Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.9

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 9.

This is a flash fiction challenge. The prompt is a song. You are not required to write about or even mention the song. It’s there only to get the ideas moving around in your brain pan. If you want to write about the song (or the video- it’s all good here) go for it but don’t feel like you have to.

The rules;

500 words, but it’s a slushy 500, meaning you can go up to 700 or as low as 300.

Post your entry right in the comments section of this post.

MAKE SURE TO PUT YOUR TWITTER HANDLE NEXT TO YOUR WORD COUNT AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR POST. IF YOU’RE NOT ON TWITTER GIVE ME AN EMAIL ADDRESS OR SOME OTHER WAY TO GET A HOLD OF YOU!

The challenge starts whenever I post this on Tuesday and ends at MIDNIGHT Pacific Time on Friday. You read that right. Pacific Time.

This week’s song prompt is a classic by late blues legend… Koko Taylor.

The tune? It’s, “Wang Dang Doodle”. Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/qp5NIxWdUbI

We have a rare first-timer for a Judge this week… Many, if not most of you already know her. For those who don’t…. meet Judge Danielle Young!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday May 16th.

Now… go write!!!

 

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Posted on May 13, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 8 Comments.

  1. “Valerie”
    The buzzing fan behind the counter made Mary reminisce about the cicadas singing their mating song during the humid summer months in her native Texas.
    Summers in Los Angeles weren’t sticky, but just as hot if not hotter. Fortunately, the diner she worked in was on the shady side of Spring Street. The pale concrete government buildings imposed dark shadows upon the asphalt.
    The tiny diner was peppered with a few regulars, not busy for a Tuesday, but it wasn’t lunch time yet either.
    Mary rubbed her back through her periwinkle uniform as she wiped the worn countertop with a rag. As she stretched her neck and head with its loosely bundled ginger hair, she inhaled a waft of coffee and griddle food.
    Her half-closed, green eyes filled with light that bounced from shades worn by the enchanting woman who walked through the door. The tan fabric of her high-waisted skirt and pale-rose colored chemise complemented and contrasted against her dark chestnut skin. In the sunlight, she radiated like an angel making Mary’s freckled cheeks flush into a scarlet red.
    She’d seen Valerie, the lawyer, often; the prim and proper counselor was much kinder than she looked. On a few occasions, they had chatted at length about a few scripts she’d submitted; and though Valerie specialized in criminal law, she offered to look over any contracts Mary may be offered.
    The idea both excited and made Mary uneasy to think that she’d lived in L.A. for over three years and hadn’t sold a single story. She feared she may be doomed to die working at the diner.
    “Hola, Mari,” Valerie smiled as she approached the counter.
    “Hello, Valerie,” Mary greeted her shyly pushing her black rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.
    Valerie made her way to her usual booth and proceeded to plop her Michael Kors bag on the seat.
    “I think I’ll get the Pig n’ a Poke today. I’ve been good all weekend,” she smiled up at Mary as she removed her sunglasses and pulled some legal files from her bag.
    “Sure thing,” Mary smiled and scribbled a note and handed it to Tony, the cook.
    “Here you go,” Mary sought an open spot to place a coffee mug on what quickly became Valerie’s desk.
    Valerie reached out and took it from her and in doing so brushed Mary’s hand.
    A twinge of heat spread out from Mary’s stomach.
    She fantasized about taking Valerie on a picnic somewhere with an open green space and a blanket. She’d bake her grandmother’s famous apple pie. They’d joke about how Mary was trying to fatten her up, and Mary would complement how perfect her thick, hourglass figure is.
    Valerie would find an excuse to bring Mary close and gently place her smooth lips on hers because Mary would be too petrified to initiate anything.
    “Mari,” she could faintly hear Valerie saying, “You ok?”
    Shaking out of her daydream, Mary smiled at her through the painful realization that her illusion would never become a reality.
    “Yes…yeah,” Mary laughed nervously.
    Valerie smiled up at her as she shook her head a bit, “How’ve you been? Written any good movies lately?”
    There it is again, she thought, that feeling of failure.
    “Actually,” Mary hesitated, “…I have. It’s more of a passion project, but I’ll be wrapping it up soon.”
    “It’s occurred to me, I’ve never read any of your work. If you don’t mind, I’d like to read it,” Valerie offered before taking a sip of coffee.
    “Wow, really? Yeah. Sure. Please, I would love that. I could always use feedback,” Mary replied.
    “Of course,” Valerie smiled and placed her hand with its freshly manicured nails over Mary’s with its short, clean nails, “Maybe after I read it, we can get a cup of tea and chat about it.”
    Mary was sure she was as beet red.
    “That would be lovely,” Mary Anne smiled as they locked eyes.
    “Order up!” Tony shouted causing the women to break their stare.
    “I’ll bring you your order,” Mary gently pulled away and grinned like a hopeful idiot.
    If that’s not motivation to write, then I don’t know what is, she thought.

