Flash Frenzy Round 43

Posted: November 8, 2014 in Flash Frenzy Weekend Flash Challenge
Tags: , , ,

Welcome back, FlashDogs. Flash Frenzy Round 43 is upon us, and Bart van Goethem is standing in as judge this weekend.

Before we get started, here’s a brief reminder of the rules.

Deadline: Sunday at 6:00pm MST. You all have 36 hours to create your best work of up to 360 words (exclusive of title) and post it into the comments below. Please include your word count (required) and Twitter handle if applicable. For complete rules, click here. 

The winning author and their story will be featured as Wednesday’s Hump-Day Quickie, receive a winner’s page, and be crowned Flash Master of the Week.

Here is your prompt.

Round 43

photo courtesy Ashwin Rao


  1. Holly Geely says:

    357 Words

    “You said you were taking me to see your new favourite band,” Alex said.

    “Yeah. So?”

    “I wasn’t expecting your new favourite band to be a bunch of bums in the park.”

    Wanda put a hand on her hip and regarded him with what might be a cool stare. It was hard to tell under the sunglasses.

    “They’re not bums,” Wanda said. “They’re musicians.”

    “I don’t know, sis. The shirtless one with the long hair definitely looks like a bum.”

    “Why don’t you shut up and give them a try?”

    “Fine, but I’m warning you, you’re starting to sound like Dad.”

    The punch Wanda delivered was probably meant to be playful, but Alex was sure his arm was going to bruise.


    “Look at the hat on that one,” Jake said.

    “I can’t. I’m too busy staring at the socks with sandals. It makes me sad,” Rachel said.

    “Look, I didn’t come here to talk fashion with you. I wanted to talk to you about your brother. Do you think he’s ever going to take me back?” Jake asked.

    Rachel cleared her throat a few times. The expression of pained hope on Jake’s face was almost pathetic.

    “Maybe,” she said, drawing the word out. She changed the subject before Jake could question further. “That band’s not very good.”

    “I’ve heard worse. The skinny one needs to put his shirt on, though.”


    A breeze stirred Jeff’s three chest hairs. He never wore a shirt if he could help it. Shirts were confining and restricted his creative energies.

    Plus he looked super hot shirtless.

    “We’re killing it today,” Jeff said. He nodded his head at the growing crowd. “Twice as many as yesterday.”

    “I told you starting a band was a good idea,” Max said. “Before you know it, we’re gonna be famous.”

    “I dunno,” Aaron said. “Twice as many is four. Does that count as famous?”

    “If we keep doubling it every day it does,” Jeff said. He winked at the woman seated on the step. She was staring and he could tell she totally loved his smooth abdomen.

    “You’re right,” Aaron said. “Play on, everybody!”


  2. Cathy Lennon says:

    And the beat goes on
    360 words

    Josh stopped bringing me coffee in the park last week. I used to spread out my jacket on the amphitheatre steps, perch on one side of it and wait for him. This week, I bought my own coffee, lay down my jacket and just sat in the middle of it. Our break-up had been unremarkable. Not so much a decision as an inevitability. Familiarity. Boredom. Loss of intimacy. It still felt as though one or other of us might forget that it was real. But –one jacket, one coffee.

    On Monday I watched a juggler performing. He was nothing special and I couldn’t stop staring at the entrance to Josh’s office building, waiting for that familiar suit to show in the revolving door. It shouldn’t have hurt so much, to see him walking out with a woman in a beautiful trench coat. I’d been a little bit excited about the return to single life up until then.

    On Tuesday there was a four piece band, jamming away like they were in Madison Square Gardens. They weren’t exactly drawing a crowd. The lead singer wore a vest and a trilby. He looked like a rock star but he sounded like a magpie with laryngitis. The guy on bongos cracked jokes with the guitarist the whole time. It was the drummer who drew me. Long-haired, bearded, stripped to the waist. He sat there, Jesus-like, staring into the distance like no one understood his suffering. That drumbeat. I’d felt it before I’d recognized it.

