Tag Archives: Blues-Buster

Blues Buster: Torque

2 Replies

I liked my Five Sentence Fiction: Goggles piece so much I thought I’d continue it for Jeff Tsuruoka’s Blues-Buster. The song prompt for this week is Kira Skov’s Riders of the Freeway.

Photo Source: wikipedia.org Detail of Indian Larry’s Wild Child bike by Mike Arther
Cropped and altered by Lisa Shambrook with Instagram and Streamzoo

“I’m surprised you didn’t clock him with the torque wrench!” murmured Steven, standing at a safe distance behind the bike. Thalia tried not to grin, but couldn’t stop her lip from curling into a smile. “If I were a lady, I’d have punched him a while back,” he added.
“If I were a lady, he’d still be waiting for it…thankfully, I’m not a lady!” Thalia raised a wry eyebrow. “You don’t need to wait around, I’m almost done.” She flashed him a glance and tightened up a nut.
He shrugged. “Actually that’s not true, when Danny gave you your marching orders this afternoon and you refused to go…he left it to me to see you off site.”
Thalia glowered beneath a layer of engine grease, her cheeks reddening despite the smears of oil. “I said I’d go when I was ready, he doesn’t get to order me about!”
Steven shrugged again. “He’s the boss’s son, and he did fire you…”
“Small detail,” she seethed. “Okay if you’re waiting, slide the tool box closer will you?”
The metal box grated across the concrete floor, echoing throughout the hangar as Steven pushed it with the toe of his boot. Thalia glanced up, her eyes flitting about, but he was right, everyone had gone.
Thalia stood and arched her back, stretching and working out the crick in her neck.
“I won’t offer to help,” Steven grinned remembering the crack Danny had received as he’d touched Thalia’s shoulders unbidden. She shook her arms and caught his eye, for a moment energy crackled and Thalia’s defences caved. She laughed.
Steven reached down for an oily rag and searched for a clean edge. He began to rub the motorbike’s engine, polishing it, rubbing in circles and Thalia looked on with feelings brewing inside she wasn’t entirely sure of.
She picked up her chamois, and watched him polish, his eyes intent on the metal and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. The setting sun threw orange blazes across the hangar and set his thick blonde hair on fire. He glanced up, and squinted, blinded by the sudden sun. She blocked the light and cast her shapely shadow across the bike.
“It’s okay, I’m not going to hit you for polishing my bike,” she spoke softly and handed him her chamois. His fingers brushed hers as he took it and she inhaled deeply, unconsciously allowing his grimy, gritty sweat to permeate her mind.
“You’ve turned this heap of junk into something quite spectacular,” he said as the soft leather stroked the customised Indian Bobber.
She watched again as the engine began to shine beneath his deft fingers.
“You know we could take it out…” she began.
“It’s not yours…” He grinned as her eyes sparkled even in the gloom of shadow.
“I know, but I’m sacked and I’m not coming back, are you coming back tomorrow?”
His heart raced. If she left, there’d be nothing left to come back for.
She grabbed her leather jacket and pulled it tight across her breast, buckling it up and watching his face as she shook out her dark hair. His Adam’s apple bobbled unconsciously in his dry throat and then he was zipping up his own jacket. She threw him a pair of goggles and slid hers over her head and over her eyes.  Her boots clipped on the concrete and she swung her leg over the low-slung bike.
It came to life between her thighs and growled, its voice snarling through the empty hangar.
Thalia glanced at Steven and pulled on her soft, fitted gloves as it purred beneath her. She curled a finger at him and smiled.
Her teeth shone in the evening glare and Steven knew he’s been snared.
He climbed upon the back of the rumbling bike and closed his legs around her rear. His arms, hesitated for a moment, then stretched around her waist and she squeezed the throttle.
Moments later they were gone, headed up the vast, open freeway, with only memories left behind.

(676 Words)

Blues Buster: The Fog

1 Reply

This week’s prompt for The Tsuruoka Files Blues-Buster is Judas Priest’s The Ripper. I took inspiration from the London fog and came up with this…dead on the word limit!

