Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.10

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 10.

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.

We’ve had a couple of oldies in a row here at the Blues-Buster so this week’s song prompt is of more recent vintage…

It’s, “You’ve Got Time”, by Regina Spektor. Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/6rGldaxh_eg

This week’s Judge is author, editor, and self-proclaimed word nerd… Regina West!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through Friday May 23rd.

Now… Go write!!!!!

 

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Posted on May 20, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.

  1. For seven brothers

    I open my eyes and see nothing. Still dark. Good – that will give me time to prepare. I let them out at night, sometimes when they get too wild and rambunctious. They’re too dangerous to be out on their own, really, even at night, but I’ve been getting more and more convinced that they don’t obey me as much as they tolerate me.

    The first one, as always, is in the bed next to me. I can feel its weight pressing down on me, trying to keep me here, unmoving, alone. It’s big, and heavy, but easy to catch, and goes into its cage more docilely than some days. I could be happy about this, but I suspect it bodes ill for the rest.

    Padding into the bathroom, I step over the toilet to drain my overnight waste products. As I take my penis in my hand, I feel it beginning to grow, and I know the second one has followed me in here. It’s been out all night, gathering sounds of couples (and sometimes more) satiating themselves in the dark. This morning, it has a special treat for me, a window shade left open, allowing it to record the delicious sights hidden inside. I know what it wants, and I give in, just for a moment, distracting it just long enough. Then cage number two is filled.

    The water is hot this morning, before everyone else in the building is awake. Before the mirror fogs over, I catch a glance of my naked body in the mirror and smile. Who wouldn’t be proud of such a physique, especially at my age? And it takes effort, that’s god’s honest truth, walking to work every day, eating organic and vegan. All those things I deprive myself of – I deserve something more than just a clean bill of health at the doctor’s office. Then the fog comes, and I see it there, just in the last corner that’s clear. It could run, but it never thinks I’ll catch it. But I do.

    Finally clean and dressed, I pick up the remote, hoping to flip on the news and catch up on what happened overnight – I don’t want to know, but I need to know. But then I remember – the TV died last week. An old monstrosity, heavier than sin, with a picture tube and console frame, it barely worked anyway, but was better than nothing. Yesterday, after work, I saw the box out in the hallway. Roger, in 3F. 60 inches. 3D. Stupid bastard leaves his door unlocked every time he goes down to the laundry, and he’s got so much nice stuff. Would it hurt so much to share? I slam the remote down on the table, feeling the rush that comes with smashing something that has failed me.

    I hear the cackling behind me. Oh, they’re ganging up on me now? That just makes me angrier, and I kick the piece of shit end table over. Sure, it was a gift from my grandmother, but she’s dead, and what does she care? But I haven’t put on my shoes, and that table has sharp corners. The pain clears my head, and I open up two more cages in my mind. I made one nicer than the other, and it traps one of them easily. The other likes to fight, but I win. It was out all night, and I’m well-rested.

    At this rate, I’m going to be late for work, so I try to lure the last two in. A six egg omelet, topped with caviar – I keep a tin in the fridge just for emergencies like this. I hear the five in my head hooting their derision at me, just like always. But the trap works, and I’m able to get the last two locked up before the stench from the chicken and fish eggs turns my stomach.

    They’re all in there now, lined up in the dark. They want me to let them free, but I won’t. I hope so, anyway – those cages are old. I step out into the world and wonder if everyone else goes through this every morning. But I’ll never know.

    698 words
    @drmagoo

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  2. Lydia ran her hands through her hair and clenched the roots. She sat on the edge of the bed looking out of the penthouse windows overlooking the sleeping city.

    She’d done it again and she had no way of getting out of it now. She mentally chided herself, feeling the frustration build, knowing she had to bury it; what’s done was done.

    She looked over her shoulder at his sleeping body, his perfect skin, the line of his back facing her, beautiful in the nightlight. His profile was perfect too, his lip line, his strong jaw; she wanted to savour this moment forever. Her stomach churned at the thought of what she had to do now.

