have dressed differently. Instead, I wore old, blue jean shorts with just enough holes to be considered tasteful among my redneck brethren and a basic, cotton tank. My hair was partially pulled off my face, but my curls still danced in the summer breeze. Of course I donned my trusty converses to complete my look and headed out the door into my future. The sun was just sinking in the sky as I arrived at the ticket booth.
This was my 23rd summer at the fair. My parents were religious about carnivals. We didn't make it to church every Sunday, but I'll be damned if we ever missed a fair season. I was only 8 months old on my first fair visit, but I was there. Love of this noisy, thrilling season is in my blood and even now, twenty-three years later, I attend with the same fervor that both my parents expressed.
Michael and Ben (my younger brothers) have already raced through the gates and are bee-lining toward the giant ferris wheel. It's tradition. We always arrive at sunset and watch in awe as the sky fades from brilliant hues of magenta, fuchsia, turquoise, and lavender into a deep gray and finally coming to rest in a brilliant black littered with as many neon lights as there are stars. After we have accomplished our most crucial task, we are free to roam wherever the best scent takes us or the brightest lights lead.
Following our noses is how we arrived at the polish sausage stand directly beside the Zipper. Anyone who has ridden the Zipper before knows the real purpose behind this amusement ride is to flip more times in a row than anyone who rode before you. The record in our family is 27 times, set by my father when he was 18 with his best friend Bill. Ben, Michael, and I calculated that with 3 people on the ride we'd have greater momentum and might finally beat my dad's record.
It was at this pivotal moment in my life that I made the mistake that would change my life forever. No, I am not being dramatic about the family record. However, that is an important part of this occurrence, yet not the life altering part. We three amigos hopped into our cage and set off rocking. Since it was still early, they were letting the ride last a little longer and we knew that record was ours to break. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. What's that awful sound? Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight! We had made twenty-eight revolutions! We were victorious! Twenty-nine. Thir...
And right there between twenty-nine and thirty is when the bottom fell out. Literally. The cage door, the only thing keeping us from plummeting to the dirt littered with garbage and cigarette butts, decided now would be as good a time as any to break. Later, we were told that a faulty mechanism in the lock is what caused the accident. But, that is neither here nor there. Back to the epic moment at hand.
There we were fifty feet up staring down at wires and the metal structure that held the Zipper together. The door was flapping in the breeze like a loose scarf and the flimsy seatbelt strapping us in was threatening to retire at any instant. A seatbelt ripping sounds like the slow undoing of a zipper and how appropriate considering our ride's name. Ben and Michael were on the side and able to grab hold of the cage. I was left to cling to the open door and pray for a strong grip. Legs dangling, the ride slowly began its descent. At ten feet above the ground that summer sweat finally got the best of me and my fingers slid from the door as my back slammed into the dusty ground.
Apparently, I got the wind knocked out of me and passed out during the ordeal. I might have knocked a few screws loose as well, but how could anyone find them in all that dust. My eyes slowly peeled open to reveal the most beautiful mustache one has ever seen. It glistened in the sparkling neon night and tickled my cheek as its owner lifted me from the dirt. A mustache this glorious is usually attached to an older man who has earned the right to don such a masterpiece. The breath was almost knocked out of me a second time when my eyes fully opened to the man who held me in his arms.
He had the muscular body that only a fireman can possess from long hours on the job. Gallantly he carried me to the medical tent and gently laid me on the makeshift cot set up for occasions such as these. He asked me the typical questions: my name, where I lived, could I tell how many fingers he had up? After proving I was coherent enough to get the basics right his eyes locked in on mine and I knew he felt the magic that had passed between us. I didn't blink, I didn't hesitate. I dove forward and planted my lips on his. The kiss lasted a millisecond before I collapsed again beneath the green tent canopy.
Coming to the second time was not nearly as pleasant as the first. Michael and Ben gladly informed me that I had a giant gash running across my forehead and had lost a ton of blood. "It was so epic," they gleefully chimed together. As they helped me piece together what happened after I lost my grip, the flap of the tent began to pull back. I just knew my manly, mustachioed savior was back. Nope. It was an older woman, named Edna, who chuckled as she informed me that I had misinterpreted those passionate signals of earlier.
Firefighter (as we will call him since I didn't learn his name) was attempting to check my pupils for dilation which I took as a loving glance. What an idiot. Now I have done some idiotic things before, but this really takes the cake. I began to sit in my stupidity and feel quite down. I didn't have long to mope though because the gash was rather serious and required a trip to the hospital. Edna helped me into the back of the ambulance and Ben and Michael ran to the car to meet me there and let my parents know the glorious details.
A scar would look pretty cool, and the story to accompany it was one of a kind for sure. The dark cloud over me was beginning to lift with each mile closer to the hospital. Stitching me up didn't take long and I was resting in a room, leafing through old magazines, when my parents arrived to take me home. Mom and Dad were speaking with my doctor about procedure and protocol when in he walked. He didn't blink. He didn't hesitate. He strode over to my bed and wrapped me up in his arms as he kissed me the way only a man with a mustache as beautiful as his knows how to kiss. I melted.
We are now married with three boys. We continue the fair tradition each year and still ride the Zipper with one goal. No one in my family has beaten the record of twenty-nine times, but our boys are bound and determined. My husband still possesses the sexy 'stache that drew me to him on that warm, August night so many years ago. I still call him firefighter every now and then, but go with the more personal, David, for day to day usage. And that is how one goes from collapsing under a canopy of green to living happily ever after.
(I hope y'all enjoyed this random challenge. This is a completely fictional story by the way.)
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