Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.49

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 49.

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 comes to us from the early 1980s. Say hello to Chrissy Hynde– it’s the Pretenders.

The tune is… “Talk of the Town”. Here’s the link; https://youtu.be/ATCkwNxYz0k

This week’s Judge is a first-timer here at the MWBB. Meet Theresa Johnson Miller!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday May 8th.

Now… Go write!!!

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Posted on May 5, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Ceilings
    by Boyd Miles

    “You never listen to me,” Amanda screamed at Jim once again. She screamed this often and he ignored her just as often. “I don’t care what the neighbors think, let them call the police, assholes,” her rant continued. “You make me sick, just lie there, just stay in the damn bed you lazy bastard.”
    Amanda raged out of the room slamming the door behind. A dust bunny ran across the floor like a tiny grey tumbleweed. She stomped it as it ran by, offending her by its presence. “Bastard won’t even sweep the floor,” she muttered. “When are you going to clean up this damn mess?” she yelled at the walls as she walked away.
    Lying in her bed looking at the bright sunny sky painted on her ceiling Amanda imagined the clouds floating by. The painted birds soared and she felt the cool wind in her hair. Here in her room life was perfect, her refuge, her oasis. On the walls were trees and mountains, a vision of a country side she had only seen in pictures. It was the most real thing in her life and the most precious.
    “I made breakfast, are you getting up?” Amanda said with a mix of concern and challenge. Slashing the eggs with the spatula ‘scrambled’ hardly described the results. “These are the last of the eggs until somebody goes to the store so get up now before they dry out.” “Well, screw you then, bastard. I’ll eat them myself. I will, I’m not bluffing.” Jim didn’t answer. “You missed your chance, you want eggs now you make them yourself.”
    Amanda put her dish in the sink, it was Jim’s job to wash them. “When the hell are you going to wash the dishes? I can’t take much more of your lying around not doing your part.” Amanda said, each word more shrill than the last. “Asshole,” she muttered before stomping off to her room.
    The birds sang, bees buzzed and a soft breeze fluttered the painted leaves on her walls. Clouds sailed overhead, birds flew across her ceiling in the bright sunlight. All was well in the world.
    It was late, the kitchen light was off, the darkness improved the appearance. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes and the stove was caked with spilled food. Amanda was a sloppy cook, a habit formed by always having somebody to clean up after her. She thought about getting something to eat but decided it wasn’t worth the bother. The refrigerator was nearly empty, somebody, Jim, needed to do some shopping. She went back to bed.
    In the dark the sky on her ceiling had glowing stars, ‘should have a moon,’ she grumbled to herself as she did every night. She lay there looking at the twinkling stars, an owl hooted in a distant corner of her mind.
    Outside the wind blew up a dust devil, swirling ashes of civilization. Jim was lying in his bed, his empty eye sockets stared at the ceiling.

    500 words
    boydmiles@gmail.com
    http://boydmiles.blogspot.com/

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  2. Adult Content

    Word Count 335
    @susanOReilly3
    #mwbb

    A Man-pleasing Dresser

    She’s a man-pleasing dresser
    Women’s envy does not stress her
    Her goal is to get her hole
    She’s a whore that’s her role

    Short and tight for her is right
    Some women’s lips purse tight
    Her boobs bursting to get out
    She’s perfected her pout

    Girlfriends she has but few
    All single as married women her friendship rue
    Because to them she has no loyalty
    Sleep with their husbands for frivolity

    She’s got a formidable bust
    After it men will lust
    She wants a man’s desire
    It lights her fire

    She smirks with delight
    At every wife’s plight
    When she’s caught her husband’s eye
    She’s going to get him by the by

    She’s a good looking girl
    Around her finger you’ll twirl
    Licking her lips as she devours
    Her brazenness empowers

    She’ll accidently brush your balls
    Bending over showing it all
    She has no sense of mystery
    You’ll become a part of her history

    Talk of the town
    She always goes down
    She’s a nymphomaniac
    Of takers she has no lack

    Flashing her dimples
    She gets goose pimples
    Imagining later exploits
    Herself she excites

    She’s here to please
    She’s every man’s squeeze
    Loves your attention
    Lovers too many to mention

    Touch her, if you want to please
    Adores being on her knees
    Swallows every drop
    Imagines coffee with cream on top

    Married, single, give it a try
    For her all men apply
    She’s a tart with a heart
    money and you need not part

    You see, she can’t help but flirt
    It fills her with mirth
    Practising in the mirror
    More men to endear

    She’s been like that since birth
    Forever displaying her girth
    If you want a fling
    She’s a sure thing

    You may think she’s a harlot
    She just thinks she’s smart
    Using her feminine wiles
    To get what makes her smile

    She’s got what she wants down to a fine art
    Sexy, putting it out there, shooting Cupid’s dart
    She’s a man-pleasing dresser
    Women’s envy does not stress her

