An open letter on his desk caught Stanley's eye. It was from his wife. Her impatient signature was obvious, even without his glasses.
"Oh Shit, what have I done now?"
He hated her notes; never saying anything nice; always a handwritten reprimand or snarky criticism.
He bent down and read the single line there.
"Stanley, dinner's in the oven. ...... I'm leaving you."
At first, shock. Then awareness crept in.
Stanley smiled.
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The first tune I could think of that might fit nicely with this piece of flash was a a blues tune by David Bromberg recorded on his second album, "Demon in Disguise" in 1972. Here is the "Jug band Song", also known as "Doggone Evil".
The beaters were
off to his left. Their drums did not worry him; they warned him.
Fires
they touched off scared him though. Fire was so unpredictable.
His tail flicked.
He had figured
it out. Today, they would pay for her death and the litter she carried.
Today, some of them would become prey.
This prompt lead me to the Indian Tiger hunt movies and Tarzan jungle movies of my youth. The movies championed men who hunted for sport and took unfounded pride in their trophy kills. When I was a kid, I rooted for the tiger, the lion, Hell, pretty much any beast they found in their scopes.
I remembered a song I thought would be a good fit with this post. It is a classic folk tune from Africa. No, it is not a Tiger song, it is a Lion song; still a big cat song carrying similar concerns.
The first version I heard long before The Beachboys made it hit in the mid 1960s, was on the first LP I ever bought with my own money. "The Kingston Trio from the Hungy I". As it turns out, this particular song is one of the most covered tunes on the planet; especially for A Capella groups. Pleases enjoy this version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight", performed by one young woman who records it in 4 and 5 different takes, Very clever and well done ...... Enjoy.
I enjoyed this one for sure. Thank you for the prompt.
Revenge has never suited me. Once I became an adult, I shelved the petty revenge I dealt out as a child. It no longer seemed worth the time and effort. Spending time conjuring up pay back is time I can spend on other things. Of course, I have been lucky so far. I have had no incidents nor experienced deep personal pain or loss other than the usual pain and suffering of living.
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It surprises me that there really is not many good revenge tunes that don't follow the revenge is good mentality. So, I decided to add a song from the outfit, "Playing for Change". This group remotely brings together musicians from across the globe to produce wonderful covers of favorite songs from back in the day. They are a non profit. I am not asking anyone to donate. I don't do that as a rule. But if you like the video, check out some of their other covers . Here is an excellent cover of "When the Levee Breaks", originally by Led Zeppelin.
So far, I have really enjoyed the prompts on Sammi's "13 Days of Samhain" Challenge. So far, each one has elicited different approaches and results.
Last night I considered this post's prompt, "Kill or Cure", while I watched an old Ray Miland movie from 1962, "Panic in the Year Zero!". I remembered it. I saw it as a kid in a local movie theater.
It came out the same year the Cuban Missile Crisis unfolded in October of the same year. The World was actually but a bonehead mistake away from Thermo Nuclear War. To say the planet was on edge would be an understatement.
I wondered about what folks might discuss after an apocalyptic event. But then the twisted section in my brain pan stepped up and took over .... again. Time to channel Harlan Ellison.
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Call Me Cowboy stumbled back into camp. Draped on his shoulders was a puny tick infested mule deer whose death was probably doing it a favor. Times were not just tough for Humanity, times were even tougher for the rest of Life still living on the planet. But now that over half of humanity was fertilizer, the planet had a chance to recover.
The mighty hunter dropped the carcass onto the last blue tarp the group had. Cowboy walked over to what looked like a bundle of rags and kicked it.
"Get up ..... Deer to clean."
The bundle of rags slowly moved. Arms appeared out of the pile and the bundle sat upright.
Everyone in the group had a purpose. There were no freeloaders. People pulled their weight or they became a rib roast at the next group banquet. The bundle of rags knew and understood this reality. If she was to avoid the big pot, she had to make them want her around. She certainly was not there as a sex toy.
She could cook though. Before the Poc, she had been a chef who owned a 4 star restaurant in Portland, Maine. This woman could make dog shit taste good. She also was a born survivor. There was nothing she would not do in order to survive.
