Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.34

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 34.

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 is a dark one (shocker, I know). It’s a great tune by Emiliana Torrini called, “Gun”.

Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/QOLCXPRg650

This week’s Judge is the Purple Queen herself… Miranda Kate!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday January 23rd.

Now… Go write!!!


Posted on January 20, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 10 Comments.

  1. Looking In

    On the outskirts of society always looking in, romance is an entity you heard described but never experienced.

    Family life, never was, your dad hardly around, just because. Mama thought you that you avoided a slap, if you kept her gin and tonic on tap. You were the man of the house, your sister teased with open blouse.

    You chased normality at every turn but your attempts at relationships crashed and burned. Friends thought you too in their face, your fervor they can’t embrace.

    Stalking is how you get your fix, always watching never having to mix. Families became your prey of choice, peaking through windows your vice. If mama was good you never met, but if she was bad, her routine you’d vet. Punishment you’d dish out, you loved to hear them shout.

    If mama was playing offside, behind your balaclava you’d hide. Mama was in for some pain, sexual fulfillment your gain.

    Then you met the one, the mama you were unable to shun. Perfect in every way, loving to her kids, every day. She became your sole desire, the only one to light your fire. For the first time in your life you felt love, called her your turtle dove.

    The night he hit her you felt the blow, you knew it was time, he had to go. He was now the one you hunted, evidence gathering, senses blunted. With his mistress you indulged, with your hatred for him, you plunged. He came to her defense as you knew he would, bludgeoned to death, you felt so damn good.

    At his funeral, you stared with all your might, hoping she’d sense you, turn to you in her plight. You never seen such sadness, her, the kids, to grieve for him, madness.

    You have met her now a few times, volunteering at the kids school, they all love your rhymes. She smiles at you but it never reaches her eyes, the hurt he caused her you despise.

    It’s the older one’s birthday and you have been invited, to actually be in the house, you’re beyond excited. She’s thanking you for coming and shakes your hand, your having a moment where you stand.

    She asks you to cut the cake, your doing your best not to shake.
    All your dreams are coming true the ending is down to you.

    Word Count 390



  2. apologies thought should be taught writing to quick and off the cuff again need an editor lol x was fun thanks x


  3. Gun

    The barrel sat still warm in his hand, still soothing and fluid within his grip. He clenched his knees together and pressed his toes firmly against the soles of his shoes. The blazing fire in the hearth disguised the stench of sweat and the acrid smell that rose about him. He lifted the gun to his face gently brushing the metal across his stubbled cheek, like a lover would her lips. Blood pulsed through his body, muscles tensed, and his ears rang. He sat on the edge of the bed, sheets crumpled and dirty, and he inhaled as if a cigarette hung from his mouth.

    For a moment he basked, letting the excited tension that consumed him relax and allowing heady delight room in his mind. The gun settled on his thigh, resting with ease and the sense of a job well done.

    He closed his eyes and exhaled, enjoying the moment as you would a long-awaited gulp of whisky. The fire crackled and spat and the bed beneath him shook.

    His eyes sprang open and his head whirled, as if he’d forgotten his deed, as if he’d neglected the woman sitting wide-eyed and terrified at the top of the bed.

    She sat upon the pillow, curled up tight beneath a cherry-stained, yellow-streaked sheet. Tears ran muddy rivers down her cheeks and pale, rigid fingers clutched the bed sheet up to her neck.

    He gazed at her and her eyes stared like a rabbit’s right back. She shook like a leaf in a gale, uncontrollably and violently. The yellow puddle beneath her seeped through the sheets and he failed to supress his curled lip of disgust.

    She refused to look away and his finger, resting on the gun, trembled. He looked to her side and his heart thumped, his excitement growing ever richer. Beside her, the black-haired body, the mound in the bed, blossomed red, wine red…blood red. He chuckled and his eye twitched.

    She shrank against the wall, her skin stuck to it with the sweat of fear.

    He lifted the gun again, stroking the barrel with quivering and calloused fingers, and watched her shaking body writhe. He shuddered in anticipation. She spoke, or at least words tried to leave her mouth.

