Those were the Tang-bright 70s, the Revello days knees grazed, skies so high and hazy with bonfire smoke - Who was that kid? the one who stuck things up his nose and roasted his wieners with the plastic skins still on just to see them shrivel. They were summer people dragged West with grandparents until they reached a mass sufficient to be wayward on their own. That kid probably grew into the kind of fella who talked all sorts of shit about how condoms ruin sensation; but would run a mile before he ever stepped up. Mind you, he also probably did great as a dad, once he realized the experimental possibilities. He’d be the Dad of the Mantra: see what happens. They probably hang out together in hammocks; dad lets son have a drag - it’s not illegal, he’d say to the exasperated angel huffing past if his wife didn’t yet know better than to just let him roll, the kid is always happy with dad. They probably melt crayons and microwave mangoes and push enough limits to get on ‘Fail Army’ but only the ones where the victims are up for another go. The Dad of the Mantra probably thinks of Revellos, and, stoned to the gills rhapsodizes to the son until they have to empty all possible combinations of dairy and sweet and chalky chocolateness into buckets and mix them with hand drills, and stick sawed-off two-by-fours into the buckets, for which they have emptied the chest freezer; they squeeze these buckets of brown guck in, giggling dappled with life, none the worse for libertine giddiness, skipping back to the kitchen where the mango has exploded and contemplating another project whereby they’ll paint the walls, or the floor or the dog, or perhaps the baby sister the closest colour they can mix to the caramelized fruit dripping sweet misadventure like a lure.
Missed a couple days, due to work and other good distractions. But this odd prompt, ‘crayons and other fictions’ or make a metonymy, preferably using ‘mango’ – well, okay. It took me to the Tang-bright 70s. Another great pixabay.com image here, this one from Natascha88.