    She stood up and went to the bathroom, splashing water on her face and staring at her reflection in the mirror. She studied her eyes for an answer, some solution that would mean she could have both, but she knew there was none. The question was: how was she going to do this? She took a deep breath, the only way she knew how: without thinking.

    Lydia returned to the bedroom and picked up her clothes, careful not to wake him. She went into the hallway to dress and took her keys out of her bag. She gently worked the key off the key-ring and laid it on the entrance hall table, while her mind ran through all the belongings she had here. There weren’t many, and none she couldn’t live without.

    She slipped her coat on, resisting the urge to take a peek at him one last time.

    As soon as the door was shut behind her she ran down the corridor to the elevator. She considered the stairs, not really wanting the bellhop working the elevator to see her, but when it arrived no one was in it. The universe was working with her tonight.

    When she reached the foyer there was only the night porter and he was expecting her. She glanced at him as she walked past, and he gave her a meaningful look as he picked up the phone.

    By the time she stepped out of the rotating doors she wanted to throw up. She covered her mouth to hide the retching sound.

    A cab was waiting but she didn’t want to get in. She didn’t want to sit, she couldn’t, she needed to keep moving for as long as she could. She walked at high speed away from the building, not really thinking about a direction.

    Going back to her apartment was out of the question. They’d find her again, they’d put her through it again, and she couldn’t keep doing this, she couldn’t keep loving them, watch them love her back and then set them up. She didn’t want to do it anymore, she wanted out of the loop, but no one ever got out – or so they told her.

    A thought sparked in her mind and she ran with it. At the next ATM she took out as much cash as it would let her, then she got on the subway – a taxi could be traced. Once at Grand Central station she scanned the destination boards and found what she was looking for. Even at this time of night she didn’t have long to wait, and when the train crossed the border into Canada she was sound asleep.

    Coming off the train she rummaged in the concealed pocket of her bag and pulled out her Canadian Citizenship card. She kept it on her at all times as the ‘just in case’ she knew would come one day – but they didn’t; they didn’t know as much as they thought.

    From there she took the bus to the storage unit her parents kept for her and changed clothes, grabbing her real passport and some bundles of cash her dad insisted on stashing there. Then she headed for the airport.

    Only once she was in the air did she breathe again and let her mind wander back to the life she’d been leading. It was no easy task being an assassins’ mistress, but at least it had taught her how to be traceless.

    695 Words
    @PurpleQueenNL

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  3. Time for What?

    He wanted to slap the condescending smile off doctor’s face as he told him he had three months to live. His words washed over Cameron Anderson, explaining the cancer was too far advanced and there was nothing they could do. He wrote a prescription for pain medication.

    Then he continued on, “You’ve got time left Mr. Anderson, time to put your affairs in order. I recommend you enjoy what time you have left. Take a trip, see your family, do things you’ve always wanted to do.”

    The doctor’s smile was saccharinely professional but didn’t reach his eyes. Cameron’s hands clenched, but he allowed no emotion to show on his face. He reached for his script and politely thanked him for his unwanted news.

    Cameron shut the door quietly behind him, strolling towards his car with a calm untroubled expression. But his mind was busy considering what the doctor had said.

    “My will is already made; I have sufficient money to live well or to take any trips I want to. What should I do with my three months? Anything I really want to do would have to be done soon, because I doubt I’ll be able to do much when the pain really kicks in.”

    At that thought his stomach stabbed with excruciating agony. His mobile phone rang in its hands’ free container; the hospital number was flagged up. Cameron ignored it.
    He had no desire for a luxury trip or to see relatives who had little time for him, they were already dealt with. He could picture their faces when his will was read and found he had left them nothing. He had had successes since Asrotech let him go, made money; enough to leave each of his grasping family very well off. They would hate him leaving it all to a drug rehabilitation scheme.

