Good day, everyone! This blog is about to go boom, as in explode with people visiting soon. I have a facebook page that people can come and visit (and like) at this link. I’m also on Twitter, just look for @MusicAndFiction.
Also, before I go with the show today, make sure you read over the last two stories that have come out. These are big ones, what I call the “normal” stories. Get inspired, get involved, and enjoy them. You can read “Angelia” and “We Fight Another Day” at the links.
Three guys, drunk as sin, walking home from a punk concert and pub crawl. All three passed by a window.
“Oi! Wot ya take an eye at that!”
“Wow! It’s got spikes an’ everything!”
“Yeah! That’s definitely punk!”
All three roared out in laughter, as they kept walking past.
After a few moments, the pile of rocks started to lift up from where it was. Underneath it popped out a head.
“Oooh! I really like this style! I think this hat will go great with my rhino-stone dress,” the head said, standing up straight. Under the hat was a very stylish socialite, opening her very expensive purse.
“The hat rocks, ma’am,” the store owner said, as he chuckled while collecting the money.
Author’s note: A welcome to all the new followers of Music and Fiction, especially those who are on the new Facebook page (can be found at THIS link), and from Twitter.
Angelia (aka “Nothing But A Photograph)
by Miles Rost
Colin Marchese did not know the pain his father went through.
Dominic “The Dom” Marchese was a major gangland figure in Cincinnati, Ohio. He made a name for himself, and was on the way to being a big name. Something changed in 1988, however, and 15 years later, the shell of “The Dom” had just been laid to rest. His college-aged son, the inheritor of the estate, sought to get the family fortune out of the “family business”, just like his father in the later years.
But Colin still had questions.
Why did my dad suddenly turn from his path? Why did he become so…distant?
Part of being the inheritor of the estate, he was able to see the contents of his late father’s desk. No one besides himself and one trusted confidant, who died months before, ever went into it.
He opened the main desk drawer, and immediately found a small leather-bound notebook. It was well-worn, and when it was opened, the smell of his dad’s pipe tobacco rushed into his nostrils. He turned the yellowed pages of the little book until a date caught his eye: December 14, 1987. Colin stood up from the desk and walked to his favorite chair in the corner, looking out toward the small pond on the estate.
December 14th, 1987,
Ah, bella! I met the most wonderful lady today. Flying from Genoa to London, to the Big Apple, it was a treat to see this beautiful vision. Her name is Angelia, and she was my stewardess for this flight. Belissima! She’s such a sweetie. Her family is Italian, they’re actually from a village near my own, but she’s been living in London for a long time. She makes things so sweet around here, and she’s going to be on the flight to New York! I’m hoping to get a chance to talk with her more.
He paged further through the journal to see more about this ‘Angelia’ that seemed to capture his heart. He soon enough found an answer in a later entry.
March 27th, 1988,
Ah, the trees are blooming their beautiful flowers today. They are very bella serra. Angelia and I spent a weekend together, going through the old haunts of New York. I showed her Lugee’s Pizza, which is now some sort of sandwich plane. Nothing like Katz’s, though. I showed her that place. She seemed impressed by the fact I could pound the pastrami down like no other. Wait until later on tonight. Heh heh.
Colin had to laugh, reading the rest of the entry. Apparently, Dad liked her a lot, and he decided to show her how much. He decided to read on through 1988 to see where things went wrong.
December 20th, 1988
Angelia called me just before I went to bed. She said that she’ll be flying back and spending Christmas with the family. I am hoping little Colin can take a liking to her. It’ll be the first time he’ll meet her, and it is important if she’s going to become the new mother of my children. I love her very much, and I cannot wait to make her the new Mrs. Marchese. She’ll be perfect for the family, perfect for the biz, and she’ll make the new empire proud.
He smiled, though he was a little fuzzy on who she was because he didn’t remember meeting her, even though he was 4 at the time. He turned the next page, and read. The mirth that was on his face dropped as he read on.
December 22nd, 1988
I cannot believe it. Morto infinito. I am crying so much. The news just said it. Pan Am Flight 103, the flight my beautiful Angelia was on, blown up over Scotland. Why? Why, God? Why did you take her away? She was going to be my wife! I just… <scribble> I don’t <scribble> get the bastards. I don’t know what to do…
Colin realized, much too late, that his dad’s turn to introspection and reservedness was caused by this. He looked for more information, more reaction, when he came up to the last page.
January 2nd, 1989
She left me with nothing but a photograph. All I have of my bellissima, my beautiful Angelia, is a photograph. I don’t see how I can go on. She was everything, just as much as Diana was before she passed on. I just don’t know where to go from here. My kingdom for my bellissima.