    They were there again on Wednesday. This time, I was familiar with their repertoire. I even joined in the choruses. Trilby gave me a wink and waved when I dropped some coins in the guitar case on my way back to work. Bongo and Strings high fived and blew me a kiss. Jesus glanced at me, gave the ghost of a smile. I smiled back.

    On Friday I bumped into Josh and Trench Coat outside Starbucks. Apologizing and smiling, we made an awkward trio. I said goodbye and headed across the park in the direction of the music. I concentrated on not spilling the two coffees in my hands.

  3. streetej says:

    Seraphim Music
    356 words

    They gathered in Brewery Park, bringing their drums, the instruments that best approximated the sound of lost angelic voices. Only Carlo had a guitar.

    “Strings,” Axel scoffed. “You always did have a twang in your timbre, Carlo, but strings can’t push air like a drum.”

    Carlo offered a secret smile. “Small but mighty. You wait. Strings’ll work.”

    Demian set up the microphone.

    “Turn that contraption up,” Axel commanded. “The bigger the amplitude, the greater the intensity, the more power we can generate.”

    Baraq tapped a practice riff on the snare drum, so enticing it already brought spectators.
    “Hush,” snapped Axel. “Wait until we’re ready.”

    They looked like normal young men, buskers come to play for money. Baraq set out a hat with coins in it to complete the illusion.

    “Ready?” Axel murmured.
    The others nodded.

    Axel beat out a steady four-four on the dhol, hitting the drum with all the force he could muster.

    Park-goers froze as their heartbeats synced with the drum’s pulse. They gathered around the musicians, in thrall to the beat.

    Baraq added a skittering staccato rhythm that coaxed the breath from all who heard it.

    Carlo summoned a sweet, sorrowful melody from his guitar. The crowd wept. Power surged in his hands as he harvested their emotions.

    Demian sang an eerie harmony that robbed the audience of sight, touch, smell, and taste. They could do nothing but listen.

    The music crescendoed, battering the surrounding air, creating an almost visible storm. A lone dog circled the scene, whimpering. Beneath the chaos, the animal’s ears picked up the ominous beat of a hundred hearts pumping in time to Axel’s drum.

    Carlo’s fingers flew.
    Demian howled.
    Baraq sweated as the tempo increased.

    Axel slammed the dhol harder, faster. The audience shook and quivered as though in pain.

    Faster, harder; the music crested in a deafening roar.

    The sky cracked with a final thunderous boom. Instruments and players burst into flame. Listeners collapsed, writhing and moaning.


    “At last.” Axel rose from a pile of ash, unfurling six wings like black velvet. “We were trapped too long in human skins. Now we can truly sing again.”

    • necwrites says:

      I love the descriptions of the music and the responses of the audience “skittering staccato” coaxing breath–captivating, affecting the reader along with the audience.

  4. voimaoy says:

    Stray Dogs Play In Heaven
    330 words

    They were talking about rock n roll heaven. Who’s playing in the band? That’s what they were discussing at the very moment the van they were riding in got hit by an oncoming train, killing them instantly. Implausible as it may seem, that’s what happened to the Stray Dogs–Kevin, Greg, Lenny and Bruce.

    Well, actually, Bruce was thinking about his girlfriend, Sharon, when they were blinded by the white light. And their last words were “Nooooooooo,” but before that they had been talking about dead people-Amy and Sid, John and Kurt, Jimi and Janis and Steve Jobs.

    They found themselves in the most beautiful park, on the most perfect summer day. Surprisingly, they seemed unscathed by their tragic fatal accident. Even their instruments were intact.

    “Look, there’s Kurt!” Lenny, the lead singer and songwriter waved, and Kurt Cobain waved back. Kevin the drummer waved to Sid, who handed him a beer. Greg was talking with John Lennon. Soon, Amy Winehouse came over the hill.

    It was glorious. It was everything they had imagined.

    Then, along came a tiny brunette, a pixie angel in skinny black pants. She was smiling and carrying an iPad.

    “Hi guys, how’s it going?”

