Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 3.11

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 3, Week 11.

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.

We’re going to pick it up a little bit with this week’s song prompt here at the MWBB.

The tune is… “Don’t Worry Baby”, by Los Lobos.

Here’s the link; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tao8rbrnfbc  ***Wordpress is being stupid right now and won’t let the link post as an actual working link. You’ll have to copy & paste it into your browser.***

I hope it works internationally.

This week’s Judge is none other than our own Mortuary Mama… Ruth Long!

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday August 14th.

Now… Go Write!!!

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Posted on August 11, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. Consequences

    Life is like mixing drinks. Adding things together make a whole new thing. A lifetime’s worth of unrequited love mixed with a gallon of faith and trust is a stable compound; stir in a large dash of untraceable money and, sure as shit, it turns into betrayal, with just a whiff of avarice for good measure.
    The frost rimed window distorts my view of the street, like looking through a snowman’s kaleidoscope. If I stand in just the right spot though, there is a clear patch, just big enough to see trouble coming. And it is coming tonight, just like it always does.
    In the halo of the solitary working street light, I can see her waiting. Cool and beautiful as ever, she wears her designer labels like armour from the cold that she never seems to feel. As she flicks her lighter, the flame illuminates a face more perfectly painted than any Michelangelo ever captured. A face I know as well as my own. I had thought that I knew the person behind it too, but, hell; one out of two ain’t bad.
    It goes to show, you can’t be sure about much in his world, but one thing I was sure about was cocked and loaded in my coat pocket.
    The thing about the cold is, it carries sound – messages for the brain to turn into pictures. You can create a whole movie in your head from just the evidence of your ears – if you know the back story.
    The slam of a car door – no, two doors. A big car, heavy doors.
    Footsteps across the cobblestoned street, slow and steady.
    The screech of a reluctant gate hinge.
    Bam. Bam. Bam. A tired, communal door shivers under the weight of the blows.
    The buzz and click of the entry system. Someone decides to let a problem in – to save their door – and in the hope that it isn’t their problem.
    Count the treads of four feet on threadbare carpet. Thirteen steps to my floor. Unlucky for some.
    Wait.
    Another thirteen steps, but only one pair of feet.
    A crash of a door, a scream, a slap, and silence for a heartbeat.
    The floor boards creak above me. I follow them across the ceiling, the light fitment trembles briefly and then settles as the steps move to the back.
    The back!
    I snatch the precious carpetbag and rush to the rear of the flat to cover the old, now disused communal staircase, a relic of the building’s grander days.
    Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
    As the echo fades from the flat above, two doors are kicked in.
    One above me, one behind.
    I fumble for my forgotten 38, but the hammer snags in the lining of my coat.
    A sharp metallic tap tap tap bounces down the stairs.
    BANG!
    Blinded by the flash, I stagger back, stunned and deafened.
    A blunt, brutal, blow buffets my ears and I go down like a house of cards in the Chinook, bouncing once of the wall and once off the floor.
    Face down, one eye examines the worn, dirty boards closer that I ever wanted to.
    A harsh metallic taste invades my mouth, dripping down my face and pooling dark on the floor, some running away through ages old cracks, into the flat below.
    A pair of red stilettos glides into my field of vision and a perfectly manicured hand reaches down daintily for the fallen bag using a slip of white lace handkerchief, to protect from the grubby handles I assume, not from the filthy lucre inside.
    As the shoes spin away to leave me to my fate, my 38 shouts from my pocket.
    I see one of the perfectly formed feet disappear in a cloud of red mist.
    She falls in front of me, face scrunched up and screaming. Not so pretty now, eh?
    There you go, Honey, betrayal and revenge, the perfect cocktail.
    I call it Consequences.

    660 words
    Nick Johns

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  2. Restless nights

    I will never forget that night.
    How could I forget the night that my lover had chosen to walk out of my life? The thing that is unbelievable to me now, is that I just watched as he disappeared down the street. It was as almost as though he had been waiting for me by that lamppost. The sound of his footsteps had been the thing that had roused me from my slumber. I will never understand what I actually did next, because it just makes no sense to me whatsoever. I remember, clear as day, I picked up that phone receiver as if I was expecting a call. Who was going to ring me in the middle of the night? It is not something that I will understand, so I should probably just give up trying.
    Anyway, I walked over towards the window when I heard the door closing, and that is when I saw him. He was leaning against a lamppost like he was waiting for something, or maybe someone. He did not even turn in my general direction before he began walking slowly away from the house. It was like he was walking without a particular purpose, maybe even sleepwalking.
    I will always be left wondering if I should have called out, or maybe even followed him into the shadowy darkness.
    This is not what I did. What actually happened next is that I returned to the bed in order to continue with sleep. It came easily, a fact that always continues to surprise me.
    It would be days before I realised that he was gone and not coming back. I tried everything possible in order to find him but always came up blank. In my desperation I even went to a medium, but their response was not one that I was hoping for. The medium told me that my lover was gone, but not to worry as there was nothing that I could have done to prevent him from leaving in the first place. The medium told me that his dreams had been haunted for some time previously, and that maybe location was the key to his leaving.
    “Life is a fly, and then you die.”
    It is hard to believe that I paid for that piece of advice. I was angry when I left those rooms and returned to my house. What had that silly medium been trying to tell me? That he was dead? I refused to believe it.
    That night I was tossing and turning, as sleep had never seemed so far from me. Then the phone rang and a familiar voice spoke when I lifted the receiver. I nodded my head in silent agreement and walked out of my house. I lingered by the light of the lamppost for a moment before turning and walking into the darkness.

