Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.16

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 16.

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.


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 comes to us from a band I can’t believe I haven’t used at the MWBB before– Morphine!

The tune is… “Buena”. Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/kZjZBe6o78M

This week’s Judge is our own Purple Queen… Miranda Kate!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday July 4th.

Now… go write!




Posted on July 1, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. “Better than Buena? Yeah, Muy Buena”


    Jim Lockett

    The congregation was slight in stature, yet grand in its devotion. The pulpiteer carried himself well across the stage – for it was tonight, the remains of a burned-out, 49-seat theatre in West Hollywood that housed their worship – with a great mastery of the Word and cradling the faithful in the palm of his hand. With closed eyes, and hands upturned, they followed his voice from wall to wall – a soft voice, that filled the room with its presence. A great many religions had found a light of late; giving hope to the growing hopeless; each finding new converts now that a once trusted God had turned his back on them, yet some traditions died hard. . .

    “Dominus vobiscum.,” the master prayed.

    “The Lord be with you,” a voice whispered in translation, at the very front of the house.

    “Sit nomen Buena benedictum.”

    “Blessed be the name of Buena,” again whispered..

    “Now and forever,” responded the congregation. Some in Latin, but most in English.

    “Benedicat vos omnipotens Buena.”

    “May all mighty God bless you,” the voice whispered, even quieter now.

    “Buena Amen,” the faithful chanted.

    Father Marcus – the pastor, prophet pusher; shaman, savior, sandman – whatever he was, stopped, looking deep into the shadows, as if he’d heard a whisper.

    “My children,” Marcus said. “Sister Morphine will pass among you to collect tonight’s Eucharist.” A tiny wisp of a “Sister” draped in a purple robe, moved to the front, collection pate in hand and began to pass among the aisles. A pre-recorded Muzak version of “Redemption Song” began to play from unseen speakers, as dime bags and balloons – some heavy, most light – of Buena began to fill the offering plate. The plate was returned to the front, as each bag of the East Los Angeles heroin – known by the street name Buena – was emptied into a chalice suspended over an open flame. It was the flame he was here for.

    I have to put a stop to this, he thought to himself – moving into the theater – I really hate Muzak. All eyes were locked on him as he stopped in front of the alter.

    “Father.” the man said with a nod. Touching the cheek of Sister Morphine, he addressed the rest.. “Faithful followers, good evening, excuse my interruption.”

    “What is it you need, my son?’ Marcus asked of the man.

    “What we all need, Brother. You have found your solace, all of you,” he said, passing his fingers through the open flame. “Your faith in Buena, it soothes your hearts and it restores your soul.” He dipped his finger into the boiling chalice and tasted the purity. “Mmmmm. But, there is something better. You want something good?” He held up a key of white.

    “In exchange for what?”

    The man cups his hand into the flame, “This,” he said, taking the flame into his palm. “You see, I’m afraid, this does not belong to you.”

    “Who are you?”

    “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, turning to the congregation, the small flame burning in his hand, “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m. . “ .

    “Satan!” screamed one woman, two rows back..

    “Really?” he asked. “Thanks. You ruined a perfectly good joke intro by blurting it out like that.” Shaking a finger at her, he added, “No eternal damnation for you Missy. And no, my name, friends, is Lucifer, Son of the Dawn. It was the Samuel who started calling “the Satan”, you know, ancient Hebrew for “the adversary.” And I am still stuck with it. You can call me Lew.”

    As the gathering murmured, he took control, holding the flame aloft. “Now, about this – this my friends is the Flame of Abel – the real reason Cain killed his brother, and cause of so much turmoil since. The Eternal Flame, the spark that started all of this. You know this little light of mine. . I don’t know how it fell into your hands, but,” he paused, closing his hand around the flame. “Now, it’s in mine.”

    “Rejoice. This is far superior to that garbage you pray into your veins,” he said, handing Marcus the kilo. “It’s Judas’ own blend.”

    Like so many of the faithful, so easily swayed. Lucifer smiled.

