For Teppy. 100 words precisely.

1970 San Francisco: Backstage

He's got the gyrate thing going on, red leather pants, the tops of his hipbones showing. His hair's moving all over the place. His voice is whiskey and gravel.

"Before you slip into unconsciousness..."

I'm backstage, watching, bemused. I'm there with the other act on the Fillmore poster, local San Francisco. These LA guys, the Doors? Too much. And Morrison? He's hotter than fuck, but reptillian, too. They ought to call him Lizard King.

"...I'd like to have another kiss..."

Suddenly, I get it. Passing thought, of yanking down those leathers, seeing what he's made of.

Light my fire? Uh-huh.

drabble

The viewing for my father at the funeral home. Two days of socially required masochism. I wander, unable to cope with my family's grief, unwilling to have my own on display.

At the end of the hallway is a sliding door. It's been closed, but now it's slightly open. The curiosity I inherited from my father sends me to look through.

Not an office. Metal table. Linoleum floor. Counters with bottles and jars. Cabinets with medical instruments.

"Can I help you?"

The voice is kind, but I blush scarlet anyway. One of the funeral directors, recognizing me as Family.

"I--was just--"

He puts his hand on the door. "If you'd like to see--"

"No!"

He hesitates,nods, and closes the door.

Whoa. Connie, tres powerful.

I've been having nightmares about that door for 20 years.

You must have really been freaked during "The Body". I'm so sorry. That's one of those horror moments and when they show up suddenly? Ugh.

I've seen "The Body" once, finding several reasons to find out what was going on in the kitchen.

I should have let him show me the room, it would probably have helped my long-term neuroses, but 20-year-old me was not that well-adjusted.

Kaspar Hauser's Last Letter

I cannot fault you, my dear Benefactor, for allowing me freedom from a guard. I disdain even now the thought of any restraint, a chaperon in the park no less than the lock on my childhood prison's door. Now all chains are loosed: the knots in my red ribbons come undone: and the ties I strove to bind, to memory and family, to birth – alas!

The Almighty demands my presence; I must beg your forgiveness for leaving unread any reply you have sent to my last missive. Lord Stanhope, farewell. In all things, you have been no less kind to me than if I had been heir to the House of Baden.

Nutty, interesting take. I don't know nearly enough about him, beyond the basics - had he attained that level of eloquence by the time he died?