    “It’s, wow, like wow,” Greg said. “I mean, this is heaven, right?”

    “Well, you could say that.” the angel swiped her finger over the tablet. ” I’m glad you’re all doing okay.” She tapped and pouted at the screen. “But, there seems to be some mistake.”

    “You don’t mean the other place?” Bruce said. “We didn’t do anything illegal. Well, not much, anyway.”

    “No, it’s not that.” She smiled again. “You shouldn’t be here, at all.”

    The signal lights were flashing as they watched the receding train.

    “Wow, that was close,” Greg said. “Lenny, pay attention. You could have got us killed.”

    “Sorry, man. That stuff is strong.”

    “Oh, yeah,” Bruce took another drag. “Good stuff. I saw the white light.”

    Kevin watched the smoke spiralling upward. ” You wouldn’t believe what I saw.”

  5. jif73 says:

    Clever stuff. Made me smile and I don’t do that – “well, not much, anyway”!

  6. Sal Page says:

    Singing to the Flowers

    Don’t be daft, lad, of course I wasn’t in a band. Tone deaf, me. You get your musical talent from your grandma. Where is she? Oh, she’s in the garden. Keep an eye out will you?

    Nineteen-seventy that picture was taken. Forty years. No, it’s more than that, isn’t it? Unbelievable. Seems just like yesterday. Me and the boys went to that festival for the weekend. The band had nipped off somewhere. We grabbed our opportunity and posed with their abandoned instruments.

    That was the day your grandma and I met. She had a big floppy pink flower in her hair and of course she still has that beautiful smile. She was sitting on the grass nearby and I handed her my camera. Didn’t say a word but she knew straight away I wanted her to take our picture.

    That’s me with the big drum. Seems like I don’t even know which part to hit, doesn’t it? Brian hogged the proper drum kit and whipped his shirt off. I have to admit he looked the part but he only crashed the symbols a few times. That’s right, Brian’s that fat bald man we bumped into the other day.

    She all right? Singing to the flowers again? Just let me know if you lose sight of her. Keeps wandering off, bless her. As long as she doesn’t go out of the gate we’re all right. She’ll be happy enough out there. For a while.

    That’s Ronnie. Don’t ask me what he’s doing with his sweater on his head. Maybe he thought it’d look like dreadlocks. And that’s Jimmy singing. Sounded like someone trying to strangle a gargling parakeet. I can only assume that’s what the people in the background are laughing at. I miss Jimmy. Oh, he’s been dead years. He’s the reason I wouldn’t give your sister money for a motorbike. Say no more.

    Once she’d taken the picture, the band came back and shooed us away. We got talking and that was it. Inseparable ever since. Your mother was born a year later.

    What’s she doing? I wish she remembered. And I do wish she knew who I was.


    360 words

    • jif73 says:

      Clever take on the photo to have the guys simply posing with the instruments.

      The reminiscing and subsequent history provoke a whole range of emotions.
      Sad but all to familiar ending for a lot of people these days.

      Great job!

      • jif73 says:

        That should have been “all too familiar…”.

        [Also I forgot to make the pedantic point out that those metal plates on a drum kit are ” cymbals” not “symbols”.]

    • Geoff Holme says:

      Seems like we both thought of a “Whatever happened to the likely lads?” scenario.

      Funny, poignant and sad by turns, and well observed – “Brian’s that fat bald man we bumped into the other day”!

      Fabulous piece!

  7. Marie McKay says:

    The Lyricist
    (208 words)

    Dorian’s words were lyrics. Lyrics made the world an easier place to negotiate.
    The guys were used to it, but singing you’d like a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of beer to a shopkeeper was never easy, it was just preferable to a staccato world of words.

    Labelled Ditto by a man who should’ve known better, he knew early on, plain words didn’t work for him. They didn’t fully form. They were twitchy and broken. Lyrics made his tongue roll, they made letters rounded and plump. They allowed sound to luxuriate in his mouth, to elongate, or to snap and click if he wanted it.

