Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Small Changes Movement on Facebook

      Les Figues is hosting The Small Changes Movement on Facebook. It is an interactive, collective writing experience where YOU, the reader, can add to the story. All are invited to add to the text, whether it be a sentence, a paragraph or just a few words. It's amazing how much the slightest change can alter a narrative. And as unique as all our readers are, the story takes some interesting turns.
      The Small Change Movement is running in conjunction with our Small Change donation drive. Feel free to add your donation to the movement on the Les Figues website. You can find the Facebook page here to join in on the movement.
Here is what we have so far:

Me was born on the 4th of July, We too, like twin firecrackers, and since the beginning Me had been plagued with a premonition: that the world would end on July 31st. Out came the lightning bugs. Luciferin. Luciferase. "Good idea," said Me. But I can't find him. "Well," said We, "maybe we should ask Chris Christopher Hershey-Van Horn what to do." ‎"You're so cruel. No creature deserves to die like that.... Plus OAT is already so fat," Me replied as she trotted towards the door, cat lasso in hand. ‎"Me," said We with a sigh, "who cares if Pat gets mad. His rat is annoying." The Beginning: “Hurry!” shouted Me to We. “Save Pat’s rat from being eaten by OAT, our fat cat, or Pat’s temper will flare up—he’s not quite sane.” OAT and Meester Pance, new pals, decided to work together to catch the rat, OAT because she liked to eat, and Meester Pance because he fucking hated Pat. I concur, indeed. Finally, we're speaking the same language. I've waited so long. meowww. meow meow. meeow.
The Rat used over 900,000 names. She brutally beat a servant girl with a hammer in woods that lay outside Danville. She killed a five-year-old girl by strangling and stabbing her 36 times with scissors. Me? I don't know what Me was doing when We said that Me had sliced The Rat's fin from its hide. Me? Me? Me? Me? I just felt like laughing. Internal to that laughter was a simple progression: The Rat tortured animals--domesticated dogs, house cats--and attacked people, sometimes in broad daylight. Her crimes were halted during the Great California War. Soon, she drowned two young friends while swimming. She moved in with one of the victims' families. Her injury, unnoticed. The victim's family was named Reverof. The mother bathed The Rat and skipped the wound, and others. Each scale hid the scent of The Rat's atrocities. A torn ligament; a plucked tooth; a lacerated friendship. The Mother Reverof would sing to The Rat the song she knew from her youth, "We like you baby, when you turn your back on us, forever, forever, forever." The Rat became more lucid. The song outlined in detail a labyrinth of possibilities, all of which seem to revolve around The Rat's cunt. During that time, The Rat's only human contact was with Reverof, who sometimes bought her fast food, and sometimes told her amusing stories. Seven months into her captivity, Reverof introduced The Rat to her wife, Nancy, who brought The Rat a stuffed animal and chocolate milk. There was a cop The Rat longed to kill. and doughnuts. The sweet smell of putrefaction. The Rat reminisced over her far gone youth mirrored in a pool beneath her. "Will you turn your back on us, Mother Reverof?" The words twisted through her corrupt passageways.
         Fast / East.
         The cop, Patrick Shank, Pat for short, had a fetish for things that never stopped growing--the universe (perhaps), hair, the splinter teeth of rodents.

Small Changes can make a huge difference.