Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.46

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 46.

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 an old friend from the 1980’s.

Say hello to Lloyd Cole & the Commotions, folks.

The tune is… “Lost Weekend”. Here’s the link; https://youtu.be/rqCPRGnrBqQ

This week’s Judge is back for a return engagement due to a paltry turnout the last time around… It’s author, friend, and all around neat person… Miranda Kate!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday April 17th.

Now… Go write!!!!


Posted on April 14, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. Word Count – 338

    Lost Years

    Reeling from the blow, lip busted again. This time was one to many, plans begin to ferment, not the how but when. Sick of being a punch bag finally the reserves of respect kick in, if not for me but for my baby.

    Smiling I apologize, on my knees where he likes me. Unzip his jeans and do my thing, the one thing even he acknowledges I’m good at. I swallow every drop, dream of coffee with cream on top. He leans down and whispers “that’s more like it babe, you know I love you.” He loves me just as much as I love doing that, leaves a sour taste, so in reality hate is what he should call what he feels for me.

    I’m on autopilot all day, something has died. The money I had squirreled away month by month is going to finally be used. That’s the last time ever he hits or uses me. I ring my friend’s boyfriend who I’ve had on standby waiting for me to finally have the balls to leave. He gives me three hours to pack and be ready to run.

    I put on his dinner for the last time, his favorite, but today with an extra special ingredient. He’ll never bother anyone again I smile as it simmers away. He should never have threatened our beautiful little boy it was that threat that finally gave me the strength. My son will forgive me some day if not, he’ll be still around to hate me and that’s enough for me.

    I pack our belongings and find an old photo of when things were good it reduces me to tears but tears for the old me not for him. Tears for the girl I will never be again, rapes and violence destroyed her a long time ago. I cut the photo into pieces and smile I will never fall to pieces over a man again. That’s a promise I intend to keep I wake my baby from his sleep.


  2. The Hard Way

    The Hotel Amsterdam. Known for peddling flesh and drugs.

    Captain Hardin doesn’t have a warrant. He doesn’t care. He crashes through the door of Room 213, a pair of blue uniforms on his heels.

    He scans the room. Two bodies bled out across the bed. A third unmoving on the floor. He rushes to the prone body and feels for a pulse, rocking back on his heels and heaving a sigh of relief when he finds it.

    He brushes the dark hair off her forehead. “Looking good, Torres.”

    “Liar,” she says, voice raw and lips cracked.

    “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” he says, almost managing to smile.

    Frazier leans over Hardin’s shoulder and hands Torres a bottle of water. “Room temp, just the way you like.”

    She tries to smile but it opens the split on her lip.

    Hardin glances at the two officers . “Frazier, go get the duffle bag out of my trunk. Dowell, get a homicide team down here pronto and hold down the outside perimeter until they get here.”

    Soon as Frazier and Dowell are gone, the blurry-eyed hotel manager pokes his face into the doorway. “Dude, who’s gonna pay for the busted door?”

    Hardin yanks the orange ceramic lamp off the nightstand and hucks it at the manager.
    He takes the hint and shuffles back down the corridor, fuzzy slippers slapping on the cement.

    By the time Frazier gets back, Torres has emptied the water bottle.

    Hardin opens the duffle and lifts out a white robe. “Not one of those plush jobs like you get down at the spa, but it’s clean and warm. Soon as Frazier gets you photographed, I’ll let you take the robe and hit the shower, okay?”

    They make short work of the necessary photos. They four of them are a team, partners, professionals.

    Together, they’re going to catch the dirtbag responsible for the string of drug deaths they’ve been chasing – and now, for the assault of their partner who’d gotten too close to the answers they’d been chasing.

    Photos done, Hardin and Frazier get on either side of Torres, help her up and into the bathroom. Frazier works on getting the water warm enough for a shower and Hardin helps her out of her clothes, down to her skivvies.

    When things are ready, Harden shoos Frazier out and follows.

    Torres calls after him. “Hardin, stay.”

    He hesitates in the doorway. “Not a good idea.”

    “I can’t do this alone.”

    He closes the door and faces her. “Okay, so this doesn’t get awkward, let’s just forget about all those dinner invitations. Right now, I’m not a man. I’m your supervisor. I’m your partner. I’m your friend. I’m whatever the hell you need me to be, okay?”