    When his mother was real sick, she asked for her boy with the soulful heart, her boy she’d named Dorian. When he came, she asked him how he’d gotten on. She was sorry so much had gone wrong.

    And he hushed her to sleep in velvet notes. ‘Rest easy now, Mom, you did your best in a house filled with ugly prose. And I’ve sung myself the company of a clever woman, and we’ve a lullaby of babies and a medley of friends. I’ve made hatfuls of coins along the way with a good band of guys. Rest easy, now, Mom,’ he sang.

  8. ROCK & WALL

    Brian S Creek
    339 words

    This was it, the greatest gig that Thumbnail Scratch would ever play. Phil had finished setting up his drums and was sat ready to set the beat. Robin twiddled a few dials on his guitar and nodded to Julie, our vocalist, who in turn nodded to me on bass.

    I looked around at the crowd that was starting to form around us. There were a lot of inquisitive faces staring at us as we prepared to perform in front of the Wall.

    I tapped the mic and spoke. “Our city is divided. This wall is a symbol of the oppression that hangs itself around the neck of every Eastern citizen. Today we will play for you and our music will tear down that oppression.”

    In the silence that followed my improvised speech I heard a couple of coughs, one ‘hell yeah’ from quite far back and a sneeze. I looked to the band. “Okay, like we planned. One, two, three.”

    And it began. I never felt more alive than when the four of us performed together. I could feel the thump of the drums and bass in my chest as the twenty two stacked amps behind us volleyed our song at the wall. Thirty seconds in and Robin and Julie joined. It was beautiful, it was perfect but, more importantly, it was loud.

    While we played through ‘Destruction (Comin’ At Ya)’ I concentrated on the wall. It was starting to shake and crack and we hadn’t even got to the chorus. Small chunks of mortar were starting to fall away. The guards in the nearby tower were noticing it too. They were yelling something but I couldn’t hear it over the sound of our music. It was then that I noticed the flashes of muzzle flare but none of us flinched. Our music protected us, causing the bullets to melt in mid-air.

    Julie paused, took a deep breath and broke into the chorus. The section of the wall out in front of us exploded. The crowd went wild.

  9. Geoff Holme says:

    Stairway to Heaven

    I take the creased photo from my wallet as I walk across the damp grass in the feeble sunlight, looking for the exact spot. The years roll away as I look at the monochrome image – our first “gig”.

    There’s Stevo on percussion, a ‘Summer of Love’ vibe going on with his long hair, straggly beard and cut-off jeans. He was a Tynesider, “hard as nails”. He’d ripped off his T-shirt, even though it wasn’t really warm that day.

    Youssouf on guitar certainly didn’t think so. He wore thick, white socks and put his sweater on his head. Though a second-generation Nigerian immigrant, he still found the British weather less than congenial; he’d only just abandoned his fingerless mittens when playing.

    Tim “Oh Really!” O’Reilly was the singer. He wrote the lyrics but, more importantly, he owned the amplifiers. The rest of us were cash-strapped students but Tim’s dad was a merchant banker and Tim had his own credit card. We nicknamed him “Oh Really!” because he was so gullible.We all cracked up when he came back from the guitar store saying that he’d actually done as we’d advised – asked for amps with volume controls that went up to eleven! The assistant, taking pity on him, had said “Temporarily out of stock, sir.”

    Looking at the photo now, it’s clear I was always the odd-one-out: playing ethnic drums in a run-of-the-mill rock band and shyly facing away from the “audience” – the handful of students sitting on the campus lawn, checking us out.

    And I was a pacifist.

    The others weren’t. After university, overqualified for the jobs available, Stevo and Youssouf signed up as squaddies. Tim went to Sandhurst. They all had tours in Afghanistan.

    On patrol in Helmand, Youssouf lost his life to a sniper. Tim was killed when a land-mine he was clearing exploded. Stevo survived three tours but fell victim to PTSD. It was one battle too many – he took his own life earlier this year.

    I don’t normally bother with this stuff but I came back to the campus today to observe the two minutes’ silence on Remembrance Sunday.