    “Didn’t get that, sweetheart?” he drawled.

    “No one will love you, not ever, no one…” The words escaped with a vitriol he hadn’t expected from one so afraid for her life.

    The gun brushed his arm, and he licked his lips, twitching again involuntarily.

    “No one,” she repeated, suddenly forgetting her fear and leaning forward. “When they see what you did…you’ll have no one,” she hissed.

    He lifted the weapon to his lips, but it was cold, the metal unforgiving, and his arousal vanished. The hate glistened in her eyes, black as night, and flashing crimson as demon against the red firelight roaring in the fireplace. Spittle frothed on her pale lips and revulsion spat. “They’ll hate you!”

    Her intonation took only a split second to invade his fragile mind, to infect the deepest parts of him, to turn his rage inside out.

    The gun gleamed in his hand, and the shivers that twisted down his spine grabbed at his heart. He shook the gun at his wife then turned the muzzle toward his face, caressing the beloved metal that threatened to curse him. It sang in his hand, whispered in his fevered mind and the kiss it offered burst like summer rain as his mind splattered across the bed and his unfaithful mate.

    (587 Words)


  4. Whispers

    He sat in the rocking chair. Rocking furiously, hands gripping the arms as though he were holding on for dear life. The room was filled with his rhythmic muttering that matched the rocking.

    “Not again, not again, not again, not again, not again, not again…”

    His head was filled with rhythmic whispers from that cold piece of steel he now knew he should have buried with his Daddy.

    “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…”

    He had sworn he wouldn’t be like his Daddy. He wouldn’t have his Daddy’s life or his Daddy’s marriage. He’d left that dusty town as soon as he could. He’d left the horror of a double murder followed by a suicide almost before the dirt had settled on the graves. He’d tried to bury that weapon, he’d tried to put in the coffin with his Daddy. But something wouldn’t let him do it. He spent an hour the night before the burial at the coffin putting that damn gun in and taking it out. Over and over and over. Finally the mortuary people told him they had to close up. Before he knew it he had grabbed the damn thing, stuffed it in his jacket pocket and hurried out. He’d tried leaving it when he packed up to move to Kansas City. But somehow that evil thing had still ended up traveling with him. After he had managed to pack it away and hide it in his basement he thought he might be free of it at last. He started to live. He met a good woman. They married. Had a couple of kids. But God or Satan or that fucking gun itself had dragged him and his back to that hellish town.

    He would have turned the job down. But Katie wouldn’t hear of it. She told him his superstitions were just that, superstitions. It was just a town. The job would mean they could buy a house of their own. They could start college funds for the kids. It was just a town. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. It didn’t start right away. They lived pretty good for a couple of years. But then things started to shift. It was the kids first. Smart mouthed and disrespectful. Entitled and thoughtless. Katie started to drift away. The job was mind numbing but lucrative. He started to drink more at the bar. Shortly after the first big fight he and Katie had ever had the whispering started.

    “She’s lying to you.”

    “They are embarrassed you are their father.”

    “She’s cheating on you.”

    “They don’t appreciate what you do for them.”

    “She’s fucking him while you slave away at that job she insisted you take.”

    The last one repeated over and over in his head, alternating with “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…”

    He knew right where it was which should have bothered him. But by that time he was so muddled he couldn’t really tell daylight from dark. He took the gun with him to work that Friday, then came home early to discover the ugly truth of another man in his bed with his wife.

    Now he sat in the chair. He’d locked her and the kids in the room with the man he’d shot in the face. He could hear them whimpering. He knew something was very wrong with it all but it was the best he could do while fought for all their lives. It was whispering again, something new.

    “Love you, love you, love you, love you, let me kiss you, let me kiss you, let me kiss you, let me kill you, let me kill you, let me kill you…”

    So he rocked and kept his hands gripping the arms of the chair, and stared at that evil piece of steel lying in the middle of the floor praying someone would come and save them before it destroyed another generation of his family.

