Friday Fictioneers – Valerie

For some reason, I am not sure why, this is the second week I have done a Fictioneers story with a girl’s name as the title. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in the middle of making a move. Next week’s Fictioneers story will be done from Melbourne, Australia!

copyright Kent Bonham

Valerie

by Miles H. Rost

Lollipops.

She walked up to the DJ booth that I was sitting at, and plunked a sack of lollipops next to the control board. She looked at me with those blue eyes, framed by aureolin-tinged hair, and a sly smile.

“I figured you could use these.”

I looked up at her, one eyebrow arched, giving her a querious look that could only be reserved for certain people. I looked at the flat candies on a stick and popped one in my mouth.

“Thanks, Val! You’re the best cousin around!” I beamed back with a cheesy smile

She furrowed her eyebrows at me, and stomped away, her attempt at flustering me failing miserably.

————-

^ Original Version

^ 1987 Remixed Version

Trying to Stop Failure (aka “Mourning Dove”)

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.

 

Mexican Radio

by Miles Rost

Apparently, it had been three days since I last saw consciousness.

Here’s what I remember so far. I was staying at a friend of mine’s place in Sylmar, waiting for word back from a prospective client for a job in imports and exports. They dealt with Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand explicitly, and since I knew how to speak Vietnamese and Thai, I figured I would have an in. I sit down in front of the TV and watch an episode of The People’s Court, then a rerun of NCIS. I chugged down a glass of freshly made iced tea that my host had made before he left for work. I start feeling really good, and decide that it’s nice enough to take a nap.

When I woke up, three days later, I heard the chatter from a small transistor radio in my room. I tried listening hard, but I couldn’t understand just what the DJ was saying. I blinked for a few moments to get my bearings, and see if it was morning or night. To my surprise, in the room there were no windows. Now, understand something, this room was about as big as a closet in an average apartment. So, I get up and slowly walk to the door.

I opened up the door and I looked at the room. There was a light on, but it was one bulb. It was pretty dark, and kinda warm in there. I looked on the table and saw a microphone, a control board, and a couple of CD players. I also saw my laptop next to the microphone. It was plugged in and ready to go, though I noticed that all my chat programs on there were gone.

I went to the refrigerator, but I saw there was nothing there except water and a couple bottles of Corona. Greeeeeat, just what I didn’t need. Alcohol. I went over to the main door and tried to open it. Clearly, it was bolted shut and was made of a strong metal that reminded me of the inside of an Abrams tank.

Suddenly, the small door slot opened and a plate full of meat, beans, and rice came through the door. A note was next to it. So I grabbed it up, walked over to another table next to the broadcast table, and proceeded to read the note.

Oy-

Enjoy your food. Your show starts in 30 minutes. Clock is on the wall and is atomic-based.

your employer.

Okay, that’s nice. Well, let’s take a look at what I got. Hmmm…looked like kebabs, beans, and rice. So I took a bite of kebab. It actually tasted good…for about 5 seconds, then it took a turn towards the very chewy and the not-so-palatable. Instead, I ate the beans and rice and kept the plate of meat nearby for something to snack on while I did some sort of broadcasting show.

Only after putting on the headphones and turning on the mic did a window finally open. And I was shocked by what I saw. I was on the 12th floor of a building overlooking what could only be described as the brown-haired and dirty stepchild of the City of San Diego. With looking out that window, looking down at the meat, and the phone that was now ringing via a red signal, I finally realized that I was the living epitome of a major song:

I found I was in Tijuana
Eating barbequed ignuana
I take requests on the telephone
I’m on a wavelength far from home

God, help me now. I’m on-a Mexican Radio.