    Rest in peace, guys.

    Word Count: 360

  10. The Singer
    301 words

    How many times had I taken the drum kit from the van to some stage and watched those lads thump out a tune. It was great in the beginning I was Jed the roadie, the big bloke who sorted out the lads if they’d had too much to drink or taken some illegal substance that sent them to dark places I never ever wanted to visit. I felt a bit like their Dad although I wasn’t much older. I learnt early on not to give sensible advice. I was paid to watch their backs not put barriers in their way.

    Shane, the singer, was the worst. He was too pretty for his own good. Attracted girls in droves, their believed his false promises and got their hearts broken in return. Many a time I had to dodge angry parents seeking revenge. Jim the drummer was the best. No one knew he had a sweet wife waiting at home and a little daughter. He showed me the photos and swore me to secrecy none of the other lads knew about Mary and Sadie.

    The band wasn’t the best in the world. Shane often sang out of tune if he’d had a bevy or two which was more than not. The day of the festival when he failed to turn up, I just picked up the mic and started to sing. The lads if they were surprised didn’t show it, the fans seemed to like me. I was wearing my best gear and had memorized the play list. Funny that! When Shane turned up three weeks later saying someone must have spiked his drinks as he’d found himself somewhere remote in Cornwall staying with an old lady. The lads gave him the job of roadie. I wrote Auntie Joan to say thank you.

  11. Amy Wood says:

    357 words

    The Drummer

    Have you ever seen someone and known right there and then that they were the one you’d been searching for since the day you were born?

    I know it sounds like something from a bad movie but that was me and Steve. The first time we met, something clicked. Talking to him wasn’t the usual half-flirty, half-apprehensive ‘am I about to make a fool of myself or alternatively try to pick up a psycho’ conversation. It was easy. With Steve, everything was easy.

    He wasn’t much to look at, I guess. His hair was too long and his beard needed a trim more often than not. He was pretty skinny, I tried to fatten him up but it never happened. He wasn’t much but I loved him.

    We spent two years together. I won’t pretend they were perfect years, he had his faults and I know I have mine. But they’re years I won’t forget. I don’t want to forget.

    Steve was a peaceful kind of guy. He wasn’t into hellraising or protesting, his style was a lot more laid-back. He’d rather jam with his buddies in my brother’s garage than get involved in what was happening in the rest of the world. Steve was too relaxed to get angry at the government for the mess they’d dragged us into. He played his drums, his friends joined in and he was happy. So was I.

    In 1970 he was drafted. Vietnam.

    Steve wasn’t a soldier. He couldn’t kill a rabbit much less a man. Maybe that was what I loved about him. He was a gentle soul. But war doesn’t care about souls.

    By March 1971 he was dead. My gentle hippy drummer. Gone into the meat grinder of conflict.

    I only have one photo of him, stupid of me, I should’ve made him pose for more. But he was camera-shy so I didn’t force it.

    The one picture I have is of him playing with his buddies. He’s relaxed, in the zone and enjoying the moment. That’s the Steve I want to remember.

    Wherever he is now, I hope he’s still jamming.

  12. necwrites says:

    Giving it All

    “Rodney, stop beat boxing, we’ve got enough percussion.” Seth hit a snare to demonstrate. “And, it’s embarrassing.” He slid his gaze toward the guitarist.

    First-timer at the outdoor jam session, Johnson gave the trio a no-problem wave and lay down some intro chords. On the djembe, Marco settled a bass tone into the guitar’s rhythm. Seth started in on the cymbals, and lastly Rodney hummed his way into lyrics.

    Johnson’s eyebrows lifted in impressed arcs. Marco’s hands danced to the bongos. Seth ripped off his shirt and got on top of the beat. Rodney ditched lyrics for impassioned crooning.

    People clustered around the empty fountain that served as a stage, some bobbed heads, some clapped, some were inspired enough to dance. By the time the guitar led them through a crescendo that seemed to hold the noonday sun aloft, the instrument cases glittered with appreciative coins.

