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The Abandoned Warehouse District, Saturday Afternoon

It was one thing to do poetry readings at the Perk, where the coffee flowed freely and they could make the squares uncomfortable, but it was still part of the mainstream.

No, the cats who REALLY wanted to rebel had their own digs, one of the many abandoned warehouses down on the wrong side of the ~~street~~ tracks, which they had furnished with discarded couches and rugs, creating a riot of color and noise whenever they came crashing in.

And today, they were crashing about, man. Cigarettes - and other smokeables - were being passed around, someone had put together a makeshift stage with a sheet and a stool, and the alcohol was flowing.

The beatniks were in the house, friend. And so long as you were hip, you were welcome.

[OOC: Open post, for those looking for something hip to do pre-dance]

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For those hepcats who the spirit moves!

"I am not here,
I am transient
Floating wayward
Between fenceposts
And trees.

I am not here,
I watch leaves
Dancing
And laugh.

So heavy, those leaves
So solid
Gravity pulls them
But not me.

I am not here.
I am a shapeshifter.
Drifting through your windows
Vanishing into nothing-

I am smoke.
Just let me be.
Breathe me in.
Exhale.
I'll be gone soon enough."

Sparkle bowed his head, there where he was sitting on the chair on the stage. He didn't expect applause. Smoke didn't expect much of anything, really didn't care about anything. It just was.

He took a deep inhale from his cigarette, and then stood and stepped down from the stage to let whoever was next have their turn.

Surreal snapped her appreciation. It was deep, man. Deep.

"As I am the chef in the kitchen,
then you are the silent muse
my recipe book
yellowed pages, blue-ink-eyes
echoing the abundance of spices
listening with wind in the curtains, alert;
a myriad of possibilities
simmering in our veins

We work side by side
but I glimpse only your back
shoulders swaying
with the knife’s staccato notes,
the rhythm of the waltz undisturbed
even as mists from the onions
move both of us to tears."

She waited just a beat longer then stepped down, swaying her way over to grab a seat somewhere and let the next person carry on the beat.

Grab something to smoke or something to drink, chickadees.

Oh, Surreal was there. It was in her name, kittens, in her soul, and she was just going to smoke her clove cigarettes and chill.

Cara was not hip. Nor monochrome like a disturbing number of people she'd met since her portal had dropped her on the island a short while before.

Cara was, however, ~~scary~~ focused and those once she'd deciphered what the monochrome people were saying, (without threatening them, Zedd), managed to make her way to the abandoned warehouse. Where she was now eyeing Surreal dubiously. "Surreal?"

Surreal's smile was slow and lazy, probably because she'd mixed a little something 'else' in between cigarettes. "Say hey, kitten," she purred, looking up from her seat on a couch. "Where did you wander in from?"

That was...new, she wrinkled her nose, as were the cigarettes. However "What happened to 'sugar'?" was not the most helpful thing to ask right now, Cara.

"You're sugar and spice and everything nice, but I thought such a cool cat should be remarked upon," Surreal laughed. "Have a seat, sugar. Care for a hit?"

Well that last bit sounded vaguely like Surreal, at least if you were woefully unaware of fifties slang, like Cara was. "I thought we needed to be stand for that," she drawled as she took a seat near her (hopefully temporarily) insane girlfriend. "But if you insist."

Oh, Cara, honey, no.

Oh Cara, honey, you have no idea.

Surreal passed Cara a join that she'd snagged off someone else at...some point, and toasted her with a cup of coffee. "Standing, sitting, nothing's ever really in motion unless you're thinking."

Surreal was going to be so embarrassed when this wore off, yes.

"...if you say so." Cara was going to be deeply confused, also quite possibly high, given they did not have anti-drug campaigns in the Midlands. Well, if she managed to figure out how to smoke the joint she was eyeing just as dubiously as she'd been eyeing Surreal earlier, since they didn't have those in the Midlands either.

Hear that coughing, Surreal? That was your fault.

Surreal just laughed and leaned over to pound Cara on the back. "Relax, sugar," she chided. "Just let it flow. Don't force it."

Whether it was the physical contact or the drug working at ridiculously unrealistic speeds, the fact Surreal was black and white and quite possibly gremlin bit suddenly mattered a lot less. Cara snickered. "I've heard that before."

"Not to force things, to flow, or both?" Surreal asked playfully. "Always let it flow, sugar. It's the beat of life."

"Now what brings a hepcat like you to this small squaresville?"

Cara grinned, reaching across to try and play with Surreal's hair. "Isn't it obvious?" That she didn't even try to come up with some kind of ~~woefully transparent~~ excuse really should have been a warning sign that she should probably stop smoking that joint, since Cara clung to those emotional inhibitions for a reason.

Surreal was so anti-inhibition, man. Inhibitions and caution? That stuff was for squares.

"Must be for the scene, sugar queen," she smirked. "Can't think of another reason a doll like you would be in this town."

"Right, the scene." Cara nodded. Despite still not being entirely sure what the scene actually was. And because she apparently needed to join Surreal in the embarrassed for life corner... "But that's not the only reason."

Which would be when she leant over to kiss her. Because they'd just been flirting, right. Right?

Kenzi staggered in at some point, looking worse for wear. That's what happens when you're sleeping under park benches, wanted by the law.

"Surreal. Long time, chicky."

"Kenzi, sugar, tell momma you've got some goods for barter," Surreal drawled. "You look like shit, sugarpop."

Kenzi put down multiple little baggies of ganja, and slumped down. "The fuzz are after me. That square narc took me in. I'm hot, honey. I need a hideout."

"Well, ain't no squares rolling in here," Surreal assured her. "They know better than to come down to our side of the tracks."

Nevermind that the town lacked a railroad. Or was on an island.

"Aces, queen bee," Kenzi said gratefully. "I need to chill out. And there's no better place to do it than your place. The place. This space."

"Mi casa es su casa, dig it?" she answered. "Not that it's mine, or anyone's. It is Space unto itself, and it lets us fill it."

Not Dirty, dammit.

"And that is why you are the bomb, baby. Poetry. Grace. Space." Kenzi's eyes followed her fingers and her lit joint for a moment. Buzzzzzzzzzzz! "Nothing belongs to ... everyone!"

"You got it." Surreal offered the joint up to Kenzi in solidarity. "Spread the word, hummingbird. This here is a free-zone."

idek. I just felt that there HAD to be a den of intrigue somewhere on the island.

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The Abandoned Warehouse District, Saturday Afternoon

The Stage!

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OOC