New Dawn

New Dawn
a story by Miles Rost

Paul Meister was a man of the streets.

For as long as he could remember, the streets of the big city were his home. They were the bread and butter he would eat every morning, the cheesesteaks “wit wiz” that occupied his waistline during the afternoons, and the cool air of the night as he drove around the city.

He knew every crevice, every nook of the streets he traveled on. No matter what time it was, he could find a way to get to his destination without worrying about using the GPS in his car. He would take a shortcut if it took a little time off the clock. He grew up on these streets, knowing it was safe to drive at night, and which parts of the city were skeevy enough to avoid in the overnights.

The sound of the lines in the concrete filled his vehicle as he traveled. The staccato of the breaks keeping a steady beat to the music in his head. The interstate was the main way to get to a place, but he always liked to use the side and back roads if possible. This night, however, he needed to be on that stretch of concrete slabs. It was where he was required to be.

He looked up at the tall buildings along the downtown freeway front, of the big pink colored building that the locals called “The Flamingo”; the old Killer Kola factory, which at one time also helped make and store “Billy Beer”; even the double-decker bridge that everyone called “The Iroquois” was able to be seen from his seat. All of these things helped him to realize just how rooted in the city that he was.

The darkness that enveloped the city on this night was palpable. As he pulled off the freeway and onto one of the main surface thoroughfares, he looked around at the area he was about to enter: Old Koreatown. When he first started navigating the streets, Old Koreatown was a place no young man was to go. The area was a mess of dry cleaning shops, liquor stores, shik dangs, and brothels hidden as hair salons. Gangs would make their dough on those streets, and if one wasn’t careful, they could end up in a body bag the next day.

But that was the old Koreatown way.

The new image of Koreatown was the development of high-rise apartment lofts with Korean aesthetics, and trendy coffee shops, or patisseries. It was a gentrified area, lacking the charm of the old neighborhood while still trying to stick with it. Paul missed the old Koreatown, and knew that the new Koreatown was not as good as the old was.

He looked at the signs on the edge of Old Koreatown, and found where he needed to be. He pulled over to the side of the street, next to a stop sign and smiled. He looked to the east, as he saw the faintest glimpses of green and yellow start to tickle the horizon. He started to drift, looking at the beauty of a new dawn.

The rear passenger door opened. Paul looked back and smiled.

“Alright, lady. Where ya wanna go this morning?”

The lady, a striking beauty in the middle of the budding dawn, just sat back and sighed.

“Airport, Terminal H.”

“You got it, ma’am. You’re going to enjoy the dawn as we go.”

She just smiled and settled back in for the long drive.

Paul knew the streets, and this time, he wasn’t in a rush to get his passenger to the destination. He wouldn’t overcharge her for taking the long way and watching the sun rise.

Friday Fictioneers – Kicks

Took last week off because, after the September from Hell that was unleashed upon me, I needed a bit of a break. Now, I’m back to doing what I do, and hopefully will be less tired and do more other writings. Here’s the latest Fictioneers story for y’all:

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Kicks
by Miles Rost

“I know it doesn’t look pretty, but we’ll do fine with what we have.”

Paul and Mark looked around at the studio, and smiled.

“We don’t care. We’ve got some ideas, and the studio will be fine.”

Mark looked over at the engineers, and pursed his lips.

“Just curious, why didn’t we get the normal studio?”

The engineers smiled.

“Apparently, the last folk that were in the studio,” he chuckled as he relayed what he saw, “They smoked it up in there.”

“Weed?”

“Heroin.”

Paul shook his head.

“Those kicks just keep getting harder to find, man.”

Mark smiled, as he looked at the sheet of music in front of him…

“Seems appropriate…”

R.I.P. Paul Revere (1938-2014)

Friday Fictioneers – The Rack

Have you ever had one of those months where life just kicks you in the nuts? I’m having one of those. So, I hope this will make people feel better.

http://mariegailstratford.wordpress.com/

Copyright – Marie Gail Stratford

The Rack

I traveled far and wide to see a thing of beauty.

I looked at an old wine-rack, now dutifully repurposed as a light display at this dive of a bar. I examined in thoroughly, and saw no flaws. The liquid was resonant, the electrical construction was exquisite.

“How much for that light rack?”

“It’s not for sale. That thing is what makes us half our money.”

“How does an old wine rack do that?”

The bartender I was talking to just laughed.

“Watch.”

As the lights blinked to the music, I suddenly got the urge to buy a bottle of whiskey.

“How much for the whiskey bottle?”

“Heh. See? That’s what it does for me. Subliminal messaging.”

I only noticed that he was still speaking to me after plopping the whiskey bottle into my hand.

Friday Fictioneers – Now Where Could It Be?

Here’s the latest!

Copyright – Dawn Q. Landau

Now Where Could It Be?

“Agatha? Did you look over in 14B?”

“Yes, I did look over in 14B. I looked in 11-15 for it.”

“How about 47?”

“You think I’m going to go to 47 on a whim?”

“Hey, if it weren’t for you going on about how great this place was, I wouldn’t have had this happen!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t even follow simple directions.”