    “Music, man, it’s in the blood,” Rodney crowed.

    “In the soul!” panted Seth.

    Johnson sat forward on the ledge. “Maybe we should up the stakes on this jam here.”

    The trio responded with enthusiastic yeah!s.

    “On this next set, keep up with me and musical mastery’s yours.”

    “And if we can’t?” Seth asked over a drum roll.

    “You forfeit your souls.” Johnson flashed a grin.

    The trio exchanged glances, waiting for the punch line.

    When it didn’t come, Rodney said, “Whoa, dude, getting all heavy.”

    “We’re just here for the girls.” Seth bounced his knees, pedaling the bass. “Except for Marco.”

    Johnson turned to the percussionist. “For the music?”

    Marco rolled his knuckles over the djembe. “For the guys.”

    Johnson’s lips closed over his smile and his case closed over his instrument.

    Plumes hunched into the evening sky. Pipes snaked from tanks to fractionation towers. Johnson crossed into their shadows. The thrum of the pumps muffled the remnants of the jam session.

    “Not like it used to be,” he said to the refinery maze. Its dank heat uncomfortably familiar.

    His trench-coated companion stepped from behind a furnace. “Wrong genre.”

    Johnson shook his head. “These days, not even blues musicians will put their souls on the line.”

    “You might want to try writers.”

    359 words

  13. A Place Where Nothing Ever Happens

    Stevie sat in the sunshine, listening to the band. They played Ripple, the old Grateful Dead number, and they weren’t bad, providing you didn’t let the constant thrum of the soul tubes grinding away in the background intrude too much.

    New arrivals stepped into the light, blinking and dazed, milled around and smiled at the music until clipboard-toting angels appeared to take their hands and guide them across. Stevie’s own angel stood off to one side, absently chewing the end of her ballpoint with perfect pearly teeth. Stevie waited until he had the pace right, then began to harmonize, quietly at first, then building to match the singer. His angel frowned, made a note on her clipboard, and he fell silent. The tracks on his arm burned with shame.

    When the song was over, Stevie’s angel stepped forward, tapped the singer on the arm and drew him aside. He sagged visibly, but there was relief in his tears as he plodded away through the great gates. Several of the angels in the Arrivals Zone looked around, watching him go and studying Stevie. He stepped into the middle of the group and nodded to his new bandmates. They looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.

    “Hey fellas, thrilled to jam with you. What’s up next? Take Me To The River maybe? Or something slower?”

    The guitarist plucked out the opening chords to Ripple and Stevie shrugged.

    “Fair enough, you want to see what the new guy can do; I respect that. Try to keep up though.”

    He grinned, came in on the beat and started to sing. Again the angels looked around, and his own warden smiled, ticked her sheet and turned briskly away.

    Stevie sang like an angel himself, pouring his soul into the song. He turned towards the figures emerging into the cool, bright day, welcoming them to the other side. He saw them smile and knew for sure where he was.

    Then the song ended and he bowed stiffly.

    And the guitarist picked out the opening to Ripple.

    Stevie wanted to turn, to tell them that the joke was over.

    But all he could do was sing.

    360 words

  14. C Connolly says:

    The Gig

    Rach can feel it beating beneath her bones; reverberating, music pounding; pulsing; twirling her on its crescendos. Sweat pours from her brow, yet she cannot stop; cannot seem to care about the ache spreading through her limbs or the numbness of her toes. There is a sharp pain, dulled to steady burn, beneath her ankles, suggesting that her shoes have begun to cut her feet. Their sudden slipperiness attests to the fact that they may have begun to bleed. Rach doesn’t know exactly when – the evening lost itself beneath the buzz, then blur, after she took the first swig of her drink. She hadn’t asked the guy what it was. She had been caught up following the threads of the music where they lead. Now she is caught upon them – in them – with them – and they are in her.

    There are elbows either side of her; the occasional jostle here, then there, though when she glances aside, there is little to see. The offending party has already moved – or so it seems. She sees only shadows, unoccupied. They move at the corners of her vision, she thinks, unless that’s the spinning in her head?