    No what he wanted was revenge, revenge against Asrotech for stealing his design of the photo-electric recharging system for electric cars. It made them billions; their head tech got the Nobel Prize. It was putting oil companies and garages out of business all over the world. It had dropped the Arab nations into a downward spiral of recession. The credit and prize should be his.

    Cameron packed his car on reaching his house, paid some bills and ignored the blinking of his answer phone. He left his mobile behind and bought a new phone. He was one of the first shareholders to enter the conference room at Asrotech; he noticed a few employees rushing to warn their superiors of his attendance. He had not had difficulty getting what he needed. He sat at the front and smiled pleasantly at former colleagues as they ringed the room nervously. The seating filled up with enthusiastic shareholders who had been doing very well from Asrotech’s sudden prosperity.

    The Board of Directors traipsed in with Chairman Horace Kenworthy at their head. They did a double take on seeing him although they must have already been aware of his presence. One of the board read a pompous self-aggrandising statement about their successes and profits. Questions were asked and answered and champagne was served. The meeting was beginning to break up and he stepped forwards towards the board committee and triggered the bomb.

    The bloodshed was massive, most of the shareholders escaped uninjured but he brought the ceiling down on the board of directors, only two survived seriously injured. Cameron died instantly.

    The hospital had been trying desperately to contact him since he had left the hospital, they had rung his numbers, send a pile of letters apologizing for the mix up. It was unfortunate his notes had been muddled with those of an older Cameron Anderson, he should come back for treatment for his ulcer, he had not got cancer at all.

    637 words @GiselleMarks1

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  4. Trapped

    The dark whispers with danger. The cold permeates with fear. The chill that runs down my spine forewarns of the trouble ahead, behind, all around. Trapped in this cage of seduction and narcotics, I can only hold onto the wall, to the gilded bars of my jail cell, with precarious fingers and trembling knees.

    These people with their fancy clothes and expensive paraphernalia are animals hiding behind their money, the haze of smoky goodness, pretending that they care but secretly wishing for the downfall of the other. Why did she bring me here? I don’t have the funds to contribute nor the nerve to participate. She flourishes. Never have I seen her shine as much as she is now.

    “Is that your friend?” he asks me. I don’t know where he came from, appearing from black, his hands suspiciously empty.

    “Yeah.”

    “How did you two end up here?” Is it that obvious that we don’t belong?

    “We know someone…is there a problem?”

    “No problem. Just curious.” The smile that crosses his face is almost dazzling so much so that I know he is one of them. “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

    I hesitate, and he sees this. His hand is warm on my shoulder, against the bare skin of my arm as he waits patiently for me to answer. “I don’t know.”

    “Don’t worry. This party is boring anyway.”

    I shuffle away, but he follows. “I can’t leave my friend.”

    “We won’t go far.”

    “Really now…” I glance at his empty hands again. Maybe he finds his pleasures in something other than drugs. Something more carnal.

    He steps back, surrendering to my silent accusation. “Nothing like that! It’s just nothing like this.”

    He’s touching me again, and it’s so hard not to fall for the allure, for the charm, for the easiness that he seems to channel. I know that even though he seems harmless, he’s probably the worst one of the bunch, but my traitorous emotions have me begging for that tiny bit of comfort, of empathy, of light from this dark.

    “Maybe for a little bit.”

    Another one of those smiles. “Great!” His hand is so big that it engulfs mine when he pulls me from the wall.

    We don’t leave the house as I thought we would. Instead, I’m guided through painted halls and golden doors, twisting and weaving through corridors and rooms I won’t remember. I’m lost, and I can’t help the terror that courses through me with each step I take.

    “What are we doing?” I say to him.

    He glances over his shoulder, that smile set firmly on his face. “Something better.”

    The room is full, filled to the brim with dazed eyes and murmured words of delight, a new jail cell, but a jail cell all the same. He hasn’t led me to my freedom as I thought he would. Instead, the long lines of white on the table tell me I just made a deal with the warden.

    500 words
    @chinchinunicorn

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  1. Pingback: Mid-week Blues Buster, week 2.10 | Project Gemini

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