When the group first captured her, her future as a food source seemed imminent. Before they were about to gut her, she convinced them to skip her and pick the next loser in line. She promised them the best meal they would have since the Poc took everything and turned it to shit.
Red Rufus, the leader at the moment, gave her a chance. He handed her a knife, released the next victim in line to become lunch and told the Chef to take care of it. Of course, once released, the future meal took off into the pucker brush. All the boys laughed. The girls not so much; they saw no humor in anything these thugs and brutes came up with. But then as women, they had only a few options available to avoid the stew pots.
The next meal had a good jump on the Chef. But she didn't hesitate, she dove into the pucker after her quarry. Only briefly did she consider running away. She understood that they were faster than she was and could catch her again at their leisure. And if she was free, another, possibly more brutal group, might find her. The group that had her now did not seem to enjoy extreme torturous routine and sadistic behavior. She made a decision, caught their next meal and made it walk back to camp.
"Do we have a tarp ...... One without any holes?"
Red Rufus spoke up.
"A tarp? What for?"
The Chef looked at Red Rufus. She had all she could do to not turn away from looking at him. His face had been horribly wounded, leaving an unhealed gash open on his right cheek. She held her ground and her stare.
"Well, you assholes are wasting good food, the way you do it now. A good leak proof tarp will catch all the blood. Blood is not only a good source of nourishment, it can add extra flavor to the meal if used properly."
By this time, the Chef had the whole crew's attention. The eight of them gathered around her as she pushed the next meal onto the tarp. They all watched dispassionately as she killed, gutted, skinned and picked the body parts she would be preparing for supper. Not a one of them turned away. But then it had been over two years since the Poc. Any survivors still alive had become desensitized to the realities of the new age they found themselves in.
That meal sealed the deal. They called her Chef from then on. She was still occasionally kicked, punched, and impersonally mistreated. She had to remember her place. She was not one of them. She was owned by them. She was their slave. All she knew was being a slave beat being one in a pot over a fire.
Chef looked at the pitiful excuse of a deer laying on the blue tarp. Privately she was ecstatic. Finally a real game animal to cook and not some stringy old fart found wandering aimlessly around the Deadscape. She decided this meal would be transformative for the group. She would feed them like they had never been fed before. Yes, a meal they would never forget; or remember for that matter.
That evening, the boys were so eager to eat real game, they jumped all over that meal and soon were squabbling over seconds. All of them even took time to compliment the chef; even Slow Like Joe, who the Chef had only heard speak once or twice before. None of them took notice that the Chef did not partake of this grand feast. Not a bite. They were too wrapped up in their own gluttony to see her sitting quietly with a cat ate the canary look on her face.
Nobody kicked the Chef awake the next morning. No one demanded her presence for this or that minor chore she was expected to perform when not cooking. As a matter of fact, when she awoke to a silent and calm camp, she almost felt a pang of guilt for poisoning the whole lot of them.
Almost guilt was but a fleeting concern. She took her time cherry picking the best choices for her to scavenge and walked away from that camp without looking back. What she left behind she forgot as soon as she spotted her next meal limping along what was once a highway.
The Chef was a survivor for sure. - @ 950 words
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Picking a song this morning was suspicsiously easy and angst free. Is it because my almost lifelong soulmate, housemate and roomate has touched down and is back in New England this morning?
........... Nah. Shit happens is all. Here is a tune from a band I have resisted liking in the past. Is it they just seem too popular and successful? I could dwell on this question for awhile. But I have a Pat's game in an hour or so.
Here is Imagine Dragons and their song about things Apocalyptic. Here is "Radiation".
3 word prompt - hatch, toss, uncertain – 100 words
or less
“Down
the Hatch” - FF # 5
Neither praying nor fireworks had helped Sheriff Wilkins’ frame of
mind. The uncertainty of what might be coming ate at him. Was Martha, dead
Caleb and the livestock deaths to become a dark rabbit hole or just a
convergence of unrelated events?
“Wilky?”
A hand rested on his shoulder and made him jump. Wilkins turned.
Neighbor Jerry stood holding a tray holding a jug and two tumblers
containing what looked suspiciously like moonshine.