    698 Words


  2. Box of Tricks

    Seth watches from the back of the room as the cloaked figure on stage chooses his volunteer. The entertainers are here to cast their temporary spell over the village and there are plenty of seated occupants to select from. “You there! Join me!” he commands, sweeping the fabric across his shoulders to display the sleeves of the dark suit beneath. He points at a fair haired man a couple of rows from the front, who puts a “who me” hand to his chest, before moving slowly towards the stairs. Seth knows him, of course. Jon Tate. He is smiling slightly as he looks at the man, she thinks, casting a sideways glance at the tall, black box towards the rear of the stage. His smile fades at the corners as he does.

    The magician – who does not name or otherwise introduce himself – all part of the act, a magician must retain his secrets – unhinges the box from its moorings, turns it inside out, black velvet interior displayed to all and sundry – nothing to see here – before reassembling the walls on three sides to leave the foremost section open for entry. Jon is guided with a gesture towards its centre. Seth thinks he hesitates infinitesimally before he takes the steps which will place him within its confines and the door to the box is closed again with him inside and away from sight.


    It is dark in the nothing. “Hello?” a voice calls. Jon looks into the pitch without seeing. Places a hand in front of himself, seeking some form of orientation to no avail.

    “Hello?” A voice speaks again. It is male, no way to gauge an age. Jon stays silent for a moment. “Hello?” There is a tremble in the word this time. “Is anyone there? I’m Aaron. I can’t find my way home. I think I’ve been trying for over a year!”

    Another voice joins the first. “I’m Bethany. It’s been four weeks and three days since I’ve been here – I think.”

    Then another. “I’m Richard. I don’t know how long I’ve been here in the dark.”




    A cavalcade of introductions. Too many to count, all together, yet alone, in the dark. Jon finds himself hugging his hands to his knees as the names emerge from nowhere and everywhere; the names of those locked in. They are nothing and yet everything in the dark.


    The hinges to the box are removed once again, slats pulled from one another, before he takes his bow and the curtain falls. There is nothing behind the walls, amongst the black velvet, as the sections are held aloft and displayed to the appreciative audience. No sign that it was ever occupied or trace of Jon remains. There is a buzz, then silence from the seated mass, as the box disappears from sight behind the fabric post denouement.

    Seth keeps her eyes on the magician as his own sweep the wood of the stage, then raise themselves towards the crowds, though they are too far apart to exchange a proper glance. She nods an acknowledgment, before turning to depart, hidden amongst the others who are leaving their seats now they appreciate the act is genuinely finished. The murmurs begin once they move through the theatre doors into the open spaces beyond them. Seth does not wait to hear what it is they say. No need to. She knows all too well the secrets the act has concealed. It is what comes of dancing with the devil and arranging Jon’s introduction personally. She suspects if he had known where it would lead, things wouldn’t have ended so badly between them.


    (612 words)


  3. Jack looked at his handiwork, hanging from the wall. Two people, one man, one woman, both naked, both posed where he wanted them. He wondered if the wall was more alive than them. He carefully checked the wall for damage and stains. “Can’t have those. They’ll ruin the scene.” He quickly wiped away any bloodstains he spotted on the wall.

    Things had gotten easier, with time. He’d run out of nails, and glue when had made his first masterpiece, it took more than he expected to get their poses right. Of course he had pictures of them. He had pictures of all his work. This was his fourth masterpiece. It wouldn’t be his last, there were others to create. There were so many possible ways to pose two naked bodies.

    “They wonder why I use bodies, I know,” Jack spoke quietly to the couple in his latest masterpiece. “Because bodies are more realistic than paint, or clay.” He adjusted the woman’s hair, carefully brushing it out of her eyes, then adding more hairspray to hold it in place. He checked their body positions, making certain their body parts fit together properly. The woman on her back, stuck to the wall, her legs jutting out. The man between her legs, his hips thrust forward.

    “I really must find a better way to keep them in place,” he shook his head, looking at the strips of wood, tied to their limbs, holding their arms and legs in their eternal poses. “One that doesn’t show as much in the pictures.”