    There is a gasping – heaving – beneath the melodies, which continue without pause. As Rach becomes aware of the rise and fall of her chest; the race of her heart, she knows the noise is hers. The staccato stutters and sawing match with the thud of her heels as they drum for the feet she can no longer feel. She is standing, though barely; soles slipping in their purchase. She cannot – must not – stop. She knows it, without knowing why.

    Rach swings wildly without volition, crashing into solid flesh; hands holding her steady, as the world circles around her, then slows. “Run,” a male voice says, cutting through the sound and thrusting her quickly from him. With that, she is swaying unsteadily on worn soles, amidst the debris and detritus of the revelries and over those who lie abandoned prostrate amongst it. Tears stain her cheeks, as she stumbles over their broken bodies, retching. Now – only now – she sees it truly – bones beneath the beauty.

    (360 words)


  15. Carlos says:

    The Warlocks
    359 words

    It was a hot day on their walk through the park, and the winds of nostalgia blew through Emily’s hair. She grinned stupidly at the outdoor stage that skateboarders refused to relinquish. Her husband noticed the look of longing on her face and asked why she was smiling.

    “Remember when—oh never mind,” she said and broke off into an even wider grin.

    “Remember what? Tell me Emily,” he supplicated.

    “I don’t know if you’ll recall, but remember when that one garage band played on those steps. The Twin Warlocks, I think they called themselves. I remember thinking they looked like a grunge band, and moved in for a closer look,”

    Her husband shot her a look of horror, but she continued lost in her memory.

    “We were the first people there, but once the band started playing a crowd encircled the stage. We all cheered, and the drummer threw his shirt. I remember it hit you in the face, and the crowd laughed and applauded. It’s a shame they didn’t get to play longer. People were being loud and moshing. Everyone was into it. Then the police broke everything up, and we got arrested.” She closed her eyes and giggled.

    “Emily.” Her husband voice was loud and harsh. His eyes were open wide and his jaw hung slack.

    “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

    “No band named the Twin Warlocks played that day. As a matter of fact, I don’t think any band has ever played on that stage. The memory you’re referring to never happened. You were drunk and somehow ingested mushrooms. Everything you remember was a hallucination, well, except for the crowd. They did gather, but not to see any band. They gathered to see you screaming and thrashing around like a madwoman.”
    “But the shirt? I remember seeing a shirt hit your face.”

    “That’s because a shirt did hit my face—your shirt. You were jumping around topless yelling, ‘get a load of these warlocks,’ and people were shoving each other to get look. The police came and you were arrested.”

    “Oh,” was Emily’s only response. They finished their walk in silence.

  16. zevonesque says:

    Bass Cool
    by A J Walker

    Dez’s bass was in demand. He’d tell you he could feel the vibration through his fingers and that it drilled through into the very marrow of his bones. Each millisecond of sustain perfectly held and pitched, the timing Ry Cooder perfect.

    He was unsurpassed on the east side. On the west side. Unsurpassed.

    Well, that’s what he’d tell you.

    He had a top of the range five string bass. Blessed by the Pope, Bob Dylan and his mum.

    That’s what he’d say.

    Then you’d see his fingers hovering over the top strings, ready to start slapping out a killer groove or just pick out that perfect note. He’d look at you and wink with a confident swagger and you’d wait in anticipation.

    And as he hit that first chest thumping “E” and the sustain shook the very marrow of you, then the next note drilled into your skull, and the next note got your toe tapping before the tune stole your soul.

    Well then finally you knew you were in the presence of a true genius.

    Perhaps someday socks and sandals would be trendy. Perhaps; but forgetting the sartorial nonsense this man was a bass slapping god so just enjoy the groove. And wonder at why he was sat in the park by the spiky trees and chemical plant and not playing in sold out arenas.

    Enjoy it, man. It’s just cool.

    159 words

  17. […] Based on the image found here – Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy Round 43 […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s