    Words: 658 not including title


  5. Devin let his fingers curl around the grip of the Guardian in his pocket, but kept his finger outside the trigger guard. Wouldn’t do to shoot himself in the thigh by playing with the silly thing, and he’d have a hell of a time explaining it to Beverly.

    Beverly, his wife. The bitch. The whore. He hadn’t slept in the same bed with her for three years, and he never would sleep with her again. “Let me think. Thomas, Frederick, William, Hans.” He grinned as his thumb slid down the short, stubby barrel of his gun. “There’s always a Hans, isn’t there?”

    Yes, it was a concealed weapon. He’d even concealed it from her. She didn’t need to know about it. Didn’t need to know he’d learned to use it, learned to hit his target. It was his Guardian. The NAA was his gun. It was the last piece of pride, self-respect, and self-confidence he had. Hell, it was probably the only respect of any kind he had.

    God knew no one at church or at work had any respect left for him. “Why doesn’t he move out? Leave her?” Yeah, he’d heard the questions, heard the talk. “Doesn’t he know she’s sleeping with other men?”

    Yeah, he knew. But he wondered, “What would be the point in leaving?” She’d have the house. She’d have the kids. She’d have the car. He’d be broke, living in a single-wide trailer in a park named Camelot somewhere, sending her all his money every two weeks.

    “That ain’t happening. Not to me.”

    Hell, two of the divorces in the church and one where he worked happened because Beverly wrapped her legs around the husbands. He knew that, but he didn’t say a thing. Just went to work five days a week, came home five nights a week, watched TV, ate whatever she bothered to fix, never complained, had a beer, and then racked out on the sofa with his tablet, and searched for porn. He liked to imagine it was him fucking all the women. He left Beverly alone.

    She didn’t have anything to complain about.

    On Saturday, he did the yard work, washed the car, weeded the flower beds, worked in the gardens. He was the model husband. On Saturday night, Beverly went out. Devin figured she was getting banged somewhere, by someone. Maybe even another Hans. He took the Guardian, and went to the range. He wrote names on the targets. The names of the men he knew she’d screwed. It was fun, shooting Hans full of holes.

    Sundays, he went out on his boat. More of a dingy, really. He got it so he could go sit on the water, watch the ocean, pretend to fish. Get away from her. Get away from everything. For a few hours. Just watch the ocean.

    He carried his Guardian everywhere. Even to work. No one knew. Anytime he got stressed out, angry, or frustrated, he just put his hand in his pocket, and let his gun keep him safe. He’d never shoot anyone. Really. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even Hans, whoever the fuck he was. No. He just liked to touch his gun, and remember he really did have the power to change everything.

    Beverly? Oh, he’d never leave her. No. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He’d carry on, his little gun in his pocket, and wait for her to leave. He figured she would, eventually. And if she never left? He curled his fingers around the grip again. When it was time, he knew what to do.

    When it was time.

    He slipped the Guardian under the edge of the sofa, took the last chug of his beer, and stretched out. “Think I’ll look at a few pictures, then crash.” He reached beneath the edge of the sofa, let his fingers touch the barrel of the Guardian one last time, “Good night, my friend. Sleep tight.”

    It was his only friend.

    663 Words


  6. The Red Flower

    Angry, despicable eyes of lost souls danced before me on a stage of asphalt and concrete while distant beams of light cut through us like swords. Our tiny audience held its collective breath, tensely craning necks. My performance had to be perfect. My defining moment was right now.

    He’d told me time and again I could never do anything right. And he was right. I always tried but never hit mark. My fear had always consumed me. Tonight, my costume and props were perfect, my training outstanding. Surely, this time, my brother would be proud.

    The curtains, low and high, closed all around us.

    Only the fierce pounding of my own soul trying to escape the confines of my heart made its way to my consciousness as my ears rang themselves to deafness. My breaths flew away to hide. My skin burned with an unquenchable fire. Sweat poured into my eyes. Hate streamed from my mouth.

    Pondering, I sat down as a burning chill swept across me. Oranges, yellows, reds, vividly leaped out from the black and the smoky gray. Each color fought to be the star. I sprang up with them. One more chance! I had just this one last chance. The portrait of it all riveted itself to my mind, captivating me.

