(Author’s note: A lot of my delays between weeks has usually been due to either busyness or other items. I’m hoping things will get better, but until at least November, it likely will not. I’ll do the best I can, though. Here’s today’s offering!)
by Miles H. Rost
Fabrizio grimaced as he started cleaning the remains of Hurricane Belinda.
A large storm, she threw the nests of seaweed up in front of his restaurant. He knew if he didn’t get it done, it’d stink up the neighborhood.
“Fabrizio! Where have you been?” she called out, Fabrizio jumping at her voice. “I need to clean this up. I need to open so I can help people.” “But what about our promised night out?” “Do you want to help me clean this up in your Chuta Gabrola?”
Marina’s eyes grew wide, as his suggestion sunk in.
(Author’s note: Took last week off due to the fires in Oregon. Back today. Enjoy!”)
Dance Hall Days
by Miles H. Rost
A staple of New York youth. A way for the kids of the neighborhood to have fun and forge long lasting friendships.
When us kids needed to hash out things, we didn’t take to our fists. We took to the sticks. Whoever ended up scoring the most, or when our moms called us in after the sun went down, they would carry the day.
Once we moved to the west coast, there was no more stickball. You moved up to the sandlots. The skills learned translated well for the batting, but the running killed us.
(Author’s note: Hey! You’ve probably wondered where I went over the last month. Well, honestly, with all the stuff going on in the world, I have been weary and tired. Haven’t been inspired. So, hopefully after today, I’ll be more inspired by the world around me. Here we go!)
(Author’s note: It’s rare that I do the same artist twice, but the pictures just throw everything together. Which reminds me, if you haven’t done so already, go on back to my previous story and take a gander. Here’s the second story with music provided by the great Stan Ridgway.)
Becky “Spins” Hoffman was going for maximum effect.
The captain of the women’s baseball team at the local uni, her arm was well known as a lethal weapon.
What people didn’t know is that when challenged, her pranks were the other weapon she would use.
Using a little chemistry knowhow, she prepared the eggs sitting in the carton to the right specifications for this night. As her teammate sped, Becky fired egg after egg. Red, white, and blue splatters showed themselves.
They contrasted the red of the fluttering Soviet flag, and the face of the angry professor who owned it.
(Author’s note: Mental health is very important. I’ve had to take a few weeks off, again, because of too much information overload. As I grow older, it seems my capacity for information has grown to be lesser. I am doing fine today, but who knows how I will be next week. Let’s enjoy today, and this fictioneers piece. Please enjoy the music, and the story that goes with it!)
2000 feet above the Yamhill Valley, Patricia breathed in the air.
“If I could stay up here forever, I would.”
“Not a terrestrial person?” Her husband responded, turning the valve to take them a slight bit higher.
“There’s just so much down there. So much going on, so much trouble.”
She didn’t seem wrong, in her husband’s eyes. The more peaceful a place, the better.
“We’re going to have to go down eventually.”
“I know. I just want to stay up here as long as I can.”
They started a very slow descent, mirroring the setting sun out in the distance.
Vladimir and his band had everything ready within a minute of taking the stage. No need to tune, as it was already done.
This was Festival Saturday. This was their time to shine, as a new band with something his region never thought they’d ever hear.
With a nod, Bruska smashed the cymbals and broke into his steady 4 beat. Mariska joined at the same time, gliding over the Yamaha DX-7 with funky flair. Duma’s Nile Rodgers style guitar lick meshed with Vlad’s bass plucks, creating a groove pocket that was unmistakable.
The influence of American jazz and fusion had arrived.