Photo by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)
Nobody expected the fog. It rolled in overnight and as Kit stared out the window she smiled. Only faint halos from the white gas lights could be seen, like will-o-the-wisps lost in urban alleys. She backed away from stark oblivion, her skin taut and cold in the early morning air, and slid back into bed beside Tay. He grumbled in his sleep and Kit ran her finger down his exposed spine. He tensed, his whole body suddenly alert, and she giggled. 
“Don’t do that!” he admonished sharply as he relaxed and rolled over. 
She responded by curling her legs around his torso and placing her lips firmly on his. 
“Okay, you can do that…again…” he said as he pulled away then drew her close for a more intimate kiss. 
She gave herself for a few sweet moments, sharing passion as if they were sharing their last minutes together, before reluctantly pushing him away. He watched, sated, as she rolled out of bed and pulled on her underpants then drew her jeans over her long legs. 
“Come back, just for a few more minutes…” he urged. 
She shook her head and pulled her sweater down over her body and stood. “C’mon Tay, it’s perfect out there today, and there won’t be much time, it could change any moment!”
Tay grumbled again, but pushed the covers away and got out of bed. She grinned, and threw his shirt at him. “Get dressed!”
Kit shivered as they stepped out of the apartment and into the gloomy world. She reached for Tay’s gloved hand and gripped it tight. “Don’t let go,” he warned.
“I should be the one telling you that!” She rose on her toes and kissed his stubbled cheek. 
Whispers of frost coiled within the fog and she shivered again. Holding hands they moved along the wall and waited at the corner. 
Kit listened. Her hearing was perfect, and in this low visibility hearing was the greatest weapon they had. 
The city was quiet, almost silent. 
The birds never sang anymore, and the only birds they ever saw were ghostly corvids, and they sat lonely and lost atop the gas lamps, like black shadows in the mist. They never sang.
 Kit squeezed Tay’s hand and they moved, heading into the labyrinth of alleys. Glancing down, Kit could barely see her feet. She pulled her soft leather jacket tight amid the cold, white fog. They were prepared, and ready.
Their familiarity with the dank corridors kept them on track and they ran silently through the streets. 
“Almost there,” whispered Tay, as they came to an abrupt halt. 
Kit listened, and Tay’s nostrils flared. 
“I can smell the river,” he murmured. “I can smell…”
“Don’t!” Kit placed a finger over his lips and she strained to hear. “It’s quiet, but I can hear them…we’re not alone.”
They stood with their backs against the once imposing, now dilapidated, Savoy, disguised only by the blinding fog. Kit reached into her jacket removing her hunting knife from its leather sheath. She noted the narrow trident dagger strapped to her boot, and felt the comfort of her combat knife snug against her thigh. Tay stood beside her similarly armed, with his kukri held close.
They moved stealthily forward, until reaching the embankment. On the river’s edge, they stood, back to back…ready.
Tay squeezed Kit’s hand and then let go. 
Sweat sparkled in the fog and they waited for their scent to betray them.
The water was still, stagnant and foul, but Kit listened as its tiny lapping waves grew and the tendrils emerged. Like snakes tentatively searching, tendrils peered through the fog and curled before their faces. 
“Now!” Kit’s battle cry rang through the fog. “The Kraken wakes, but so do we!” 
The swish of knives swung through the air, sweeping through tentacled flesh and ripping jellied arms and limbs from the leviathans.
From the Thames came explosions of water as creatures from the deep surfaced and climbed out onto the promenade, but alongside Kit and Tay, all along the embankment, came shouts of battle and wrath, and from the fog emerged a force so large and enraged that bloody battle to the end was the only possibility…
   
(700 words)

Blues Buster: Broken

3 Replies

Another story for the Mid-Week Blues-Buster from The Tsuruoka Files, the prompt song is found here: ‘Man With the Hex’ by The Atomic Fireballs.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)
Broken