    696 Words
    @skarlitsunrise
    jennieblogs.wordpress.com

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  2. The Party

    Tommy couldn’t figure out what was going on. The jukebox had gone silent and dark around 9:00. Everyone cleared out of the bar by 9:30. Guess it was just one of those nights. He wiped the bar clean.

    Then at 10:00 the jukebox lit up playing Koko Taylor’s Wang Dang Doodle.

    Tommy slowly faced the door, that song could only mean one thing.

    The front door slammed open and they started pouring in, yammering and filling up the entire bar. Damn near every mythological creature in human history, every demi-god and a few actual Gods, all of the Muses, every character out of Hans Christian Anderson stories, every horror and promise out of folklore, a few characters from books that had become so ingrained in the collective consciousness that they existed on multiple planes. Dwarves, fairies, fauns, wood sprites and elves…this was going to be a mess.

    Tommy leaned on the back bar and lit a smoke, still staring at the door waiting for the man he knew was coming next. Sure enough, he pushed through the door.

    He had shoulder length black hair, with a perfect wave until it curled gently at the ends. Every woman on earth who saw him wanted to get her hands in that hair. Sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes fringed with black thick lashes. His mouth was full and he was always smirking. He was wearing a perfectly cut leather car coat over a soft black button down shirt tucked into slightly worn Levi’s with scuffed black cowboy boots on his feet. Sparkling red ruby studs in both his ears. Tommy knew he had matching ones on the small silver hoops that pierced his nipples. Soon everyone here would know it too since Dion couldn’t keep his clothes on most days. Tonight was bound to end with a fair amount of nudity. But that would be later, after the wine, after the food, after the fights and after the dancing.

    Then there would be nakedness and sex.

    Dion smiled at Tommy mischievously, “Hey there old friend. I heard you’d been having a rough time of it lately and might need cheering up. So I invited everyone over for a party. Stop scowling at me and pour us some wine.”

    “Dion you know every time you do this I get written up by the Host right? They get really bent about this sort of thing here.”

    “Oh fuck them! And don’t call me that. My name is Dionysus.”

    The moment he said his name bottles of wine appeared on every table and lined up from one end of the bar to the next. Every single guest grabbed a bottle and started drinking.

    “Dion I don’t use your proper name because THAT happens every damn time and then everyone feels compelled to drink ALL that wine.”

    “Come on Tommy,” Dion growled suggestively as he leaned over the bar towards Tommy, “You know you want to stick it to the Heavenly Host right now. They are being total dicks about Evie and Lilith. Besides, technically, you aren’t breaking any rules so it’s not like they can do anything to you except put it down in your “permanent record”. Who the fuck cares?”

