THE FALSE ALARM
He shouted "FIRE!" Terror gripped the crowd. He shouted loud: "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!"
They turned manic, frantic, began to panic, sprang from their theater seats and tried to flee. Hordes jammed the exit doors, pushed and shoved as the maniac cried his warning more and more, louder than before, feeding the craze. A massive maze fled a blaze that none could see.
Terror gripped the crowd and bodies crushed as hundreds rushed to get outside. Exits jammed. A lobby crammed. Women, children, old folks cried. Trampling feet led the retreat. And many died.
Out of control and not a soul took time out to wonder, what in thunder was it all about? They saw no smoke. There was no flame. Is this a joke? A hoax? A madman's game? Who's to blame? Who would do a thing like this? All the same, it could be real.
A heel dug deep into a face. Bones and teeth crushed beneath the weight of those still standing, demanding "Get the hell out of my way!"
People hurting, blood spurting like a fountain in the park where sparkling water flowed. Here, the color red. The source, of course, from the living and the not yet dead,
No time to doubt. Just get out!
He shouted his false alarm once more, then sat back to watch the show on the screen and the panic scene he'd choreographed. He laughed at peoples' cries. He thrilled at the terror in their eyes. This was the prize he anticipated and waited for. No film director could want for more.
Hollywood said he was no good. All washed up. Should retire. He'd prove them all a liar. He'd show them he could and would, as they say in Tinsel Town vernacular, produce a spectacular.
And as the cops rushed in and the fire engines roared outside, he said with pride: "I was the first to produce a masterpiece, totally unrehearsed."
.
They turned manic, frantic, began to panic, sprang from their theater seats and tried to flee. Hordes jammed the exit doors, pushed and shoved as the maniac cried his warning more and more, louder than before, feeding the craze. A massive maze fled a blaze that none could see.
Terror gripped the crowd and bodies crushed as hundreds rushed to get outside. Exits jammed. A lobby crammed. Women, children, old folks cried. Trampling feet led the retreat. And many died.
Out of control and not a soul took time out to wonder, what in thunder was it all about? They saw no smoke. There was no flame. Is this a joke? A hoax? A madman's game? Who's to blame? Who would do a thing like this? All the same, it could be real.
A heel dug deep into a face. Bones and teeth crushed beneath the weight of those still standing, demanding "Get the hell out of my way!"
People hurting, blood spurting like a fountain in the park where sparkling water flowed. Here, the color red. The source, of course, from the living and the not yet dead,
No time to doubt. Just get out!
He shouted his false alarm once more, then sat back to watch the show on the screen and the panic scene he'd choreographed. He laughed at peoples' cries. He thrilled at the terror in their eyes. This was the prize he anticipated and waited for. No film director could want for more.
Hollywood said he was no good. All washed up. Should retire. He'd prove them all a liar. He'd show them he could and would, as they say in Tinsel Town vernacular, produce a spectacular.
And as the cops rushed in and the fire engines roared outside, he said with pride: "I was the first to produce a masterpiece, totally unrehearsed."
.
posted by Ed Weiland at 1:08 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home