“Thought you might like to toss back a couple shots of my best ‘shine.”
Jerry handed Wilky a glass and raised his own glass.
“Down the hatch.”
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Had a bit of a struggle with this 100 words. The prompt words were not an issue. It was .... well, I am just not sure what held it up other than each time I was sure it was done, I rethought the point I wanted to make or the flow, Hell, this is the 5th rendition of this serial entry. I just had to stop and move on.
The musical choice gave me trouble too. I wanted to share some music I am told I used to rock out to at the age of 3 and 4. The strongest radio station in the Colorado Springs in the early 1950s was a country station out of Denver. Country and Bluegrass were my first music. And though I would later include a wide variety of musical genres to my quiver, the old country and bluegrass have never left . Here are the Stanley Brothers with their version of "Mountain Dew". Not about a soft drink however.
People go online and if they hang out long enough, they find something that sucks them in and will not let them go. They cannot help themselves. Whatever the something is; a game site, group site, a writing site, they are not happy until they have had that daily fix, weekly or even monthly fix.
I have a couple of games I sometimes play. Word related entertainment though, is my itch. Crossword puzzles, letter boxes, find the groups and flash fiction and poetry are my weaknesses, addictions, internet substance abuses. If I am not dickin around with words in one form or another, I am not happy.
I have never planned to monetize my writing. First of all, making money writing is easier said than done and once money enters the equation, that indicates writing is now labor and could easily turn into drudgery or worse, something I only do for the money.
I write because it makes me think, which in turn keeps everything else I have on board running like a an almost finely tuned old analog wind up clock. Writing keeps the pace in my brain on those manic days down to a dull roar. On the Depressive days, writing can help me climb out of it sooner than later.
I don't pretend to be any good or even in the ball park of good. It does not matter. I am having fun and that is all that matters.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................
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Figured finding a song about or containing Rhinosceros or is it Rhinoseri, then maybe it should be Rhinosceroses..... we'll let the Rhinos decide. I quickly , like almost instantly within five minutes or so, this Jazzy tune from Jon Gomm caught my attention. Excellent instrumental by again, an artist I never knew existed. Here is "Dance of the Last Rhino", by Jon Gomm. Enjoy mellow or loud, it works well on all levels.
Blackbeard knew his time was up when he saw Lt.
Robert Maynard step onto the quarterdeck of his destroyed frigate, “Queen Anne’s
Revenge”. Two sailors carrying an empty hogshead barrel followed which they set
next to him.
Blackbeard did not move. He stood tall and smiled. “So,
this is it. ….. Get on with it.”
The sailors bent Blackbeard over the barrel. The
lieutenant drew his cutlass and without a word, decapitated Edward Teach.
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I went through a "pirate phase" when I was a kid living in Tampa, Florida. Local pirate legend "Gasparilla" was championed up and down the west coast of Florida. His fictional story got me started and I spent many hours at the libraries near me learning what I could about pirates and all the swashbuckling they carried out as they fought the good fight against the imperialist Euro trash nations from across the Atlantic.
Loved the prompt. I immediately turned to the moment when Edward Teach was killed, having read so many tales about the last moments of his life.
When I was looking for an appropriate tune for this piece of Flash Fiction, I sifted through obnoxious tunes, timely tunes and finally settled on an excellent rendition of a Whaling Sea shanty, "Old Maui", by The Dreadnaughts. Excellent harmonies.
After rediscovering sea shanties again after so many years, naturally, I had to spend a few hours listening to some I remembered and more that I had never heard before. Here for an encore are the Dreadnaughts with their ribald shanty, "Sally Brown".
Due Midnight Thur, 4th July – Prompts – Delirious, Open
Song
4th
of July – Finally Free #4
Sheriff Wilkins sat back in his lawn chair, rubbed
his bloated belly and opened a beer. He thought that might be the best barbecue
he had ever grilled. His guests seemed to agree. They laid or sat in a culinary
stupor waiting for the fireworks coming up.
Wilkins could not relax. Martha King's recent delirium
and break from reality would not let him rest. Closing his eyes, Martha’s anguished
face, her body wrapped in a strait jacket, was all he could see.
