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…
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.
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.
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.
(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.
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.
Greetings fans and friends, I should be back up to full steam for stories next week. Other things have been taking me away from the attention, but I should be back with more ideas. Here’s the Fictioneers for the week:
copyright Roger Bultot
You Need To Stay
“Honey, I told you that you need to stay home.”
“But, sweetie, if we’re going to have a comfortable life, I need to go and follow those white lines.”
“I’m sorry, but you cannot go. You cannot be out there all the time. You’re not married to the road.”
“If I’m going to make money for us, I have to be.”
“Doesn’t matter now. Look out the window.”
A few seconds later…
“AGH! My TRUCK! What did you do to it?”
“Didn’t you think it was strange you found me naked in the woods, and wanted to marry me right away?”
“What?!”
“You married a plant nymph, ya ninny. Now get in here and do the dishes!”
I’m back, though still at limited action for a short bit of time. I will be up fully this week when I can pull my head away from other things.
copyright- Jan Wayne Fields
The Letter
The young lady looked at the paper in front of her. She sighed, as she pushed the chair away from the old desk. Putting the quill back in the ink well, she stood and grabbed her bag that was sitting off to the side.
She expected that her husband would read the letter and get the message. She wanted to get away from the boring nature of life, and this would give some excitement.
She waited for his phone call. And waited. And waited.
She waited a year, and finally said no more. She entered the house, and walked to the study. Her husband lay on the floor, a pool of blood under his head, dried blood on the corner of the small table.
So, for those of you who keep up with this blog pretty regularly, I surpassed 100 blog posts on here a few weeks ago. Some of you may be wondering why I saved things up until now to announce it and talk about it. A lot of it was just time and work that I’m having to deal with outside of this blog.
However, I have hit 100 and I plan to keep going as best as I can. I may have some days or weeks when I don’t write, and that’s fine. As long as people come back to visit and enjoy what they see, that’s all that I care about. It’s not about the page hits, it’s about spreading the idea of music and fiction as partners in creating a full reading experience. That’s what it’s all about.
Now, someone asked me about how I was going to celebrate 100 entries. Well, what I want to do is go over the 5 stories that I think were the most enjoyable to write. Starting from the top and going down, I will go through and show you what was going on when those were being written.
#1 – The Lady In White, part 2 (Close Enough)
This story is one that I really loved to write. It was taken from a dream I had, and it was put down on paper as something that I really loved. The lady in white is someone who invades my mind from time to time. I don’t know much about her, but what I do know is that somehow in my dreams, she cares for me. It’s kinda sweet. 🙂
#2 – Demolition Man (The Adventure of the Losers)
This was my attempt at writing an action packed, full-on, balls to the wall action piece that could be the script for a music video. I got the image as I was sitting in my apartment and thinking about my travels through Iowa. That, and I think watching a Chuck Norris movie, got me thinking about it and *boom*, Demolition Man. I really did like writing that song.
#3 – The Beginning Of Something New (Supernova)
This was my first foree into doing a story that was a different way of talking about issues I faced. One of the ways that I heal my own self is by writing about a similar situation with other characters. It has been very helpful in time, and this is one of my masterpieces. I also firmly believe that the song is what makes the entire story come alive.
#4 – Man of Colours
I love the work that I use to honor people that I love. My brother is one of those people. The idea of a painter using his canvas to communicate, that’s my brother. And when I created that piece of writing, I never would have thought that it would be a piece that would be family-oriented. I love my brother very much, and that story was his. The music just made it that much better.
#5 – Radioactive
This was my “political” piece. I was in the middle of hating everything political (still do), and it was my outlet. I first came across the song by Imagine Dragons while on vacation in Denver. A friend of mine introduced me to it, and it just screamed to my primal self. The idea came about to use this song as a way to further my anti-political anguish, and it helped me heal. A lot.
—-
Those are my five that I loved. Those who have read my works before and who continue to read my works are encouraged to tell me which of my 100 stories that they think made the most impact on them. When you do, you’ll have to tell me how the music added flavor to the story. Cause that’s what I really want to hear.
I will be back to regular blogging starting next week. And I will be back on Fictioneers very soon. Until then…100!