    Tommy looked at this crazy God of wine and madness. Maybe a little madness was called for sometimes. Maybe sometimes the only thing a sane man could do was drown the ache in his soul, feed his desires and glory in the wonder of it all before those winged bastards ripped it all away. A slow smile spread across Tommy’s face and wild abandon lit a fire in his green eyes that matched the flame that was always burning in Dion’s blue ones. Dion howled joyfully.

    Rati, wearing a lovely, and revealing, turquoise sari walked behind the bar. She danced, her lovely body brushing lightly against Tommy, he started to sway in concert with her as the rest of the bar thrummed with dancing bodies. He knew he’d pay for this debacle with yet another visit from the Archangel, but right now he didn’t care. Right now was about kissing the beautiful Rati, all night long.

    @MissBliss
    Words: 692

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  3. All night long wc.413
    “A little more, ‘bout yay much.” Lafayette stretched his hands so Buddy could see him in the mirror. “Almost there! Whoa, stop the truck.” Lafayette held his palm up to signal then stepped from the loading dock at the back of the Union hall onto the tray of the old red ford. “Come on let’s get this stuff inside.”
    “Damn this piano is worse than the last place.” Lafayette tinkled the keys honky tonk style trying to work around the flatter than flat keys.
    A pretty girl in a summer dress did a soft shoe through the fresh laid sawdust on the floor as she headed into the kitchen with a bowl covered in a gingham cloth.
    “Move the old red clunker out of the way would ya. We got the booze.” Lafayette threw the keys and Twist hauled himself into the cabin shifting the truck so’s the next one could back in. Folk started rolling in with food and jars. Barrels rolled in through the back entry. Laughter bounced off the beams.
    Gene and Don warmed up their brass, Jack plugged guitars into the amps and Fred rolled his sticks in the paradiddle he loved to show off before the real music.
    “What’s taking Willie so long?” Jack yelled over the growing noise. The others shrugged. Willie arrived in a rush carrying microphones and cables. He hooked them up with Jack and tested them. Twist ran a rapid blues riff along the strings.
    The sun sent a last burst of heat through the side doors, open to catch a hopeful breeze. Excitement thumped in the room with highlights of nervous and bass notes of anticipation. Food and drink flowed freely from the kitchen. Instrumental pieces dragged the first hardy souls into the centre of the floor, pretty girls squealing as their skirts flipped. The music bounced feet and twisted hips.
    The woman they had all been waiting for elbowed her way through the crowd. They began to cheer and stomp as she made her way to the stage. Willie reached out a hand and helped her up, handed her a mic and signaled the rest.
    Pops leaned against the door frame and watched as his wife opened her mouth to belt out a crowd pleaser. She sure had them hoppin’. He tapped his foot and nodded his head, grabbed himself a drink, found a comfy hay bale and settled in; this was going to be a Wang Dang Doodle of a night.
    @cc_lark

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  4. As Red As Her Lips

    She flips her hair, her mascara wand, pouting her lips as she applies the deep red stain. The bubblegum smacks against her teeth as she adjusts her top, sucking all the bad bits in, pushing all the good bits out.

    “You sure he’ll be there?” she asks me.

    “He said he would be.” And I hate him more than ever when he accepted the invitation she made me deliver.

    She smiles at me through the mirror. She’s got red on her teeth. She notices the downward flick of my eyes and looks. She sees it too and wipes the smear away. “I don’t look stupid do I?”

    “You look like you’re ready to kill.” Her apple cheeks heat to this beautiful shade of pink that almost matches the silk covering her skin. She asked me to help slip it on it was that tight. And the goose bumps on her arm still tantalize my fingertips with their ghostly memory.

    She smacks her lips, her gum, one more time, and then grabs my hand. She holds my arm as we walk down the street, huddling closer when the cool night air becomes too much. Her hair smells like coconut all pressed up against my nose like that. I can’t help it when I pull her closer. She thinks I’m cold, giggling, holding me tighter, whispering, “We’re almost there.”