He looked at the next page, and instead of writing, he found a photograph of the woman his father had pined for. The one who was the love of his life, and the one who moved him to eventually slow down the family operation. His father was right, as she was a very beautiful woman. Beautiful brown hair down to her shoulders, dressed in the powder blue Pan Am uniform that hugged every single curve of her Italian frame, and a smile that could warm the coldest heart.
“She would have made a wonderful mother,” he said to himself, out loud, as he looked out the window. He had business to do, but he would have to remember to take a trip to Scotland to give his possible mother the honor due her from the family.
We Fight Another Day
(aka “Busindre Reel”)
by Miles Rost
The last of the men arrived the night before, weary but with spirit in their mouths and minds.
The camp had a group of 5,000, milling about and getting themselves ready for what was to come. They came from all parts of the region, from the northern Highland regions to the Great Chasm, men and women of all walks of life were there.
The camp itself was on the edge of a plains, on a border with the Great Fire Forest behind them. A strategic location to organize a battle, the camp was called “Azinari”, a Flindrosian word meaning “protected land”. Knowing the leader of this group of ragtag fighters, one would know that “Azinari” is not a word that was used lightly.
Hardulf Charitaine, the former herald of the Great King of Flindros, could hardly believe all of the people who answered his call to come. He stood on a hill nearby, his encampment similar to that of a set-aside Japanese daimyo’s. He looked over the encampment of a menagerie of people, smiling at all who answered the call. While he may have once been a herald, here he was now a general of a great number.
He looked at a small enclave carved out of the main camp where waterwalkers were based. Hardulf couldn’t have even imagined that elementals, even the lower level waterwalkers, would come to aid in the battle. He looked at the Highland Wingfolk, the riders of the great birds, taking care of their flying steeds and giving their attention fully to them and to the task at hand.
However, his greatest surprise was at the number of Small Men that arrived. As a race, the Small Men were not ones who would normally get involved in such a fight. Hardulf knew this even from the days of studying History of the Lands in his primary schooling. But yet, here were 750 of them, taking up a good space of the main camp, and yet still spending time making sure everyone in the camp had good food and nourishing rest.
He looked at his right-hand woman, his lieutenant, Lady Chantrella Origane. A beautiful, and yet strong elven woman, she was dressed in the enchanted armor of a Elven warrior. She smiled down at Hardulf, a hearty man in his mid-30s. With long white-blonde hair tied into a long braid, a muscular frame, yet with soft definitions, she was a picture of tough beauty. She was in charge of the mystical creatures, the Boudican warrior women, and even the waterwalkers. She would be riding out with them as Hardulf gave his orders from above.
To his left, his third in command stood. A short, stout Dwarven man, Ringli Hardtack was the next best thing to a general. White haired with a long greying beard, he stood out as a tough fighter and a tough organizer. He was in charge of the “terrestrial” fighters, the Small Men, and even the Men of Tarasco. While he was dealing with his own personal demons of racism, he was able to forge friendships with many men that he trained. He even became close with a woman from the Tarascans, a lizard-men like people who normally had the Dwarves as enemies.
They relaxed for the night, preparing themselves for the battle that they were to fight in the morning. All of them drank, going over their plans for what was to be done. Chantrella pointed out the holes that they could end up having against the over 10,000 Greebo fighters that they were going to be facing. Ringli pointed out the weaknesses in each group of fighters they had, and how they could be useful if things went sideways. By the time things were done, they had a plan and were able to sleep part of the night.
They awoke an hour before the dawn, getting themselves dressed up in the battle gear they would be fighting with. The three “generals” mounted their horses and rode down to the main front of the camp, blowing the horns to signal the men and women to gather their stuff together and pack it up.
As the light of the morning started to fill the sky with a beautiful cobalt blue, Hardulf walked along the front of his men and smiled.
“Men and women of the Alliance,” he began, calling out with a great booming voice, “We are here to battle against evil.”
He looked at Chantrella, and smiled, before looking back on his army.
“The evil we are fighting is one that affects us all. We come from different worlds, different regions of life. Some of us are mystical, some of us are terrestrial. Some of us look different from the other, and some have had bitter feuds in the past. But this day, this day, you have come together out of a common bond. The bond of helping rid evil from this land.”
He turned his horse and started to pace the other direction.
“We will fight this day. We will fight like champions! We will win against evil, because we know that the battle is already won! We have a great assurance, and no matter how the battle goes, we will be winning it. We will win because we are united. Elementals, Small Men, Treehorns, and the lot, we all have one thing in common: We serve with dignity and pride.”
He looked at Ringli, smiling as he saw him get a couple Tarascans focused on Hardulf’s words.