“Doing archeology in salt flats is not my idea of a good day, and I can follow directions.”

“Then why didn’t you follow them when you put your contacts in?”

“Because I…wait…I FOUND MY CONTACT!”

“Charlie, next time, put them in right…or else I’ll slap them out permanently.”

“GAAAAH! SALT IN MY EYE!!!!”

Friday Fictioneers – Portal al Puerto

Welcome, fans and friends. Don’t forget to read my last long-piece: “A View From Your Window”. It’s a beautiful piece. Anyhow, here’s this week’s fictioneers piece:

 

copyright – Janet Webb

Portal al Puerto

Sandy was up for the morning, and couldn’t go back to sleep. She knew that she had to be at the U for class by 9, and 7:30 was much too early.

She walked into the bathroom and did her hair. As she brushed the silky blonde locks, she noticed a small little “rip” on the edge of the mirror. She touched it, and pulled back on it.

She noticed, on the other “side” of this mirror, was a doorway. A sideways doorway. She pushed the doorway open, and was immediately sucked in, her skin stretching as she was devoursed by the portal.

The door immediately closed, and the mirror resealed itself. That was the last time anyone saw Sandy…for nearly 5 years.

The View From Your Window

(Author’s Note: If you’re interested in reading the previous four stories of Mayumi, please use the tag “Mayumi” to find her stories.)

Mayumi’s Story (Part V)
“The View From Your Window”
by Miles Rost

3 months at her new job, and she hated it. With a passion.

Contracted for a year, she had to ride out the entire ride while she dealt with all the pressures of whining customers, a boss who was indifferent most times, and unable to communicate properly at the monthly performance meetings. The customers were right, she knew, and she did the best she could to take care of them. However, without the communicative support of her boss, she was not going to be happy until she was out of there.

Mayumi survived the rest of the week, though panicking that she could be let go from her contract at any time. This made her stressed out more than usual, as she was counting on the 1-year longevity bonus to help her pay down debt. It was daunting, as well, as her friend at the station moved onto greener pastures. She was the only one left, and had no other friends at work to talk to.

A 4 day vacation was in the offing, and she was happy to get the time off. A substitute for the show was taking over and she was going to have a few days to relax and rest.

Until day 2. When the pains in her belly started.

Sidelined in her apartment, with not much food to eat as she couldn’t go out to get groceries, she sat in her bedroom. At her desk, she had a piece of paper in front of her and a pencil.

“What can ah write? I wanna write but ah have no clue…” she muttered, as she stared intently at the white sheet in front of her. She took a breath and decided to just take a look out her bedroom window. It was there, and it wasn’t four walls of a dark room, so why not?

She opened the curtains, and looked out. Immediately, she was shocked and surprised.

She looked out the window and saw a beautifully cared-for lawn, freshly cut and beautifully manicured. Close to her was a dark area of ground, with small little green shoots poking up like hairs on a forearm. Lining the fence down the side of the lawn was a series of bushes that reminded her of the lilacs that grew around her family’s home back in Hornsby Shire. She smiled as she saw all of the new beauty that was being created from a space that not even 3 months before was a ramshackle home, which she realized did not look so ramshackle anymore.

The peeling paint of the old house had since gone, and was painted with a fresh coat of brickhouse red. The house’s color fit well with the brick-walled apartments 30 feet from the back door. The trim of the house stood out like the white peppermint of a candy-cane.

Whoever owns that house really wanted to make it noticeable, she thought to herself.

Just as she was about to stand, she noticed the back door open up. She saw a young lady, almost the same age as her, though her appearance was quite shocking to Mayumi. A cherubic face framed by cotton-candy pink hair, with a black t-shirt and black shorts, the young collegian looked to be very punk-like, despite the lack of make-up. She was smiling, as she walked down to the earthen part of the lawn.

She put on a pair of gloves, and picked up a water hose that was nearby. She squeezed the green snake-like hose and a stream of water misted out over the sprouting earth. She laughed as she continued to spray the area, gleefully enjoying her time watering the garden.

As Mayumi watched the young lady, she had thoughts of her home and her dad, an ardent greenthumb. She loved watching him while he worked his hands in the garden, and picking berries from the vines that ran across one part of her family’s property.

She closed the semi-transparent curtains in her room, as she turned to write things from her own heart onto the paper.

Dear Dad,…

Friday Fictioneers – The Keeper Of The Flame

Work has been kicking my butt lately, so I haven’t been as active as I like. Hopefully, I’ll be able to do better now that summer is leaving. Here’s my offering for the fictioneers this week.

 

copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Keeper Of The Flame

I tend to these coals like they are my children. They’re the lifeblood of my tribe.

Without fire, my tribe would have died out a long time ago. Every generation has one person, a boy or a girl, who keeps these flames going constantly. These flames help make our food, bend our metal, and even forge our lore.

My great uncle was a keeper of the flames, my father as well, and it was passed to me when I turned 21. In the shade of the big buildings, there are very few of my kind left.

I am the keeper of the flame. This is my role, this is my life.