AUTHOR'S NOTE OF CARRIE:NATION:
"And Finally, nobody died in the making of this flash.
For your theatre of magic, I present to you:"
Blue and Sky
by Carrie Clevenger
I always use the blue sugar, not the pink. It is courteous, how they are always packaged just so. Pink or blue. My coffee shimmers steam of smoky azure. The cold creeps in around the frosted windowpane. I perch on my seat, precarious. Tall seats make me feel royal.
The people sit in short chairs and engage in small conversation over lattes and Americanas. Espressos for the distinguished. Skinnies for the ungainly. Crepes and sausage flavor the air. Cigarettes spice my coffee. I inhale the aroma of shared nicotine and anticipated caffeine. I am running late.
This is a morning I will be tardy.
A chime at the door. The sun peeks over the eaves of nearby slumbering motels. Diesel cloys with perfume of the rushed and the sparkle of the innocent. My coat crushes home around me; a cocoon of mixed warmth and security. I stir my coffee.
Murmurs of good morning and good day blend to form a low hum of human activity. I pause before the first sip to capture the moment internally. The youth in my hands, the heat of the cup permeating the cardboard collar. Pumpkin spice and cinnamon. Hazelnut and French Roast. Near the door, shining machines devised to never quite replace this sensation of togetherness yet solitude. A worn newspaper, touched by many hands, rests unfurled on a table nearby, forgotten.
Concrete walls, painted with swirls of mocha and raspberry. Stars stretch across the blue ceiling. The fixtures, blue-shaded.
I take a drink of sky.
(C) 2010, Author Carrie Clevenger
In Debut . . . AT THE BIJOU
Colour this edgy trendy zingy author fresh and kalideoscopic. We found CARRIE CLEVENGER hunched into her own fave seat in her own choice row, throwing popcorn at Paul Brazill, and rollickin' at all she discovered to thrill, after her first soft'shoe tiptoe in . . . to every gosh darn performance AT THE BIJOU. Well folks, life here in the theatre has never quite been the same. Her voice sparks the dark and then holds up a flashlight so Laurita can find out where she put the cookies she baked to share but were quietly crunched by the Mikes and that Har ... over there. Then, when you go out on the streets, you meet up with whole packs of her gangs who 'troupe' around Carrie's nation. Many mumble memorably as Carrie does. It's getting so I can't walk by a streetcorner they desire without addin' to their wise'crack rapid fire. *FLASH!* There she is ... writing here, writing there, even cracking the code at the'6 and adding a new dimension of flair.
Well, all's fair in the flare of flair, which is why Carrie wrote this one up most profoundly to debut not any there ... but
here ... at her welcoming home away from all her other creative homes,
AT THE BIJOU. Clever Clevenger, (who aka's as Carrie Cleaver) worships Maynard and dreams of cephalopods on trains and other oddities in Austin, Texas. She doesn’t have to write the next great novel, but intends to leave a bloody print on her way down.
Carrie may feign astute apathy with her
"Eh, Whatever" . . . at her killer-quirky-classy
Mindspeak, but I say she keynotes clarity intensified with her taunting tagline:
"The struggles of the soul are intended to be lost."
Feelin' glad all over you found AT THE BIJOU
and we all found you, Carrie'On ..
~ Absolutely*Kate and the fine staff of renown
... already with grin