    He’s already in a corner, surrounded by other pretty girls, holding one of those infamous red solo cups. Their eyes meet from across the room, and his eyes do this sort of sweep over her body, ending with that crooked smile across his face. She swoons. I hold her as she sways on her heels.

    “Oh my god. He’s so hot.”

    The other pretty girls sigh, annoyance playing across their face as he brushes aside their attempts, their touches, their little whispers, their offers. She notices, vibrating next to me, those red lips perking up into that perfect smile. When he’s close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne, feel his heat coming off his body, she leaves me, smelling, feeling, it too. Her hands are so small in his as he holds them gently. First in the air and then against his chest.

    I’m forgotten as they immerse themselves in a world of mindless chatter until the alcohol, the nerves, the courage can build up. Other boys come up to me, and I do my duty. Talking. Flirting. Batting my eyelashes. But she’s always there. In the corner of my eye. I see it when he touches her cheek. When he kisses her palm. When he whispers words into her ear so naughty she blushes the same color as her lips.

    He’s probably calling her sexy. She isn’t. She’s more than that. He doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that. But I do. And no on will ever know that I do. I think that breaks my heart more than when he leads her away, up the stairs, around the corner, so that her flash of pink disappears from my sight.

    I already know the feeling of imagining, of creating what they’re doing in the bedroom behind closed doors. Their kisses. Their touches. Their skin bare against the other’s. And it hurts too much knowing that I’ll never get to do that to her. Never show her. Never tell her.

    I only have the hope that when it’s all over, when he crushes her with callous words and goodnights, when they climb back down the stairs, she’ll come into my arms, and I’ll get to hold her for the night while her heart heals…unlike mine.

    @chinchinunicorn
    605 words

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  5. Miranda Kate

    The Roxy

    He wanted to do it, they had to do it; he wouldn’t accept any arguments. Dorian got into his 1962 Corvette. It shined red hot tonight, just like his mood.

    He drove to Steve’s place. Even with the top down his black quiff didn’t move; he’d lacquered it good tonight. When he stopped in the driveway, he checked it in the mirror, comb at the ready, but winked at himself instead – it was still perfect, he just hoped Mavis would think so too.

    Steve was sitting on the porch having a beer. Dorian wanted to get going.

    “Come on man, finish it up, it’s gonna be pumping at the Roxy tonight, Koko’s playing.”

    Steve gave him a lazy grin. “Hold your horses man, there’s no rush. Take a pew, crack one open.”

    “No man, not yet, I wanna get there first.” Dorian paced the verandah.

    Steve’s smile faded as he watched him. “Geez you’re wired tonight, what’s up?”

    “It’s time man, I’m not messing about anymore. I want it a done deal with me and her.”

    “Arh.” Steve raised an eyebrow, his grin returning. “Little Mavis. You sure she’s gonna be out tonight?”

    “She’d never miss Koko.” Dorian slapped Steve’s boot. “Come on man, let’s go.”

    Steve raised his hands in surrender and stood up. “Alright, alright, I’ll just fetch my jacket.”

    Steve arrived at the car with his black leather on. Dorian looked at his hair with envy; the natural blond locks at the front displaying a perfect double-sided rolled quiff. Dorian’s hair wouldn’t allow it.

    When they pulled up in front of the Roxy, the valet took the keys and they went inside, Dorian scanning the vast room for his beloved. It was heaving in the club, even though Koko wasn’t on yet. Another band was warming things up.

    Dorian squeezed through the crowd to the bar, Steve at his heels. The barman put two bottles in front of them, too busy for conversation, and they tossed the required coins into his hand.

    They turned to lean against the counter and observe the room. Heads turned, mostly female, spotting Steve, but a few men turned too, wanting to know who their women were looking at. They eyeballed Steve and he eyeballed them back, his easy grin not dropping. Dorian didn’t like it, but he knew Steve could handle any one of them.

    Then Dorian spotted her, way at the front. He tapped Steve’s shoulder and they pushed forward keeping to the right where there were less people, until they were level with her.