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  3. Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.49
    I wished…

    When I was a kid I wanted to be famous. I dreamed of starring in the West End either in a smash-hit musical comedy or as a Shakespeare lead. I was talented, flexible, had a great voice and shot off to drama college with my hopes high.
    Looking back on it, I suppose if I trace the tangled skein of yarn to the beginning and unravel it, that is where this mess started.
    I met Saul at Uni, he was one of my tutors. Like most of the others, he was an ex-theatre professional but now specialised in make-up. I think he saw me as a challenge. Here I was this fresh-faced gal straight up from Hicksville but with nothing like the looks it would take to get me on screen. I didn’t care. I would have settled for “frumpy neighbour” parts in a soap opera I was so desperate but Saul made me his creation.
    Like a modern day Pygmalion he spent hours teaching me to disguise every blemish and fault. His instructions, not mine, told the hairdresser how to cut and style. He was going to make me a star. Of course, by doing this, he would find the stardom he had failed to achieve in his own career. The mentor of a brilliant protégé has to be brilliant, no?
    With the help of the voice coach, the dance teacher who corrected my farm-hand walk and the rest of the staff, I became poised, elegant and learned to laugh with a tinkle of silver balls rather than a guffaw.
    It worked to an extent. I was offered minor parts in TV serials and a few supporting roles in films until the big break came. They were looking for a character in a new drama set in my old home town. The lead would be a girl my age, daughter of a fisherman and conservation activist. I was made for the part.
    Except I wasn’t. Not now. I had been transformed. My accent was no longer West Country but West End. I couldn’t move in a way that had been natural to me. Wearing wellington boots I looked like a fish in a suit. The producer was sympathetic and the casting director looked at my CV before shaking his head. It was a shame but I had shed my old self. I was now the spitting image of most other actors of my age. I could thank Saul for that.
    Which is why I went back to his flat and stabbed him to death.
    I’m famous now. I’m the talk of the town, the My Fair Lady who murdered her Professor Higgins.

    Twitter @ailsaabraham

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  4. NEIGHBORS

    The bottom quarter of the garage door is rolled up to let in the breeze and clear out some of the smoke. Stereo’s going, but not as loud as when he’s alone. He’s got a cold brew in one hand and a warm woman in the other. Doing all right and feeling all right on a Saturday night.

    A rap on the metal garage door is followed by a tentative voice. “Brava?”

    He gets up so quick the female beside him is nearly dumped off the couch. “Hang on.”

    The female on the couch reproaches him. “Johnny!”

    He hits the garage door opener and scrounges for his shirt. “Not now, Donna.”

    Outside the door, on the twilight driveway, is a woman in a white tshirt, jeans, and sneakers. “If I’m interrupting –“

    “You aren’t,” he says, tugging his shirt over his head. “What’s up?”

    “The basketball game is blocking the street again.”

    His chin comes up and his jaw ticks. “Really? We’ll see about that.”

    She puts out a hand, almost touches him with her outstretched palm. “I don’t want to cause trouble, Brava. It’s just that –“

    “No trouble at all. Let me grab my boots and I’ll take care of it.”

    She falls into step beside him as he heads down the street. “Twice this week I’ve asked them to keep the ball game out of the street.”

    He glances at her. “I told you not to get involved with them.”

    “I know but –“

    “I didn’t tell you that because I’m a control freak or have some alpha male complex.”

    She slows up a bit. “I know. You’re not like that. Not with me. But I should be able to handle this kind of thing myself.”

    He stops, rests his ass on a retaining wall, and looks at her. “Girl, the reason I told you to stay away from them is that they are blocking the street for a something other than a basketball game, something you don’t want to get in the middle of, something I was sitting back and keeping tabs on until the time was right to move on it.”

    She stands there facing him, brows arched over her dark eyes, dark hair tumbling down her back. “Oh. I should have –“

    “It’s all right. I’m going to take care of it,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “These guys aren’t like your class of kindergarteners. They don’t see you as an authority figure.”

    She grins at him, sheepishly. “Guess getting their name on the blackboard wouldn’t upset them, huh?”

    “Exactly. Now, you go on back to your house and –“

    “But there are five of them –”

    “Girl, the whole town knows how I feel about you. No, let me finish. I appreciate that you
    don’t jerk me around about it. You don’t come to me unless you need me to intervene in something that disturbs the neighborhood. And when you come to me, you come knowing, trusting, that I can handle it. Don’t undercut that trust in me know, okay? It’s all we have between us and for me, it means everything.”

    She lifts a hand to his chest, smoothes a wrinkle in his shirt. “Okay.”

    He pushes off the fence. “Enjoy your weekend, Ms. Jimenez.”

    She tucks her hands in her pockets. “Thank you. You too, Brava.”

    He waits until she’s inside the house before heading for the basketball game.

    – – – – –
    @bullishink / 672 words

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