Chelsea Paragovian, known to the rest of the world as Chelly Price, looked out the window at the brilliant lights of New York City. The twinkle of the skyline would be incredibly mesmerizing for a first-time girl in the big city. For someone who was there, it was a fading light that reflected the fading spark in her spirit.
Chelly Price was the main attraction for the new millennial musical movement, up there with the Demi Lovatos, Victoria Justices, and others of their ilk. Her first album, made when she was just 17 and a newbie in New York City, had gone platinum within 6 months. She was a hot commodity, and the various backing bands loved having her up front to bring the numbers in. After the concerts, she would swing through the party circuit. Sleep through the day, party all the night, press the flesh at music signings and celebrity appearances on TV shows. Her second album didn’t do as well, but did hit gold within 9 months.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, as the sun came up on that September morning, she finally caught the realization of everything she had been doing. The lines on her face, the premature worry-lines, the stress and the wear of the road was finally getting to her. She had success, she had the money, but she had nothing else.
She had one person left who could bring her back to earth.
She held onto the cell-phone, the flat phone that kept only the most important numbers. She clicked through the hundreds of contacts until she found the one that she was looking for, listed under the letter Z. It had the name “Zero Hour” on it, and she knew that when she called the number, things would never be the same. She clicked the entry, and waited.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings. *Click*
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Chelsea? Sweetie? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Daddy. It’s me. I’m sorry for calling you so early. I know that it’s probably the middle of the night over there…”
She heard a big yawn from the other side of the phone, and started to yawn as well.
“No, no, sweetie. It’s alright. I haven’t heard from you, it’s been so long. So, how is New York treating you?”
“It’s…it’s…it’s alright, I guess.”
“Is there something wrong, sweetie?”
Chelsea hesitated. She knew that if she said the wrong thing, it could doom her future. She believed that if she said something, that it could come to fruition in ways that were never meant to be.
“I looked in the mirror.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw lines. I saw myself as tired.”
“How long have you been doing this stuff that you’ve been doing?”
“2 years. I am due to go into the studios here in the next month to record the third record.”
“What do you think? Do you think you have enough for another one?”
“They keep supplying me with songs, but they’re not really that good. I really want to expand my horizons.”
“Do you remember what I told you when you first left on that midnight plane to New York?”
“You told me that diamond girls aren’t made to grow old.”
“Do you feel old?”
“I look old. I feel tired. But, I know that there’s a spark still in my heart. I just don’t think it’s here.”
She chuckled, thinking that it was silly she was having this discussion with her dad, who was a simple wood-mill worker, not a big entertainment man.
“Maybe what they’re asking of you is not what you want. Have you thought much about what you want to do?”
Chelsea paused. Have I really thought about it? she asked herself, in her mind.
“I am not sure. I am thinking about leaving the parties and the other stuff behind. Maybe refocusing my music, in a way?”
“Honey, whatever you plan to do, I’m behind you 100 percent. Did you hear about Bernie Griffin?”
“Big Bernie? The guy who slung the slats?”
“Yeah. He got drafted by the Dodgers. He’s heading to Florida, I think. He’s gonna be in the minors now.”
“How did he get into baseball?”
“When you saw him last, he was on the high school team. He was at a company baseball gathering, and some guy saw him. Put his name in with a scout, who saw him work, and signed him almost on the spot.”
“Wow. Who would have thought?”
“People thought the same thing about you, Chelsea. They didn’t realize that you were being picked up for a recording contract. A 3 record deal was a big thing for the people around here.”
Chelsea thought about that for a moment, seeing herself like Bernie, and chuckling to herself.
“What I’m trying to say to you, Chelsea, is that you need to do what you think is right. Diamond girls aren’t made to grow old, and you’re my diamond girl. If you think that going a different direction will be a good thing, then trust in what your heart is saying.”
“Daddy, I just need time away from this city. I want to come home for a while.”
“Your bed is ready when you need it. We love you and support you, and if you want to come back at any time, just give us a heads up so we can pick you up at the airport.”
Chelsea started crying right there, on the phone. She knew what she was going to do, and it may have to mean paying the price of her soul with her career.
Music and Fiction 