    She was out in the middle dancing, her full red skirt spinning round as she twizzled back and forth; showing off the petticoats underneath. Her blonde hair bounced at the back, but the perfectly rolled curls either side of her centre-parting didn’t move. She beamed at her partner, the elusive Eloise who everyone admired – even Steve.

    Upon seeing them Steve raised an eyebrow, keen to go over. He never failed to take a crack at Eloise even though she usually turned him down. Besides her stunning looks, Dorian knew Steve liked the thrill of the chase; it was a novelty for him. It caused other girls to dislike her, but she didn’t care.

    They set their beers down on a standing table and pushed through to cut in, Dorian to Mavis and Steve to Eloise. Tonight the girls let them. If there was one thing Dorian could do, it was dance, and tonight he used all his skill as he moved Mavis up and around him. Steve was also working his magic, his feet as sure as Dorian’s – heck if the girls knew they practised together in Dorian’s barn, they’d bust a gut!

    The moment was ripe, Dorian couldn’t hold off any longer. When the song ended, he pulled her into him and said, “Let’s do it Mavis, let’s go steady. You know you want to.”

    She giggled at him, and whispered, “Only if Eloise will with Steve.”

    Dorian’s face dropped, until she giggled again and he followed her gaze over his shoulder. Steve & Eloise were already kissing. He swept Mavis into his arms to do the same.

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  6. Just Passin’ Through
    @BryantheTinker
    618 words

    No matter how careful you are, there are just some nights that aren’t going to go well. I travel around the country, wherever the fights are, and tonight I’m in some middle weight city whose name I don’t even remember. Trying to find a place to stay, and this place and the fish scent surrounding it made me realize that I was hungry. Blues music was blasting through the boarded up windows, so it seemed like a decent enough place to get the lay of the land, and a meal too.

    Once inside, there was sawdust on the floor, and people were swinging and grinding having a heck of a time. I found a barstool and ordered a scotch while I waited for them to cook me some fish and hushpuppies. It wasn’t too bad a place, in the dim lighting. In daylight, it would be downright nasty, though. The reason for the sawdust was made completely clear when I started noticing people spitting their snuff juice everywhere, just toward a corner maybe that they happened to be at. Sure made me think twice about putting my jacket on the ground when the food came.

    The fried fish was the best I’d had in a long time, though. Crispy, not hard, and still juicy inside, and seasoned by someone who speaks neither English nor French, but something a little in between. The evening started really humming around this place, picking up as it got later. The people here no doubt were going to romp about till at least midnight, if not all night long. Most of the music was pretty good, some lady with strong pipes. I couldn’t always tell if she was making it up as she went along, though, when she kept singing about her “wang dang” and her “doodle”.

    Some joker started getting loud, moving like he’d just gotten tagged by a rope-a-dope and was seeing stars. “You tell Automatic Slim. You can…can tell Butcher Knife Nanny. You tell them that Washbone Sam is here…is comin’ for ’em. Gonna kick in all the windows, and break in all the doors.” He was weaving from person to person throughout the bar. I didn’t pay him much mind at first. Not till he had made it over to me and was yelling at me.

    “You tell ’em too, Pistol Pete. You tell ’em I’m-a fuss’em up.” the booze was really slurring his speech. He was harmless, and whoever these people were, I hoped they had a good sense of humor, or he was going to find himself having a lot worse than a hangover.

    “Look, buddy, you’ve got me mixed up with someone. Why don’t you go sit down?”

    He grabbed me by the shirt, and got right in my face. His eyes were so dilated he’d clearly been pitching a ball on top of drinking, all hyper and in his own reality. Still, I just don’t let anyone get up on me like that. I reached back and cocked my fist, driving it straight into him as I pressed off the stool for power. He never ducked, or even blinked, just took it right on his chin and flopped backward, instantly out cold.