“We have one goal. One goal. That’s to win. Even if we lose our lives today, we win. But it will not be this day that we die. Today we will live, and we will be victorious! The Greebos who want to take these lands from you, and their allies, cannot fathom the amount of perseverance that you all have. You are stout, hearty, and itching for battle. And today, today is the day that you get it.”
He pulled out a set of bagpipes from his side-pack, and proceeded to play “The Call of the Charitaine”, the song of his family that was left to him before he became the corrupted King of Flindros’s herald. As he played, the men and women of the vast army thumped their weapons against the ground in time. They heard the song before, and the respect that came with it. The thumping was heard for miles around the plains, and were even heard in the main Greebo stronghold of the area, which made many of them uneasy.
As the song continued to play, Chantrella and Ringli blew their horns and all of the soldiers got into their formation behind them. They started to march past Hardulf, as they made their way towards the stronghold. After some minutes, the last of the soldiers finally left the camp. The last 50 people at the camp were the servants, the ones who would load up the wagons and quickly catch up with the rest of the moving army later. Hardulf gave the head servant the orders for the encampment and where they were to set up, and proceeded to join with the rest of the army.
Under his breath, he whispered a small prayer, “Yihuwa, you’re the only one to help us today. With your hand, let us be victors.”
A lot of big things are happening in my life right now, but soon there will be some major changes coming to this blog and my other blog, which I rarely update and will likely be used as the sandbox for my major changes. Anyhow, here’s my story for this week, and there will be more coming down the line.
Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
The Valley Road
by Miles Rost
The old men looked out from the porch, onto the road that passed the house.
“Did you get a look at that girl in the truck”?
“Nah, did she look fine?”
“No way. She was pregnant as can be!”
“What’s the story?”
“From what I got told, she apparently had a lee-ay-son with a kid from across the tracks.”
One of the old men just shook his head.
“These kids today. They get into trouble, and have to have us bail them out. So, what’ll happen to the kid?”
“No clue. That’s the Valley Road there. Means she ain’t coming back this way no more.”
Hey there, everyone. Last week was a killer for me, on many fronts. I couldn’t do half of what I wanted to do. The good news is that I will have time this week to do some major writing, so keep up on it. Here’s today’s fiction:
copyright Melanie Greenwood
Hedging Your Bets
by Miles Rost
“I just put in my notice.”
Mark Jackson had a look on his face that was bliss. His cube-mate, Jesse Blaylock, wasn’t so sure.
“So, you’re going to quit without an exit plan?”
“Absolutely not. I have that plan. I’m going to take the first job that I get, and while I work at that one, I’ll work on my passion.”
Jesse’s eye went up at that.
“And what if you don’t find a job?”
“That’s the beauty of it. They’re always looking for someone. I will do any job, just as long as I don’t have to work at this place.”
“You, sir, have faith. If I don’t get to see you go today, here’s to hoping the maze don’t get ya.”
Even with success, the specter of loss hung around his head like a bad cold.
Patrick Dumont was not an unhappy man, by any means. He was charming with all the folks, a man of character and integrity, and even fairly successful with his new business ventures. In all, he should be celebrating his life in great ways.
Yet, alone in his apartment, his head between his knees, he wasn’t even celebrating.
It started earlier in the day. Looking through his finance books, he knew that everything was going alright and that there were not going to be problems for the next couple months. But that nagging feeling was there, telling him “Hey, you’re finances are not as stable as they should be.”
As the day wore on, he got more and more worried. As the worries built, the memories of old days came flooding forth like a raging flood breaching an earthen dam. The more the worries piled on top, the more depressed he became. He took off from work early, and just went straight home.
As he sat in that apartment, head between knees and tears falling down his face, he remembered the many times of worry he had in the past. He heard the words of people telling him that if he didn’t plan for his future, he’d have nothing. That if he wasn’t paying attention, everything would fall around him.
He remembered his family as it came apart in pieces, like a car losing it’s parts as it drove along. His family splitting apart from divorce, his father becoming despondent after losing his job, his younger brother jumping off a high bridge to end his life after getting a failing score on his final test. He even remembered his own loss of the first business he started, a hedge clipping business.
Then there was Hannah. The girl that gave him so much passion, and so much life. He wanted to keep her in his heart always, always having that chance of being able to see her again. That is, until he heard the phone call.
“Patrick, I’m pregnant.”
“Who’s the father?”
“I’m….not sure.”
He screamed out, cried, and put himself into fits while dealing with all of these things that came forth from his head. For 4 straight hours, he was in agony. Four hours of crying, sobbing, screaming into his sweatshirt. It seemed as though he would be crying for many more hours.