Crushed blades of grass made him almost as sad as the broken daffodil stems. Golden yellow trumpets drooped and withered and his heart sank as he shuffled down the path, his hand reaching down to lift a flower with as much gentleness as his frail body could manage. A tear dropped from his hooked nose, but even that had no more than a moment’s restoration power for the doomed bloom. 
He glanced about his garden, turning his arthritic neck and surveying the damage. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last, but every time he stood and gazed, his tears welled and his heart froze, just a little bit more.
Emerald grass was battered and churned where feet had converged and turned the small patch into a veritable bog. Mud spattered across blooms that now struggled to stand tall. Scarlet tulip petals, stained with saffron yellow, splayed open and wide, their stamens and pollen laid bare. His orchestra of daffodils slouched, bewildered, petals torn and creased, and stems snapped and broken. Mounds of purple aubretia lie crumpled beneath foot and burgeoning clumps of bluebells were flattened and trampled. Primroses stared at him from rumpled beds and cowslips’ had been creamed, the innocent victims of the garden massacre.
He closed his rheumy eyes and clenched his tired, bony fists, his brittle finger nails biting into his hardened palms. In his mind he saw the feet of reprobates and hooligans dancing in his garden, screaming and whooping while he hid behind his curtains, and his dry, cracked lips pursed tight. 
He remembered his body jumping in fear as stones from his path clattered against his window. He recalled his heavy heart and the way his shoulders gently bounced as he wept. He felt the twinge in his back of his neck as he’d bowed his head, and how hot tears slipped down his furrowed face, and slid down inside the open collar of his shirt, soaking his grey, wiry chest hair. He recalled the rage that had built and the tension that had gathered in his old body and the strength his anger had given him. 
The boom, as something large hit the window, and the subsequent crack of glass like a frozen lake waking, had roused his wrath and turned it into something terrible and he’d flung open the door and stared. 
Now a football lay abandoned in the middle of his swampy lawn and he stared blankly, wondering why the boys hadn’t retrieved it when they’d scarpered. His eyes caught the mud, now dried in a strange circle on the cracked window, and he shook his head. 
He hobbled slowly up his path, his joints creaking with pain and age, and he sighed in deep disappointment. As his door clicked shut, curtains from neighbouring home swung back into place, the football quivered as three young toads cowered behind it…and the neighbourhood quietly mourned the loss of three more of their intrepid, but foolish, young boys.
(497 Words)

Blues-Buster: Red Right Hand

3 Replies
Another of Jeff’s Blues-Buster’s, and the prompt song is the brilliant Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Red Right Hand. I was particularly caught by the lyrics: ‘…where the viaduct looms, like a bird of doom, as it shifts and cracks, where secrets lie in the border fires, in the humming wires, Hey man, you know, you’re never coming back…’
Scan by Bekah Shambrook manipulated by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
Red Right Hand

Jenson ran, his rasping breath burning his throat, but he ran without looking back. He’d learned long ago that looking back got you killed and that wasn’t part of his plan.
The streets were deserted, but he knew they were coming as sure as his blood raced through his burning veins.
The old town spread its fingers in narrow, contorted lanes and he knew most of them, his pursuers did not, they relied solely on the tracking device in Jenson’s stomach. He smirked wryly, barely thinking cognitively as pain seared his lungs, but aware of the irony of his enemies using the same tech he’d developed himself so long ago.
His fingers closed around a foil containing a bead of liquid purge, but he was unable to use it for fear of damaging the other prize churning within his stomach’s bile.

A helicraft whirred, not far out of range and he knew time was running out. He ducked into an alley and stared at the screen strapped to his wrist; old tech, twenty-first century tech, this time. He gazed at the flashing dots, until sure of their definite positions. Seconds later he was running again.