    The singer stopped, and the crowd around stared at me at first. Looks like tonight’s not going to see any rest after all. I’d better check the name of the city on the way out of town, so I know to be careful if I come back this way. Before the locals can get organized and come after me, though, I hit the door and keep moving. After all, I don’t want to find out what happens when my doodle gets wang danged.

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  7. The Night of Endless Apology

    Boxcar Pete was sitting in a corner booth – the one he always took, all the way in the back – munching on dinner, handful after handful of chocolate covered coffee beans and an iced Red Bull with an Absolute sidecar. Between drinks, you could hear him sucking the little pieces of coffee from the back of his teeth – and it was pissin’ Annie off to no end. Every time Pete would suck, she’d look over at him, twirling the handle of that damned butcher knife, digging the point into the bar just a little more.

    I sat at the far end for a full view of the room, already scribbling down some notes. I’d ordered a Ramona’s Chile Relleno Burrito – and a side order of TRUTH. I knew how I wanted to report on the night and I also knew it was going to piss half the membership off – just so you know, it had nothing to do with journalistic integrity; I lived to piss off the room.

    And so far that room consisted of only me, Boxcar Pete, Butcher Knife Annie, Abyssinian Red, Razor-Totin’ Jim, and our bartender Fannie – who, never shut up and got by through a 12-step program called On and On and On. Fast Talkin’ Fannie – as we called her – didn’t even stop talking when the Howlin’ Wolf CD ended and she put on Hindu Love Gods. Talk, talk, talk, one end of the bar to the other – it was maddening.

    I hoped the night would deliver a bigger turnout, it was – afterall – the hundred year leadership vote; but I supposed angels and demons get just as complacent as mortals do. I can hear them now, ‘Why bother, they’re all the same.’ The Fallen Angels Union Hall, No. 13 had until sunrise to cast their ballots, but for now, sadly, lacked enough for even a quorum – but it was early still. . .

    That’s when HE walked in. It made me look twice. Damn. Charles Whang, the artist. CW, his-own-damned-self. Now, you may not know his name, but you have seen is work, those early pen and ink drawings of angels, tiny detailed etchings – all signed with a tiny CW. He was a huge influence on artists like Bosch, Escher, Sergio Aragones. He ordered a cup of coffee and began sketching on a napkin. I wanted to go over and say hello, but Fannie had turned her attention to him and I was enjoying the quiet.

    A short lived quiet, it seemed, for when Snake burst through the door like he was the last man to the party, sucking the meat off a brazed sparerib and wiping his fingers on his Automatic Slim’s t-shirt.

    “Pitch and bawl, bitches,” he yelled, as he headed straight to Red and Jim’s table. For a moment it seemed that was where the party was. I looked over, CW was no more distracted by this than he was by Fannie – he was lost in his drawing and coffee.

    “Stop sucking your teeth old man,” Annie screamed, as she threw the butcher knife, embedding it inches from Pete’s face. Boxcar Pete looked at Annie and tossed back another handful of beans and started sucking. Red and Snake were up blocking Annie long before she could get to the corner booth

    “We should get this voting thing done and stop wasting time,” Red said. “We seem to be a bit worked up.” I walked over and pulled the knife from the wall, “One of these days, Pete. She just might hit you.”

    “Maybe.” he nodded, sucking one last speck of coffee.
    I turned back and CW was gone.

    I walked to the bar as Fannie cleared the coffee and held up the napkin. A hundred, no, a thousand little faces – tortured and tormented – surrounded the words, LOST SOULS FILL A WASTED NIGHT.

    “Hmmmph,” she said, the first non-word of the night and started to wad up the napkin.

    “Hang on,” I said, reaching for the drawing. There it was – a signed CW.
    “Wow. You know what you have here, don’t you?” I asked.

    “I know it ain’t a tip.”

    “It’s better.” I told her. ‘It’s a dang, Whang doodle.”

    jlockett59@gmail.com

    695 words

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