JSW Prompt 7-23-2016

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He humphed, looking pointedly away so I’d know he was miffed. As if I couldn’t read him better than ‘Dick and Jane’ any day. But a dreamer needs dreams and, God knows, he needed something.

I wasn’t fine, but no way was I telling. I’d be down, bagged and back in prison by sunset. And that, despite dreams, was so not going to happen.

He needed me out. I needed to be out, so here we were.

I ordered a drink. Gotta love an open bar.

He frowned. “This isn’t a Holiday.”

“Want me to fit in? This is a wealth-of-the-wealthy party. Not having a drink would cause questions.”

Bullshit, but I hadn’t had a drink in five years. I was going to make the best damn use of the time as possible.

“Look, you’re messing my rhythm. Try to look a little less like an ass at a pony show.”

A gaggle of beauties flittered by. I smiled, showing just enough interest to – almost – be rude, but not quite. They giggled and hurried on.

Chances lost and all that.

I surveyed the ball room. My, my, oh my. It’d been too long since I’d seen this much bling in one place. The sight was almost sexual. Not quite,  you understand, but almost. There again, five years.

I sipped scotch. There is a certain dynamic to a ball room. Once known, anything is possible.

“Do you see it?” he whispered.

“Not with you in my ear. We didn’t come as boyfriends.”

Which set him back a few steps.

“You brought me here to save your ass from a serious whooping. Let me do my job.”

While he chewed that, I walked away.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction – July 17th 2016

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The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around 200 words using the photo as a guide.

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

The pen lay where I’d left it, the little bastard. I’d been here before, too many times to count, which is why I knew all its little games. I surveyed the waves of crumpled papers sea-drifted around the bench. One of those days. If you know what I mean.

I didn’t have them often, days when the muse takes a holiday, but it does happen. I started to play scales, fingers loving black and whites, transforming to random pieces from other composers and well as my own.

My mother dreamed a world where I was a concert pianist, but her dream wasn’t mine. Oh, I love classical music and I’ve written my fair share, but it never held my heart. I played it when nothing else came, letting the swell and fall of the notes devour my soul.

About half-way to devoured, the phone rang. “You done?”

“If I was done, don’t you think I’d of said?”

“We start recording in a week.”

“Really?” I hung up, took several deep breaths and picked up the pen, notes flowing from my fingers as the music had moment before.

Welcome home, Muse. Welcome home.