    @Harmony77uk
    Word count: 476

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    • Hi Angie
      Very dark and brooding this week. I’m glad to see that you’ve been keeping busy writing recently. I’ve had a severe attack of real life that has rather curtailed my efforts of late – but I have written three this week!
      Cheers
      Nick

      Liked by 1 person

      • I’m always dark and brooding! Haha!
        Busy beaver writing wise here, and avoiding reality like the plague!

        Like

  3. Pattyann McCarthy

    Make Mine a Double

    Carnage behind us, new opportunities ahead, our bellies full, we flew down the open highway through no-mans-land of the southern Mojave looking for trouble. Our motorcycles opened wide, running flat-out straining against pummeling winds and the arid heat of the night. Creepy Joshua trees and low-lying burrobush flew past in a blur as I gazed at the stars blazing by at warp speed, the round reddish moon arcing across an indigo sky. It made me dizzy and I loved it. A billboard pointed the way to our next stop, ‘The Candlelight Lounge,’ sitting in the middle of nowhere.

    Parking our bikes, our shadows clogged the doorway we entered. Thirty of us, thirsty, hungry and at the top of our game stepped into the dim dive. Heads turned our way, and as expected, quickly looked away after warily eyeing our little posse.

    Bellying up to the bar, I hollered over deafening music to the barkeep, “Make mine a double!”

    “A double of what?” Eyeing me up and down, holding a bottle of liquor. I wanted to vomit on his greasy bar.

    Leaning over, my cleavage deep and enticing, I put my mouth against his ear as he leaned forward, “Whatever you’ve got in your hand,” I breathed sexily.

    His smile was sickening. “Lady, this is Tequila! Is this what you want?”

    “In that case barkeep, I’ll take two doubles straight-up!”

    “Wow!” His only response as he poured two doubles for me. I knocked one back, slammed the tumbler down, and snatched the other, as I moved through the crowd. The place was hopping and I could tell it was gonna be a great night.

    A busy pool table, its balls clicking and clacking enticed me as I stood near, watching men act machismo, disgusting me; pool sticks in hand while they strutted their goods around the rim looking for a shot on the green.

    One muscled guy wearing a black wife-beater and turquoise eyes looked over at me. I saw his eyes grow wide as he twitched his head to flick the greasy hair out of his eyes, and made his way to me after he scratched his play. I smiled coyly, giving him my best innocent dewy-eyed gaze that always worked at melting a man, causing his blood to flow to his nether regions, and I like it when their blood flows, especially, down there. Happens every time.

    “Who’s playing?” Pointing over my shoulder to the stage where the band was jamming a kick ass tune.

    “Los Lobos,” he blushed as he stared down my cleavage, his eyes wandering down to my crotch.

    “Ah, The Wolves, how interesting,” I murmured.

    He leaned in, whispering in my ear, “Why is that interesting?”

    “Just is,” I winked and kicked back my Tequila.

    After a few minutes of boring banter, we went off to his pickup truck and I had the ride of a lifetime! He didn’t fare nearly as well; I was hungry, but he got off easy just dealing with me, only, he’ll never know it.

    Walking back into the dive, all hell had broken loose while I was away. The music died while people ran mindlessly trying to reach the door where I stood watching the action, smiling at my friends and still hungry, as I became ‘myself’. The screams’ reverberating off the walls were ear splitting and delicious!

    It started with a tingling sensation running the length of my back, and then hot, heavy pain sucker punched my gut as my back bowed. I was forced to all fours. My face contorted as a muzzle pulsed from my face, my pixie nose melting into a black snout. My black eyes rolled to the back of my head until the whites showed, and sensitive ears pulled to the top of my head. My bushy white hair bristled into gray steel wool, while fangs long, sleek and gleaming flecked my gums. Then the claws came like long steel knives able to fillet a man to the bone. I pounced into the fray, eating my way through the shrieking crowd.

    Laughing, our appetites not satiated, we’re back on our bikes, looking for our next pit stop to refuel our appetites.

    @PattyannMc
    WC: 698

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  1. Pingback: Restless nights | AngieTrafford

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