The arm that grabbed him came out of nowhere and he reeled, spinning, his hand ready to strike as he stumbled into a doorway.
“Shhhh!” she hissed, “it’s me!”  She twisted his wrist pulling him down into her lap.
“I thought they had you!” he whispered, his hand moving from strike to stroke as he touched her bloodied and scarred cheek.
“They did…” Her voice caressed his ear.
“How did you escape? That place is strapped down like a lunatic in a strait jacket!”
“I have my ways,” she purred and slid her hand across his inner thigh.
“No time for that!” he said regretfully, but unable to stop his lips from claiming hers.
She pulled away. “Transport, Jenson, transport!”
He chuckled. “Always a tease…we’ve got three and a half minutes…stop delaying!” He yanked her to her feet and the pair of them left the doorway, sprinting across the road towards the most abandoned part of town.
“How’re they extracting you?” she panted, “Helicraft…or something else?”
He pulled her across the road towards the old viaduct and the crumbling bridge.
The whir of the approaching helicraft erupted, destroying the silence, and Jenson pulled her across the kerb. Rotary blades thumped and the craft loomed up over the bridge like a merciless vulture eyeing its prey. Jenson’s hand wrapped around hers and they raced for sanctuary. Above them came the crackling sound of gunfire and collapsing masonry.
Beneath the arch of the bridge Jenson turned her hand palm up and placed his over hers. “What’re you doing?” She was out of breath.
“Checking!” Jenson grinned. A red glow emanated between their clasped hands. “I had to know, you could have been playing me, been one of theirs, one of his…but you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the only one who knows how to mess with the chip in your hand, yours is red…as it should be. Now are you ready for change?”
“Change?” She stared at him. “I’m ready for anything, I’m a wanted woman!”
“That you are!” He whirled her round against the wall and pulled her body close, kissing her hard. “I’m leaving with everything he owns,” He patted his stomach, “and you, if you’re coming with me?”
“Like hell I am!”
“A new century… this time I’m going back to the twenty-first!” Jenson slammed his hand to the wall above her head, directly onto an ancient, peeling, red graffiti hand print. Dust choked the air, bricks distorted beneath his palm and he grinned at his companion’s shocked cry as they plunged backwards. “Geronimo!”

(622 Words)

Blues-Buster: Is This Love

2 Replies
Written for Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge Week 3 over at The Tsuruoka Files. This week’s prompt song is: Bob Marley’s ‘Este Amor (Is This Love) by Gerado Ortiz. A 500 word challenge, but anything between 300 and 700 words works! I was inspired by this section of the translated song: 
‘I want to love you and treat you right, I want to love you every day and every night, We’ll be together with a roof right over our heads, We’ll share the shelter of my single bed.’

Elena stood by the door arch, and the flames from the lantern flickered in her eyes as she stared down the dusty road into the night. Her bare feet shifted leaving scuff marks in the dirt and she cocked her head to listen to the sounds in the shack behind her. Small voices whispered and a complaint echoed. She leaned back inside and uttered instructions to share. The voices softened and faded, and she returned to her vigil.
The ground beneath her feet was pitted and worn, and her rough soles matched the patches of eroded earth. She shivered and pulled her holey shawl tighter around her shoulders, and leaned down to flick away an irritating mosquito.  Elena coughed, a sound that echoed through the night as much as it rattled through her chest, and she struggled to clear her throat.
She tapped her foot impatiently and tried to gaze further than her old eyes would see, tried to penetrate the dark indigo desert and see beyond the tall saguaro, the sentinel at the edge of the track into town. She pulled in a deep breath, shaky with worry, and leaned back against the stone doorframe. The wick in the lantern was low and the oil almost spent, but she refused to turn it out, refused to sink the track into the gloom of dusk…not yet.
A bark carried across the chill night air and resonated through her bones, and sent fear curling into the pit of her stomach.
Still she waited, aware that there was now quiet in the hovel, aware of the fatigue that chilled her fragile body, and aware of the last crust of bread and spoonful of soup sitting by the dying embers in the grate. Her belly growled.
The moon scrolled across the sky, and stars began to glimmer, and Elena wondered if time had moved too far.
She stepped out from beneath the arch and moved across the stony track, limping awkwardly, her heart sank each time the wild dog howled, and she tried to bat away the tears that hung on her lashes.
She waited, still standing firm, her resolve never wavering, despite the darkness of the night.  She stood until her feet ached and hope began to fade like morning stars.
Then she heard it, as quiet and soft as a mouse; footsteps, tiny footsteps beating against the dirt trail and her heart swelled. She shuffled towards the sound, dragging her lame foot, until a small child burst past the saguaro and ran, haloed in the moonlight, into her welcoming arms.
He wept, rubbing tired and dirty fists across his tear-stained face, and Elena hugged him close. “Hermoso niño!” she murmured, “Al fin en casa.”
After the spoonful of soup and the last crust of bread the exhausted child slipped beneath a ragged blanket on a narrow bed, with six other lost children, and slept beneath his guardian’s constant gaze.  

