(Author’s Note: When work gets busier, I get less time to write. Things are starting to slow down, so that helps out. Here’s this week’s Friday Fictioneers!)
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.
(Author’s note: I will be moving soon. The house I’m in will be sold, and I’ll be moving to another place in another part of town. It’ll be nice, a little closer to work, a little closer to everything. It’ll also be more stable, which means I’ll be able to do more, such as working on this script that I’ve put off for nearly 3 years. Here’s to hoping it works! Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers)
We took the train down to Southern California. It was one of the last rides I would take with my grandpa.
“Sonny, I want you to have something.”
I looked up at him, and smiled. He gave me a photo.
“When I leave, I want you to look at this. Especially when you feel down.”
“But Grandpa, you’ll always be around.”
“Not always, Sonny.”
“If I have this picture, you’ll always be there.”
He just smiled.
That was 20 years ago. He died shortly after that. But I always have him with me, on the neck of my guitar on stage.
(Author’s note: So, for the first time in a long time, I missed Fictioneers last week. I was on an Amtrak crossing the Northwest quadrant of the US, to visit family in Minnesota. I am on the way back later this week, so I got time to write this week. I will have more about things coming up, but I figured today would be a good day for writing a fictioneers. Enjoy!)
Scratch paper and plenty of 0.5 HB lead sharps? Check.
Typewriter ribbon changed? Check.
Circuit breaker off, lamps on? Check.
He was ready. Nothing could distract him, and nothing could get him down. He was going to write and that was that. He put his fingers on the keyboard and breathed.
And he breathed again.
3 hours later, he was still breathing. Not a single word typed.
He removed his hands from the keyboard and sighed.
Author’s Note: So, after a 6 month hiatus due to school and issues related, I finally have started posting stories again. My goal is to post one 1,000+ word story every week (likely on Sunday KST), and let people have at it. So, Sunday, I posted the first of a series that I plan to work on over this next year. Warriors of Honor is a series that details the life of five young ladies and how they deal with dual lives and faith. Two of the stories have been printed before on this blog, and they are going to be edited and released soon. However, if you like, you can read the first and main character of our series, The Fire Sniper. It is available for you to look over and enjoy. And don’t forget to comment! Now…onto the Fictioneers!
Trying to Stop Failure
(aka “Mourning Dove”) By Miles Rost
Part 4 of Mayumi’s story
Months had passed by since the last time Mayumi Shiomi had left her job at Shine FM and went to a competitor. She waited a month, and in that time had great development in her personal life. With one exception…
The men that she had in her life sucked.
She had gone for a good two to three months without even dealing with such an issue, and she was getting better at staying away from situations, but the last guy she met just took her by surprise and she fell, very hard, in love. And got hurt in the interim.
She just broke up with another guy who wanted to use her and abuse her. After the night of their last date, she cried herself to sleep asking for things to finally just stop. That she didn’t want a relationship anymore, and that she needed some “me-time”.
She woke up the next morning, and looked at herself in the mirror. The short sandy brown hair that she used to have had grown a little longer in the months preceding. It was now down to her shoulders, but constantly tied up in a ponytail. She looked a slight bit older than her age, but she didn’t think much of it.
“Ah feel like crap right now,” she muttered to her reflection, “I have no clue what to do, how to deal with all these problems with men. Why…why do I attract that type of man?”
She changed out of her pajamas and put herself under the hot water of a long shower. She thought about where things went wrong, and where in her past was the catalyst for the change she had to deal with constantly. She turned on the waterproof radio that hung in the shower, and tuned it to her new station, Power FM 87. She knew that her show would be on in about 3 hours, and that before that was a great smooth jazz show by her newest friend, Mitzi.
“…and later this week, Larry Carlton will be in Melbourne, playing a 5 date set at Bennets Lane. Here’s a great one from him, going back a few years. This is Mourning Dove, on the Smooth Move show, here on Power FM!”
The start of the music shot into Mayumi’s heart like a needle into a vein. The soft keyboard and the beginning strains of the artist’s guitar nailed the feelings she felt at that time. She was mourning. Mourning her own problems with men, with falling a step behind again, and feeling lower than normal. She just stood under the steady and hard stream of water, as she started drifting into memories.
As the saxophone and guitars harmonized and carried her away, she looked back to the age of 10. She remembered seeing her own father, a man who she barely ever saw in later years. She saw the memory she had of him, smacking her mom around. She remembered him grabbing her mom’s arm and muscling her towards the bedroom. She remembered hearing the sounds, and running to her hiding place in the far part of the basement.
“Is this what ah’m running from?” she asked her 10 year old self, in her mind, “Is this why ah get the men I do?”
Her 10 year old memory looked back at her, saying nothing but showing her a glimpse of what may have happened to give her the perpetual bad luck with men.
She let the music carry her to another part of her mind, the water relaxing her to the point where she could do much more with her soul, mind, and body.
“Lord, ah think we know why things are the way they are,” she said, in a prayerful tone, “Ah’m dealing with the ghosts of the past, and it’s time that we work together on this. Ah wanna be free, and ah know you love me enough to want me to be free. Ah can’t do this alone, and ah have to give it up to you everyday.”
The song’s warm yet sad tones bled across her mind, the prayers she was sending infused with the music’s energy. She had never prayed as hard as she did at that moment, with hot water hitting her tired and stressed out shoulders.
“Father, help me address this problem. The image of my father, ah need to move on from it. Father, help me as ah do what I need to do.”
She kept praying, the water pouring over her hair like a waterfall. She didn’t know what effect her prayer would be, but she realized that she would eventually need to let everything go in a way.
As the song ended and a new smooth jazz song came on, she started her ritual of cleaning, getting ready for work. She felt lighter, but she didn’t know what would happen next.
Music and Fiction 