    “Give me your shirt.”

    His brow furrows but he unbuttons his uniform shirt and hands it to her.

    She turns, slips out of her skivvies and into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. “Get out of your shoes and help me get into the shower.”

    He does, holds her around the waist, hands gentle, circumspect.

    She pulls him in with her, faces the water, and washes in the privacy of his shirt. “Tell me a joke.”

    “Lucia, I don’t think this is the time –“

    “You said whatever I need, right?”

    “Yes, but -”

    “I need you to be the wise-cracking shit-talking cocky son-of-a-bitch I refuse to call my captain even though I love him.”

    “Careful, Lou.”

    “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

    He ducks a flurry of shampoo bubbles.

    “Was too proud, too stubborn before,” she says, adjusting the spray. “But thinking about you, about what would happen if I ever take you up on one of those dinner invites, that’s what kept me alive, kept me sane, Jack. Can I call you Jack? Considering my confession –“

    His words are warm against her ear. “You’re rambling, Torres.”

    She leans against him, her back to his chest. “Quick. Tell me a joke, Jack.”

    His arm slides around her waist. “A priest and a penguin walk into a tattoo parlor …”

    – – – – –
    @bullishink / 680 words


  3. For the Music.

    Word count 381

    “Dammit, not another bloody one hit wonder?”

    Thick fingers choked the life out of the cigarette and mashed the butt into the corpses of its predecessors.

    “They’re too bloody eighties. More like Lloyd Cole & the Commotions than Billy Idol. Two top 40’s in a decade is not what I am looking for and no one is rehashing 80s anymore.”

    Blue grey tendrils curled up the sides of a face too stiff, burrowing through blonde from a bottle hair, rising in sinuous coils toward the platinum discs, sucked into oblivion by an arctic blast from an overworked AC.

    “I can’t do it Bryan, they haven’t got a commercial sound and I am in this for money. I won’t back another dud band.”

    Ice rattled against the side of a squat glass. Clear liquid splashed over the rim turning ashes into mud.

    “Don’t be so bloody sentimental. I was never in this for the music, it was always the money. There are no fast cars and easy lays without it. Why the big deal? Are you prodding a muso?”

    An earthy chuckle filled with muck and bile slid into the cynicism coating the walls.

    “Hey, hey, calm down. It was a joke. I couldn’t care less who you poke. Okay, calm down. I said okay. Send me a new demo.”

    No ice floated in the liquid tipping into the waiting maw. A stray drop smeared across the tight skin on the back of a ring heavy hand.

    “I’m not making any promises. Just get them to play something I can use. If they want to be experimental tell them to stick to their garage and keep their idealism out of the real music industry. Rehashed 80s is last decade. Something I can promote Bryan, no crap.”

    With a thumb too wide for the tiny keypad, the end call button depressed with precision.


    The dying cigarette gave its final glow to a new fresh one before joining the sludge in the ashtray.
    Blue grey tendrils coiled up to be obliterated by a gust of foetid air. The newly lit cigarette crushed under the weight of heavy fingers, forcing a lava spill onto the polished wood. Stale toxic particles lifted out of the sodden graveyard of butts and ash.

    “Damn. Time I quit.”



  4. Lost Weekend

    She swam amid my dreams, peered through the sunlit ripples, and I drowned within the ocean she glided through…

    I woke to that fog of confusion, you know the one that suggests you had a great night, but you truly can’t remember…

    I rubbed my eyes, hooked the grit of sleep from the edges of remembrance, and let my hooded lids close again. Deep within my drowsy head, she still swam, smiling at me and beckoning me through those rays of white. I tried to wake, blinking as that sunshine ray dowsed me in sharp light from the crack in the dingy curtains.

    “Too bright…” I muttered, and held up my hand in front of my face. I tried opening my eyes again. My hand, my palm, was smudged in black and I struggled to focus on the ink. The words were gone, words in untidy script which meant something precious last night, were now smeared across my sweaty palm and lost forever.