Like he did in Sunday school so many years ago,
Wilky began to quietly sing “The Lord’s Prayer”.
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There is only one tune fitting for "The 4th of July" and it is Jimi Hendrix's interpretation of America's National Anthem. Still gives me chills after all these years. What I find ironic is that when Jimi played this at Woodstock in 1969, the anal retentive panty bunching conservatives of that era called him a commie and a traitor for disrespecting the anthem like he did. Today, the Right Wingin MAGA maniacs have tried to steal it and make it their own.
My opinion then is the same as it is now. Jimi's version is the best version ever.
Two efforts this time. The choice was Poetry or Prose, 33 words exactly. My goal was some poetry. Not sure how that went, but I am happy with my effort. Haven't attempted Poetry for quite awhile.
#1 - Spoonful of Courage
Let me find
a spoonful of courage,
A thimble of
audacity
To lift my
cowardly heart,
Stiffen my
spine.
Face my
demons up on two legs
Not down on
weak and frightened knees
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#2 – Bitter Spoonful
A bitter
spoonful of hate and discontent
Can ruin the
best of times
Lay low the best
of intentions
Destroy
great nations
Before
anyone has a chance
To understand exactly what it meant
This was my first participation in "Weekend Writing Prompt".
Keep it "tween the ditches ..............................
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Thought I would add an appropriate tune if for no other reason its title is "Spoonful". Performed by Cream of many years ago. Enjoy. This a live version off their "Wheels of Fire" album.
The Sheriff sat back and sighed. He
hated paperwork. He didn’t have to embrace it, but he had to get it done. Until
the paperwork was finished and filed or passed along, he couldn’t relax.
Finally, he could kickback.
The phone rang.
“Sheriff Wilkins.”
“Wilky, you gotta come….
“Sam, calm yourself, …. If I
drive down there and it’s another ………
“No false alarm Wilky… Promise. ….I
told you it were a bad omen not tossing Martha in jail.”
“Why, what’s she done now?”
“She’s gone plumb crazy. She’s …
she’s killin my livestock.”
“With what? I took her shotgun.”
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Adding music to my posts over on "Lost in the BoZone" has become a nice addition for me. I often spend an hour or more cruising YouTube looking for music I might fit with the piece I wanted to post. Since I began to regularly include the music, I have discovered worthy new music at a rate I never imagined before.
So I will try to include a tune or two with the writing I post here in "BoZone Too". I thought a tune from a Brit with real talent might be a good first choice. Here is Ren with "Violet's Tale". Ren got his start as a busker on th estreets of London, Liverpool, maybe others. His band, The Big Push were amazing. At some point around 2010 I think, Ren developed an auto immune problem and was hospitalized which also messed with his head. He persevered, overcame his medical issues enough to begin producing music again, only under his own name. The man is quite the wordsmith also.
In the vicinity of the big birch hanging over
a drainpipe at the train station, buttercups lurked in the diffused amber light
of the foggy wet morning. Harold took a moment and looked out over the mullion
of the sliding window next to his seat on the train. He was having trouble with
his morning crossword. He turned to the only other passenger in that
compartment.
“Could you help me?”
“I will if I can. What is it you want?”
“Do you spell flower, F-L-O-W-E-R or F-L-O-U-R?”
“Depends. Are you creating a flower arrangement
or are you baking a cake?”
“Finally Free” - #2 - Prediction Challenge for Fri. 6/14/2024
Three word prompt - Bog, Cryptic, Emergency
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Sheriff Wilkins sighed. On the clipboard in front of him, a blank crime report remained untouched. It was an open and shut case, yet here he was bogged down while he wrestled with legalities and his personal ethics code.
She shouldn’t go to jail. 35 years Caleb had beaten on her. Wilkins had done what he could, but she wouldn’t bring charges. He did manage to set up a cryptic message system so she could call him in an emergency without Caleb being the wiser.
This time she didn’t call. And now Caleb had no face.
Sheriff Wilkins bent closer to the body covered in small blisters
Martha stood rigid, her legs apart, hands on her hips and rolled her eyes.
