Friday Fictioneers – Mandolin Rain

(Author’s note: Currently dealing with work issues that crop up like rocks in a plowed field. Gotta pick them and toss them, and keep chugging away. I’ll have more stuff soon. In the meantime, enjoy this Fictioneers post. BTW, if you’re in Australia, Germany, Mexico, Japan, or New Zealand, you won’t be able to watch the video. Look for Bruce Hornsby and The Range – Mandolin Rain)

 

© Mary Shipman

Mandolin Rain

by Miles H. Rost

We walked into the house, clothes soaking wet after a downpour that we didn’t expect.

“Honey, take your clothes off before going into the living room. I don’t want the carpet to get water on it.”
“So where are you going to put them, since we don’t have our dryer yet?”
“We’ll go Korean-style.”
“Where ya going to hang them from?”
“The rafters? The chandelier?

I took a breath, and looked around.

“Well, at least it’s not going to be occupied.”
“By whom?”
“Well, I was thinking…”

My face turned beet red. She started sputtering.

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The Valley Road – Friday Fictioneers

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.”

On The Western Skyline

On The Western Skyline
by Miles Rost

“Hey, Duke.”

“Yeah?”

“You remember Heather Yamada?”

“You mean ‘Yadda Yadda Yamada’? She was the Seinfeld fangirl in high school.”

“Yeah, she’s on my facebook. She posted something that made me think of things.”

Douglas “Duke” Chambers and Jeremiah “Jeeves” Wetherby were the best of friends, and as they sat on the porch of Jeremiah’s newly acquired house, they talked about the old days. Both went to the same high school, went different paths in life, but met back up after their tours were done. They sat looking at the sunset going down over the California high desert.

“What did she say?”

“She put up a post talking about ladies who pray for their future husbands.”

Duke snorted at the mention of future spouses.

“That sounds incredibly silly. Why would someone want to pray for their future husband? I mean, are we supposed to sit around and pray for our future wives or something?”

“That’s the thing, Duke. I didn’t really think about it at first, but it kept hitting me in the head as I thought about it more.”

“How did it hit you?”

“Not exactly sure how, but it just made sense. If a woman is praying for her future husband, then it would be rightful in thinking that there are women who are waiting for me.”

“Women? Waiting for you?” Duke said, with a chuckle roaring across the porch.

“I wouldn’t believe it either. But for us guys, it seems to make sense, too. If there are guys like us who are praying for our future wives, then that would mean that those guys are also waiting for those women.”

“And how are you so sure, Jeeves? How are you so sure there’s a woman out there for you?”

“I guess it’s all on faith. Some nights, as I’m staring out into twilight, I wish for her to be with me that night. Who, is the question I keep wondering though.”

“You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?”

“It just makes sense, that’s all. I can tell you that there are lonely women saying a prayer on the western skyline right now, probably praying that they find you.”

Duke thought about it for a second.

“The question is, Jer, who would want me?”

“Trust me, there are women who want you. They just haven’t been given the Gibbs slap of realization yet.”

“You’ve been watching NCIS again, haven’t you?”

Jeeves looked back with a grin.

“Who wouldn’t?”

The Changes

by Miles Rost

Mike and Chelsie walked into the theatre five hours early, expecting to practice in the silence of the hall without any problem before the big performance that night. Mike was a horn player with his expertise in the trombone, though when asked he could bring out his trumpet and whip up a Herb Alpert production that would put the man himself in awe. For Chelsie, she worked with Mike for many years as his piano accompanist. She was adept on the ivories, and could be brought in for session work for any major band as a pianist or a keyboardist.

When they received the invitation to play the “New Fillmore” theatre in San Francisco, they jumped at the chance. After playing in smaller venues like Missoula, Montana and Boise, Idaho, they were ready to take their chance. Even playing in larger venues like Sacramento and Reno were good, but they weren’t the big spots. They weren’t San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, or even their dream: Los Angeles. When they got to the New Fillmore Theatre, they expected to have the theatre to themselves.

Boy, were they wrong.

As they opened the door, it was pandemonium. In one part of the backstage area, labeled as “Rehearsal Studio D”, there was a loud raucous band of youth attempting to try and perform like the Tijuana Brass. In Mike’s eyes, they weren’t going to even make the Tijuana Prison Brass Band look bad. And down another hallway, it was a dance troupe practicing only what Chelsie could think of as high school grade danceline work.

They walked up to a woman with a clipboard, wearing a dark blue pantsuit and a serious expression.

“I don’t know if we’re in the right place…”

“Then why are you here?” the pantsuit girl turned around to them, with an annoyed, yet serious expression.

“We were invited,” Chelsie responded indignantly.

“Oh. Names?”

“Mike Clark and Chelsie Daniels.”

The pantsuit girl leafed through some sheets and scanned the paper.

“Ah, the boner/pianist duet.”

“You make it sound so dirty,” Mike responded.

“Shorthand usually does that. You’re in Rehearsal Studio E.”

“Where’s that?”

“Main stage. We’re really full up in places, and Studio A is booked with the main act.”

“Who’s that?”

“Surprise. Can’t tell you.”

Mike looked at her blankly, wondering just where this woman came off acting in such a way.

“Head to the main stage. Make sure you’re only playing what you’re supposed to play for the show tonight. Any sort of musical hanky-panky will get you removed from the schedule. If you want to play such things…”

The pantsuit girl gave both of them a nasty gaze, as she breathed in.

“…play it on your own damn time.”

She suddenly turned away and walked toward another group of people that were not where they were supposed to be.

The duo looked at each other, looked at the programs in their hands, and felt like they were trapped. They knew that even though they didn’t want to have to do this gig, this seemed to be the only time when they could play at a major location and maybe get noticed.
What they didn’t notice was a man, looking at them from a dark wing away from notice. He smirked as he thought about the changes coming.

“These two musicians will work perfectly…” he said to himself, pleased with his choice.