    Something kindled inside my heart. A spark lit up and travelled all the way to my head, igniting a memory. I smiled and my eyelids dropped again, and lines of blue blinked across the orange vision behind them. The memory deepened and I saw her again, this time her blue eyes shone like crystal, like topaz, and she leaned in close to kiss me. The black of her eyes grew like saucers and I lost myself within their cauldron.

    The sound of traffic outside roused me and my aching body twitched. Sleep finally slipped away and I lazily opened my eyes. The mound in the bed beside me made me grin and I shifted slightly towards her. My hand slid back beneath the sheets and my fingers traced her spine down to the swell of rumpled bedding. She gave no reaction and I rolled closer, keen to envelope her within my post sleep amorous embrace. My hand moved to her shoulder with the intention of inviting her into my fog of desire, but when her arm slipped awkwardly away, I noticed her icy skin and I lost myself in horror.

    I leaped from the bed, goose-bumps clothing my nakedness, and stared at the prostrate form I’d shared the night with. My hands, and ink-stained sweaty palms, shook as I stared at her cold, blue eyes. She stared back, but with an expression void of life.

    The body that flowed like molten glass last night now lay frozen and stiff on the dirty mattress, and ice ran through my veins.

    I grabbed my shorts and pulled them on, hurrying to yank up my jeans and pull my sweater over my head. My wallet sat on the bedside table, open upon chipped Formica, and I seized it knocking a small, honeyed, silver spoon onto the floor. It rang like a bell and its chime echoed across the early morning. I thrust my wallet into my back pocket and didn’t touch any of the other paraphernalia on the small table. I shoved memories of the night before from my mind and sneaked out of the open window. I landed in nettles, but nothing stung as much as the dawn of cold realisation.

    I ran as the streetlights dimmed, as the sun rose over the dustbins at the end of the alley, and as my fear swelled into a great crescendo. I ran, and I left my love song, and all its smeared memories, behind in the chill of Amsterdam’s sunrise.

    (580 Words)


  5. I walked out into the blinding sunlight. My outfit had made perfect sense on Friday night but here on Monday morning standing in front of the Claremont Police Station with make-up smudged and hair a wreck I’m pretty sure I just gave Walk Of Shame a whole new definition for this little college town. The last thing I could remember clearly was dancing in the Hi Brow and some guy with gorgeous sexy eyes but a grim expression telling me I should get myself home before something serious happened to me. I laughed in his face and spun into some other guys arms. That guy was particularly hard to remember, except he was pretty, at least…I thought he was, right? My head was killing me. I stepped into the shade of a Jacaranda tree and lit a smoke. That’s when I caught sight of my hand. Smeared ink on my palm. Looked like a number and a name but I couldn’t read it. I suddenly flashed on Sexy Eyes pointing me out to cops and getting hauled out of the bar, cuffed and crammed into the back of a cop car. That’s when I realized that they had let me go this morning without giving me any kind of citation. I wasn’t charged with anything. I was just held in jail for the weekend. At least I think it was for the whole weekend. I fished out my phone and checked the date. Yep, Monday morning. What the hell happened. I not only just barely remembered Friday night, I couldn’t really remember much about Saturday or Sunday. Mostly laying on a cot and only getting up once or twice to pee and drink some water. That’s when I realized I was starving. Just as I was trying to figure out what to do about that a car pulled up right in front of me. A nice car. A fast car…one of those new Dodge Chargers in black. The window went down and I heard a deep gravelly voice say, “Get in.” I frowned and bent over to look inside the car and low and behold there was Sexy Eyes.

    “Ya know my Mom always told me not to accept rides from strangers. I’m thinking that goes double for asshole strangers who get me arrested for no damn good reason.”

    “You weren’t arrested, you were just…detained. For your own good.” He tipped his sunglasses down his nose and hit me with those goddamned gorgeous eyes, deep, dark brown with thick lashes, sort of sleepy looking. “Sweet heart, get in the car before I get out and just toss you in the trunk. You’ve already caused enough trouble for five humans.”

    I felt my blood boil, “I’VE CAUSED TROUBLE? Where the hell do you get that? I was just minding my own business on a Friday night. When you get me tossed into jail for what? What the hell did I do?”

    He turned the car off, got out, stalked around the front of it and then crowded me up against it looking very pissed off.