    As my brother’s enemies fell before me, I danced around their fallen flesh. Striking, shooting, stabbing, moving, everything I did, I did for him, for his prize, his money. I wanted our souls and minds to unite in this one terrible act, and I gave up that part of myself that had always held me back. Tonight I would see the approval in his eyes.

    And as they began peeking out through the slits in the curtains, my audience knew it, too. His eyes stared at me as the few who were left ran away, and I watched the beautiful red flower grow across his chest.

    320 words


  7. Ricochet

    Detective Karen Corrigan gave the man seated across from her several moments to compose himself before repeating the question. “Mr. Schaller, where did you get the weapon?”

    He licked his dry lips before speaking. “It was there, on the nightstand. Just like she told me it would be.”

    Corrigan’s new partner, Raze Billings, pushed away from the table and stretched his legs. “See, this is the part I don’t understand, Schaller. How can you expect us to believe a woman conned you into doing this when you can’t describe this paragon of beauty and seduction who enticed you to commit adultery and murder.”

    Schaller scowls. “It’s two in the morning. I don’t even know my own mother’s name at this point, you arrogant bastard.”

    Billings rose, stood and rubbed his neck. “There are certain things a man never forgets. Even if you’re stupid enough not to know her name, or horny enough not to recognize her face, some details stay with you. The swell of her breasts. The scar on her inner thigh. The
    tapering of her waist.”

    Schaller’s hands balled into fists. “Shut up you filthy pig.”

    “So what are we looking for? An woman with an forgettable face, ‘b’ cup tits, and a tattoo of your name above the crack of her -”

    Schaller came up out of his chair with a roar but Corrigan had her stun gun ready and deployed it before Schaller reached his full height. His six foot frame crumpled and Corrigan used her body to direct his fall back into his chair.

    “You’re a little too handy with that thing,” Billings said, continuing to rub at the kink in his neck.

    She pocketed the device. “Good thing too, since you have the tact of a bulldozer. You have about thirty seconds to do what’s needed before the internal room recorder kicks back on.”

    Billings glanced at her, surprise evident in his raised eyebrows, before turning his back to the observation window and falling silent and still.

    Corrigan head the captains knock on the mirrored glass but pretended otherwise, emptying her mind and counting down the seconds. Twenty-three. Twenty-two.

    Billings lifted his face to hers as she murmured the word ‘one.’

    When Schaller regained consciousness a moment later, Corrigan and Billings were back in their seats and everything appeared the way it did before his outburst.

    Billings slided a folder across the table, flipped it around to face Schaller, and slid the photos out of the manila covers. “This is your handiwork, big guy. That’s your wife and children face down on the hall floor.”

    Schaller closed his eyes and his face went a sickly color.

    Corrigan shoved the trash can towards him with the toe of her boot. “You’re not going to puke are you? Hard not to though, isn’t it? That’s a hell of a lot of blood.”

    “You know what gets me,” Billings said, voice cool, detached, merely making an observation. “It’s the little bloody handprints, the ones reaching for their mama. Are you going to let her get away with this? This traitorous murderous mystery woman?”

    Tears slid down Schaller’s face and he stared at Corrigan, pleading. “You have to believe me. She exists. She told me my wife was -. She did this. Not me. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

    Corrigan nodded at a pair of uniforms and they led Schaller from the interrogation room. She got up, went to the other side of the table and collected the photos. “A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, Billings. Is Schaller a victim of the weapon you’re here to retrieve?”

    He made a pretense of leaning over the photos to keep his words and mouth hidden from anyone else. “Yes. And until I recover it, cases like this will overrun your city, your county, and your country. The damn thing can mutate into whatever form it needs to entice a human to use it. So, how do you know about it and about me?”

    She nodded at the observation window. “Later. The sergeant is about to send in a sweep team. Hope you can stand the suspense. When you hear the answer, I swear it will blow your mind.”

    – – – – –
    @bullishink / 698 words


  1. Pingback: #MWBB Week 2-34 : Gun | My Soul's Tears

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: