Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.30

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 30.

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 great tune by indie rockers Cowboy Mouth.

The song is… “Man On the Run”. Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/cmLmWBPcs7I

**UPDATE**

Due to problems my European friends are having with the YouTube link I’m going to post some alternative ways to hear the song;

For Spotify users; https://play.spotify.com/album/3czlqmZ7ujWQEQymURqK4h

A very, very rough live video from YouTube; http://youtu.be/Nwr9f-Qs0ao

And… a link to the song lyrics if you’d just like to read them; http://lyrics-keeper.com/en/cowboy-mouth/man-on-the-run.html

Hopefully, at least one of these solutions helps.

***UPDATE OVER***

This week’s Judge is editor extraordinaire Karmin Dahl!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday December 26th.

Now… Go write!!!

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Posted on December 23, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.

  1. From Black Gold to White Diamond

    The blood-red Ducati growled between his thighs. It surged forward, the front wheel lifting off the tarmac then the tire bounced back to the ground and Trent’s stomach flipped as the bike roared beneath him. He flew down the road, leaving his rebel yell in a cloud of dust.

    With nothing to see but the endless road ahead, he let his mind wander.

    She’d giggled as he’d run his dirty fingers up her leg, she’d shaken her head in mock irritation as his rough fingernail snagged her stockings, but she hadn’t stopped him. Instead she’d downed the glass of bourbon and rearranged herself into a more pleasing position. The diamonds about her neck had sparkled amid the shaft of silver moonlight, pooling like provocative stars in the swell of her bosom, but he sought more than a string of gems.

    A lone, wild dog loped across the road in front of him and Trent was back in the present, gripping the bike with muscular legs and swerving to avoid disaster. As his pumping heart settled, he cast his mind back again, reliving that night’s delights.

    When morning had arrived and white light had flooded the penthouse, Trent nudged Camille and grinned. Her head lolled on the satin pillow, hair mussed-up from the night’s fun and her eyes, smudged like coal, closed. The bottle on the nightstand stood half empty and amber liquid puddled beside the overturned glass. He’d moved quickly to the safe, behind the portrait of her oil baron husband, and input a series of numbers. The door swung open and Trent swiped the small velvet pouch. Yes, he was after way more than a string of diamonds.

    Once dressed, he drizzled the white stones between his fingers, then scooped them into his palm and slipped them into his leather jacket’s pocket. He emptied a vase of tiny pebbles and replaced the velvet pouch.

    Now on the road, he glanced down at his zipped pocket and grinned. The sun shone down on the road, and in his mirror he could see the black tarmac behind shimmering like a sea of diamonds. His heart flipped just like his stomach had, he was set for life. Her face flickered before him, and for a moment he regretted leaving her behind, but he’d sworn only to take what was rightfully his, and the diamonds would cover that. He knew she’d take punishment for his actions, but he’d been through too much to care. When you’ve done all you can and had everything stripped away, your spirit of vengeance rose faster than your conscience.

    The road snaked on, black as far as the eye could see, like a river of shimmering oil. It had been Trent’s intuition, Trent’s knowledge that had discovered the reserve, but he’d been violently elbowed out of any deal. In turn he’d driven into Camille’s lonely heart and taken his revenge, as cold as the white stones lining his pockets.

    The bike sped on and the states blurred until the lights of LA twinkled in San Bernadino, and Trent pulled over. The Ducati throbbed as Trent unzipped his jacket and grinned. He cast his gloves aside and dipped his fingers into his pocket. The delight he’d felt, the freedom of the road, and the escape, suddenly chilled. His mind leaped backwards, frantically rewinding, until he saw the river of black tarmac shimmering in the midday sun, like a trail of sparkling diamonds…and the hole in his pocket turned his heart into frozen stone.

    (584 Words not including title)
    @LastKrystallos

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  2. Sunlight coming through the window, lighting up the room, woke me, plunging light beams through my eyes, into my brain. I covered my eyes, “Mother nature, you’re a bitch sometimes,” the words raced through the parts of my brain that still worked, “Turn out those lights!”

    Morning had arrived. It was time to get up. I had to go. That’s when I noticed her. Her arm, and leg draped across me, her head on my shoulder. Not a stitch on. Both of us, starkers. “Oh, yeah. No I remember.” I looked at her blonde hair, “Julie.”

    I untangled myself from her, staggered to the bathroom, relieved myself. It wasn’t my bathroom, wasn’t my apartment. I remembered we’d gone to her place. Mostly ‘cause I was too ripped to drive.

    As I stared in the mirror, I remembered us getting naked, and doing everything. I mean everything. Every way. She wanted it all, and I was happy to do anything she wanted. It had been a fun night.

    After a few minutes of memories, I headed back to the bedroom. Julia got up, and made her pit stop. She came back, and didn’t ask. She threw the covers off the bed, and planted her head between my legs. I watched her head move up and down. After a minute, she stopped. We rearranged, her on her hands and knees, me on my knees behind her. And I watched every stroke I made into her.

    Yeah, I finished.

    We showered, I let my fingers play. She gleefully rode them as the soap and water washed away. We wound up back on the bed, her on her back, humping my fingers, me sucking her tits. She peaked, then pulled me on top of her. I wound up on my knees, her legs over my shoulders, as I stroked. I watched every stroke, which made it better.

    After I finished, we got dressed, raided a breakfast place, and she took me to my car. “Let’s do this again,” she said. “Tonight.” She kissed me. “OK?”

    “I’ll do this every night you want me to.”

    Julia. The fifth in a string of women. I wasn’t looking for a soul mate, a partner, a girlfriend. I was looking for a sex. And when things got serious, I’d run away. Move to another apartment. Change jobs if I had to. Change my phone number and email address. I’d escape her, and find another lay somewhere.

    And another one after that. Hell, I’d fuck every woman I could find. Because it worked. It distracted me. Meant I didn’t have to remember her. Didn’t have to cry. Didn’t have to hurt.

    Maya.

    My Maya.

    My heart, my soul, my life. Until the day she walked out. “I don’t love you any more.” That’s what the note said. “You’re not the same man I fell in love with.” She said I’d become stagnant, unchanging, dull and boring. She wanted more. She wanted someone who loved her, cared for her, didn’t treat her as a possession, a trophy.

    She left.

    So, I’d bang Julia for a while. A couple of weeks, or a month. Then, I’d leave. And find another woman to fuck. Then another.

    No way was I ever gonna care for another person again. No way was I ever gonna hurt like that again.

    Not after Maya.

    558 Words
    @LurchMunster

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  3. As I washed what had been the blood of Keith Albertson, 2725 Carrington Way, Phoenix, Arizona from my hands, I worried about many things. Had I left clues? Would the police find me? Would the army find me? But never whether she would forgive me. That’s what she did. Even though I would never forgive her.

    The first had been Ryan Wallers, 153 Cypress Circle, Apt 5B, Savannah, Georgia. She said she’d wait for me, but I hadn’t been gone more than a week before she’d started meeting him for drinks, at the bar, at his place, and even at ours. I was supposed to be in Iraq, but I knew that staying behind was the right choice. The army called it going AWOL, but I had a higher calling.

    She knew who’d killed Ryan Wallers, but she never told the police. Detective Stephen Baker, 12th Precinct, had been quite clear on that. I hadn’t really wanted to kill him – he was just a man doing his job – but I’d seen how he’d looked at her during questioning.

    I never knew how she picked them, these strange men in strange towns. Phoenix. Tacoma. Philadelphia. Atlanta – twice. LA.

    Barry Collins.

    Yuri Polyakov.

    Andre Johnson.

    Michael Leonard. Well, him I guessed about, since he was my brother. But I’d told her what he’d done to me when we were children, and it was with delight that I saw her make eyes at him across the room. Delight, but never forgiveness.

    As the list grew, I had to get more creative. I couldn’t have a modus operandi, or they’d find me. I couldn’t kill them in any way that drew suspicion to her. And I could never, under any circumstances, speak with her. I knew that she’d try to get me to understand, to seek my forgiveness, and that I could not grant.

    Besides, we had work to do.

    316 words
    @drmagoo

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  4. DENIED

    Keith Briggs downshifted through the corners. Not because he couldn’t handle the car but because his quarrel wasn’t with unsuspecting motorists. Didn’t want collateral damage on his shoulders. Tough enough to live with what was done and what was yet to do. There’d be no forgiveness. Only justice.

    Lie to a child about their parentage and there was a fifty-fifty chance of getting away with it. But not a child like him, a child who’d have to stare reality in the cold unblinking eye before his twentieth birthday. Like to a child like that, and it wasn’t him who’d end up gutted on a forgotten highway like yesterday’s roadkill.

    His mother’s blood stained the hems of his jeans but it didn’t bother him. He didn’t plan on laundering them anytime soon. Or throwing them away either. The splatter patterns, like crimson fingers clawing up his calf, were trophies, badges of honor, of injustice sated.

    It had been the same with his father, two years ago. Not as savage but only because his father hadn’t known he existed. Keith hadn’t suffered abandonment issues. Not with his father, not with the same paralyzing agony he agonized through with his mother, who left him chained, cold, and hungry for days at a time.

    Social Services hadn’t done anything to protect him. Sheriff hadn’t either. Pack elders couldn’t decide which side of their laws to stick with. Wasn’t until some low ranking deputy took him in, cagey and mangy as he was, that he knew what he’d been missing, what he’d been robbed of.

    That deputy would be heartbroken if she knew what he’d done tonight. Couldn’t be helped. He was what he was. And he’d done what he’d done. No regrets. But this one. Trouble was, she’d gotten under his skin. Made him believe he was human, had a choice, had rights, had a life to look forward to.

    But that was a lie. What he was, would never be human. Not fully. Even though that was the form he held onto most of the time. But what was inside, beneath the skin and bones and muscle, that was what he really was, and it wasn’t going to let him go. Not even now that his parents were dead.

    He was on the run. He hadn’t bothered to wash off. He was driving fast, through the desert, at night, because it soothed his nerves, not because he was trying to escape or hide. He didn’t feel guilt or shame. Of course, he didn’t feel the peace he’d thought it would bring either.

    But this was better than knowing she was still alive. Forgiveness was a pretty word. All wrapped up in sparkly paper and ribbons like a gift. Full of sugary promises like a cake or plate of cookies. All the wonderful things that she’d never given him. Because she was inhuman. Just like him.

    But this, here, now, tonight, it was new. He was clear-headed for the first time. And it was
    fantastic but for the memory of the deputy. He’d have to learn to live without her forgiveness. He hadn’t given her the chance, but it was best that way. No sense lying to himself about that outcome. He was done with lies and liars. Forgiveness be damned.

    – – – – –
    547 words / @bullishink

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  1. Pingback: #MWBB Week 2-30 : Man On The Run | My Soul's Tears

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