“I ain’t never been no lady of refined ways, but that don’t give him no right to treat me like a farm animal……. It was time I set myself free. I killed the sumbitch, that’s what I did.”
“Caleb was indeed a mean one alright. But what did you do?”
“ Fed him a horse nettle salad. Didn’t work, so I pulled down the ten gauge and made sure.”
I was 17 years old at the Acton Fair. I was determined to gain access to the Hoochie Coochie tent. Last year, the hawker out front laughed and sent me packing.
How could I get in? Security was tight. Without an ID, it seemed destined to be a failed effort. It was no longer about ogling naked women. It was now me against the rules.
As I walked away, it came to me out of the blue.
I would come back in my military school uniform. They might let me in then.
It worked.
Oddly, I left totally unimpressed.
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Challenge was "In a Flash". Write about a Eureka moment, sudden realization, etc.
True story. I compacted it into 99 words so I could enter it in this weekly Carrot Ranch Flash Challenge. It has been awhile since I tried any Flash Fiction. I really enjoy Flash challenges. They force me to focus on the essence of the story, without all the trimmings that so often are just that, trimmings.
I have a much longer piece about this incident from my teen age years. It has languished now for at least a decade.
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I had a song picked out for this story before I even wrote it. I heard the song for the first time in college, several years after I sneaked into that Hoochie Coochie tent. Please enjoy "Sharon", by David Bromberg.
“We’d made a
promise when we were kids that we would never see each other again. Yet, here
you are on my doorstep and once again asking for help I cannot imagine giving
you.”
“When I
helped you bury that other friend of yours, I told you that was the last time. I
won’t even loan you a shovel. Now take your sorry ass and ………….”
“Wait now.
Let’s not get excited. No need to brandish such a large knife. You know what?
Screw that promise we made when we were kids.”
“How can I
help you old friend?”
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Since Charli,the author of this challenge, used Kenny loggins' tune, "Danger Zone" as her prompt, I will follow suit and use it here.
100 word maximum - Three words - Available, Third, Yoke
The
Secret of God
Eons before any other species began to gain
self awareness, our kind learned in their third epoch the most efficient method
for conquering the Universe.
It wasn’t with grand, extravagant, expensive
violence. No. Cost too many lives.
Instead, we learned unexpected and unseen infiltrations were consistently more
successful at bringing another race or planet under our yoke.
Our asteroid will collide with Planet 13 in
Quadrant 2334 soon. There will be no need to prepare to land. Available DNA
strands safely ensconced deep inside this rock will ensure a successful
conquest.
Patience and time is all that is needed now.
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So, for this post, I had to include two musical choices :
Should
he tell his mom he heard her on the phone last night?
Should
he tell her he knew someone far away threatened his life?
Should
he run to her, grab her, hug her; tell her everything is alright?
Even
at the age of nine, Mark knew the answers.
His
family always kept their eyes dry above their stiff upper lips.
Never
show fear.
So
he held back, restrained himself; quaking and shaking under his blanket until
daylight.
The
next day Mark was on a plane to Florida to join his father who had just started
a new job.
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This is about a day I will remember as the first Reality butt kick I received as a child. My idyllic life to that point changed dramatically. The next four years in Florida only reinforced that Life was not just TV cartoons and comic books.
Facts injected with conjecture and
foregone conclusions,
Cast Truth aside in pursuit of knee
jerked solutions.
Lost in a sea of deception,
Specious goals are massaged by lying
hands,
Replacing Honesty with Truth’s ugly
step sister,
The Half Truth.
The Midway Squawkers and Snake Oil
Salesmen
Insist and demand the Half Truth
into our lives
Hoping their deception lasts long
enough
For them to cash in their nickels and
dimes.
Assaulted long enough,
We allow recent lies to become our
New Truth.
Delusion casts itself in stone
Brain dead populations dance around
it
Happy as if they had brains.
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I first wrote this as a Flash fiction 100 word composition quite awhile ago. I have now converted it into a poem with some minor changes. It is no longer 100 words, it is now 99 words.
I thought given the current political moods clashing and thrashing worse than ever, re-posting it here and now might just impart how I feel regarding the current crop of leaders and their lackeys.
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So I had no problem locating an appropriate tune for this post.
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