    “Marnie, you waltzed into that piss hole already fucked up and then tried to drink the place dry. As a result you didn’t notice that the place was crawling with vamps. Before I could get you out one of them dosed your last shot with his blood. I expect you’ve been out of it most of the weekend.”

    I was dizzy with panic. Vamps? In Claremont? I thought they all stayed in the Pacific Northwest. Oh crap did they know what I was? Did they know about Amsterdam?

    Sexy Eyes smirked, “And the penny drops. My name is Seth MacDougal. Call your Granny and ask her if it’s ok to have breakfast with me.”

    I squinted at him. My Granny? He nodded towards the phone still in my hand.

    I dialed. She picked up.

    “It’s about time. You with Seth?” I sighed. “Good. Do what he says and I’ll see you tonight. NO SPELLS. You got dosed with vamp blood which means your spells will riot, so no magic until I clear you.” She hung up.

    Seth grinned, “So Denny’s or House of Pancakes?”

    Word Count: 698


  6. Celia

    674 words
    by Alicia VanNoy Call

    When I get Celia’s note on Friday afternoon, I’m not sure what to think. It’s penned on the back of a receipt and scotch-taped to the fridge and it says: Meet me at this cabin for a romantic weekend. Let’s rekindle our fire! XoXo! And it has directions. We’re not what you would call a fiery couple, so I’m really not sure what to think.

    But I don’t think it’s a plot to murder us. Of course I don’t think that.

    I get a little lost on the drive, but the friendly folks at the truck stop point me in the right direction. By the time I’m pulling onto the unpaved road leading to the cabin, the sun is nearly down. It sits back in the trees, with an awning of black branches curled overhead. Lightning bugs brush the tall grasses on either side.

    I pull up to the front of the cabin and park sideways in the gravel. I’ve got my bag and a dozen roses for Celia and when I climb onto the porch, I can see through the screen door into the living room. There’s a sofa and two chairs around a fireplace and a little lamp on a side table. Celia is sitting in one of the chairs, her back to me.

    “Celia,” I say, but she doesn’t move.

    So I open the screen door and set my bag by the coat rack. The coat rack has one coat on it, Celia’s, black.

    I cross the area rug to Celia’s chair and stand behind it and say, “Celia,” while I put my hand on her shoulder. Her head kind of tips forward and then it tumbles down, bleached hair streaming, and bounces off her knees. It comes to rest on the hearth, eyes open and staring.

    I yelp and hold the flowers in front of me like a shield.

    Some of her hair has fallen too close to the flames and it starts to smoke.

    I look at the head. I look at her slumped shoulders. The neck has been severed with precision. There’s no blood. The lifeless hands sit open, palms up, on her meaty thighs.

    “Hello, Roger,” says Celia’s voice behind me.

    I turn and there’s Celia. A real Celia, like the Celia whose head fell off, but younger, slender, dressed in a red gown that seems to slither in the firelight. And I say, “What on earth?”

    She smiles. Her skin is taut and her eyes are a little too wide and her teeth are extremely straight.

    “Are those for me?” She gestures to the roses.

    There’s something reptilian in her smile, like a forked tongue might slip between her teeth, so I say, “Yes?” and hold them out her.

    She reaches out long manicured fingers, white and perfect, to grasp them. She holds them up to her face and breathes in long and deep.

    “I love roses,” she says.

    “I know,” I say.

    “You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” she says.

    I look at headless Celia.

    “I’m a clone,” says New Celia. “Obviously.”

    “Obviously,” I say.

    “Celia had me commissioned for when she’s . . . finished,” says New Celia. “Then she would be uploaded and I would take over. I decided I didn’t want to wait, so here I am.” She points. “And there’s Celia. Finished.”

    I raise my eyebrows.

    “There can’t very well be two Celias,” she says.

    I nod. Part of my brain can see the logic in that. Another part of my brain is screaming at me to GET OUT GETOUTNOW.

    “But – ,” I say.

    “But why are you here?” says New Celia. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew who was waiting for you in the kitchen.”

    “What – ,” I say.

    New Celia smiles again. “Well, Roger,” she says. “Well.”

    And I hear a wisp of sound in the kitchen – a knife leaving the block.

    “There can’t very well be two Rogers, can there?”


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