Suddenly, he sat up. He dried his eyes, and looked around. He blinked a few times, looking at the fluorescent lights reflecting from the outside window into his apartment, casting glow over shadows. His eyes, even in the dark, cleared up.
“I have no need to remember this.”
His words had steel behind them. It was the sound of determination. Whatever he had just went through was done, and he finally stood up. He smiled, as he put his jacket on.
He was free to enjoy life again. He was free from his pain, his grief, and that feeling of holding onto something.
Welcome back for another Friday Fictioneers set. If you haven’t already read the latest (and according to some, my best) Mayumi story so far, please go check out “We All Sleep Alone”
*Author’s Note: Some have been having trouble seeing the video. If you are having trouble, go to Youtube, and look up “So Far Away” by Dire Straits. You’ll get the feelin’.
copyright Jan Wayne Fields
So Far Away
by Miles Rost
Everything was ready on the table.
Danny got home from work, and expertly prepared a beautiful crown roast of lamb, with mint sauce, lightly fried potatoes, and thin-sliced green beans. All of her favorites.
He set the table with the good plates, the excellent glasses, and everything. His crowning achievement of making dinner, a big one, was complete.
He looked out the window towards the street, the patio bereft of life. He looked out the window for a long time.
It was after about 30 minutes of looking that he realized he was eating alone for the night.
His beautiful wife, his love, would not be making it home for dinner.
(Author’s Note: If you’re interested in reading the previous five stories of Mayumi, please use the tag “Mayumi” to find her stories.)
Mayumi’s Story (part VI)
(aka “We All Sleep Alone”) by Miles H. Rost
The months passed by, and things finally stabilized for Mayumi Shiomi. After dealing with more ups and downs at her job, things finally were able to get to some semblance of “normal”. She had just a little over 4 months left on her contract, and could not wait to leave.
The intervening months since her letter to her dad had not been too kind. She went through many relationships and one night stands, feeling the loneliness and emptiness in her heart that she was left with for such a long time. She finally got in with a counselor to talk about it, to come clean and to rebuild the shattered pieces of her heart and deal with the remnants of the old relationship that so wrecked her personal life.
As she sat in her apartment, looking out at the Sydney landscape, she couldn’t help but think about how she got where she was. She thought about the God she served, and how she was being led even in her weaknesses.
“Y’know, God. Ah’ve been such a fool,” she said, out loud, “I’ve spent so much time grousing about my job, not doing what I’m supposed to do. Ah know I need to do better, I just don’t know why I’m so weak.”
She sighed, as she looked at the cloudy skies that unfolded over the city like a scroll. It was a day that matched her feelings, and as she got up to do a small bit of cleaning, she gave a small sigh and a weak smile.
“Sooner or later, Lord, we all sleep alone. Ahm glad it’s happening now, instead of when I’m an old maid.”
Looking at the calendar, she had the date circled. Just over 4 months, and she could finish her contract and get out. She already had prospects at a new job, and a new life in Melbourne. But, she wouldn’t be able to start for at least a month after due to non-compete clauses. She knew that this would be a perfect time to find out about places to live there.
She had life to look forward to. But she had to survive the next months. That would be a challenge, as long as she was dealing with all the anxiety issues and the health problems that came with it. Worry, anxiety, and all sorts of other things pulled at Mayumi’s neck like a gremlin on an airplane. It was not something she enjoyed, and her sleep sometimes suffered because of it.
She would pray for at least one vacation in between, just to make things go faster.
She grabbed her pillow, and proceeded to her bedroom to take a nap. Why not let time pass her by with something she wanted to do.
Sleeping was one way to get away from the everyday. And she took to it like a champion.
Apologies for no posts in the last two weeks. Vacation and depression do affect a person. Here’s the latest Fictioneers offering, albeit a couple days late due to birthday stuffs.
copyright Jean L. Hays
Homeward Bound
by Miles H. Rost
“So this is where it all started?” Marina asked her grandpa.
“Yep. This is where the famous Route 66 got it’s start,” Grandpa responded, with pride.
“Not that, silly! This is where you started your journey, wasn’t it?” the child said, smiling like she was sharing a secret.
“Ah, child. This was the start of my journey. I lived in that brown building back there, and one day I decided to move west. I packed up a ’55 Bel-Air, picked up your grandma in Des Moines, and we made our way to Oregon.”
Heyo, everyone! After a wild and wooly (meaning stressed out previous) week, and a restorative weekend, here I am with the Christmas Eve version of Friday Fictioneers. Coming up soon will be a longer story from me, but until then, here’s my latest entry:
Music and Fiction 