    Jack took pictures from every angle. Shots of body parts, and full body shots. “It’s important to capture both the details, and the entire picture.” He stopped several times, to adjust details in the poses, “There, that’s better.” And he resumed taking pictures. “That should be enough.” He shut his camera off. “See, Mother? I am an artist. You said I wasn’t. You said I’d never be good at anything.” He pulled a faded picture of his mother from his camera bag, and faced it at the bodies. “See, Mother? See? I make beautiful works of art, don’t I.” He carefully placed the picture in his camera bag.

    He made certain the curtains to the room were open, so the world would see his work when the sun rose. Then, he turned out the lights, and headed home. He locked the room as he left, and carefully placed a small, wooden plaque on the door. “Buena #4,” he read the plaque, “The fourth in a series of masterpieces.”

    He smiled as he walked the hallways, to the stairs, then the building’s exit. “It was Buena, indeed. I wish everyone could see that. Could understand that.” He sighed. “I do good work!”

    Jack went home, and used all his hot water in the shower. If felt good to let the heat soak into his shoulders and neck. He could feel his muscles relax. He ate a small breakfast, and washed it down with a glass of orange juice, the kind with pulp. Real juice. Not that processed crap. Then, he stretched out in his bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he started planning the body positioning of the couple for Buena #5. “It will be my greatest work.”

    Jack slept well that night.

    549 Words


  4. Lovers

    Samantha walked into the bar. The sign outside, The Forgotten Dungeon, promised a gothic vibe but the yellow lights and sticky floor reset her expectations quickly. The smell of sweat, booze, and … something else tickled her nose. Samantha stood in the doorway. Stay or go? It definitely wasn’t a bar she would normally spend time in but there was something electric in the air.

    “In or out?” Samantha jumped at the gruff voice behind her and mumbled an apology as she moved further into the room. Movement to her left caught her attention and she turned to see a slight woman in a barely-there slip dress walk onto a stage surrounded by fencing. Samantha lingered at the back of the crowd, mesmerized by the perfectly styled bed-head and bright red lipstick. It took skill to look that grungy and sensual all at once. Samantha moved a little closer as the rest of the band filed in and began to set up. The woman scanned the crowd, stopping when her green eyes caught Samantha’s. Those luscious red lips smiled and a black polished fingernail beckoned. Samantha moved toward the stage, her legs carrying her forward before her mind could object. Her fingers latched onto the fencing and she looked up expectantly.

    “Well, well. What do we have here,” the Singer chimed. “What’s your name, sweet thing?”


    “I think I’ll stick with Sweet Thing. You should hang around after the show.” The Singer trailed her hand along the fencing, sending small ripples down into Samantha’s fingers.

    “OK.” Samantha tightened her grip and smacked her lips. The Singer bent down, her face just inches away; her breath held that sweet “something else” Samantha had sensed earlier.

    “I’ll show you things your last girlfriend never dreamed of,” the Singer whispered.

    So Samantha waited, watching every sway of those gorgeous hips, every quirk of those precious lips. Her fingers were raw and bloody from clinging so tightly to the fence. Once the set was complete, the Singer walked Samantha to the edge of the stage and through a small gate. The back of the stage was dark and cramped. Samantha felt a twinge of fear just before the Singer’s heat engulfed her and she fell into ecstasy.


    A small girl in a black leather coat and combat boots walked up as the band was loading their van. She tapped the Singer on the shoulder.

    “Well now, if it isn’t little Miss Morphine. What can I do for you now?” the Singer cooed.

    “How’d it go? Did you see her? Is it done?” The girl rattled off her questions in rapid succession. The Singer kicked an amplifier case with a platformed heel and nodded with an evil grin.

    “She was cuter than you described. But she’s been taken care of. There is no way she will ever hurt another living soul.”

    “Th..thanks,” the girl stammered. She shoved a wad of cash toward the Singer and turned to leave.

    “Hey Rachel?” The girl turned back toward the Singer as goosebumps flashed up her arms. “Are you sure you can’t give me just one good-bye kiss?”

    “Yes, Buena. I’m sure.” The girl swiveled and ran back down the alley, away from the demon she had called just two days before.

    547 words


  1. Pingback: #MWBB – Week 2.16 : Buena | My Soul's Tears

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