(488 Words)  

(For those of you needing a translation: “Hermoso niño!” – “Beautiful child!” and “Al fin en casa.” – “Home at last.”)

Blues-Buster: For Freedom

8 Replies

This is written for the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge week 01 over at The Tsuruoka Files. The prompt is a song ‘Freedom’ by Elayna Boynton and Anthony Hamilton which you can find here. The target is 500 words, but anything between 300 and 700 is okay. I really enjoyed the challenge of a longer piece.
The line from the song: ‘Looking for freedom, and to find it, cost me everything I have.’ inspired this tale of courage and freedom…

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
For Freedom
Rosa started down the cliff path to the bay, giving no heed to the wind whipping through her voluminous skirts. She moved swiftly, her heart full of resolve and determination. She pushed damp hair away from her face and gazed down at the beach. Smoke seeped out of the caves below and Rosa cast a hurried look over her shoulder. 
Mournful cries carried across the bay on a gust and she swallowed hard, her fingers moving unconsciously to her pocket and stroking metal. A few more steps and she jumped down onto the dark, wet sand. She glanced up the path once again then headed for the smoking caves. 
Another lonely lament echoed, booming through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the hills and it was matched by a sounding horn up on the cliff.
It wasn’t her they were missing, surely not, a common kitchen maid would not be noticed, there or not, but she hurried on. 
The horn called again and soldiers reached the cliff edge, weapons glinting in the sun. 
Rosa headed into the gloomy cave and ducked behind a rock, as the smoke cleared she slowly raised her head and as her eyes adjusted to the shade her jaw dropped. 
Restrained in chains was a creature more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen.  
She gasped and the fledgling dragon turned, its scales dancing in streams of sunlight from gaps in the roof.  She stood, transfixed by the opalescent greens and pinks playing across the dragon, who reared up on its hind legs and spread its wings. 
Rosa’s breath caught in a lump that threatened to tear her heart out. The young dragon’s wings were laced with wounds and rents, and for a moment she thought all was lost. 
She gripped the key in her pocket and she mustered her courage. 
Soldiers, cascading down the cliff, echoed and she stepped away from the rock and stood before the dragon.  She waited, with breath locked deep inside her chest as the creature stared back at her, its eyes black and wild. 
Purple flames licked its maw and small wisps of smoke escaped its nostrils. Rosa refused to breathe as she stepped closer. The dragon tensed and coiled, its tail swinging slowly back and forth. 
Woe grumbled through the cave from outside and the dragon’s attention flickered. Rosa followed the heavy chain from a thick metal post at the rear of the cave, across the sand, to the dragon. 
The tight manacle gripped the dragon’s leg, and Rosa winced at the crusted blood and broken scales beneath the cruel metal. 
She drew the key out of her pocket, resolutely flung a few words to the Gods and strode forward. The dragon reversed, dragging the awful chain, and threw a violet blaze at her. Undeterred she advanced, backing it into a dark corner. The dragon flapped and tried to lift off the sand, but the chain hung heavy and tugged at the bloody mess. Rosa threw herself at the dragon’s feet and grappled with the iron cuff. The creature flapped and screeched and flames flashed through the dark. Rosa unlocked and released the shackle then rose, before the creature, and waved her arms and shouted. Confusion filled the cave as the dragon’s panic, fire and smoke burst forth and her cries could barely be heard above the commotion. 
Outside armour chinked and the whip of arrows filled the air and the dragon was suddenly up and free. Chaos reigned and soldiers fled as the creature tore out of the cave breathing fire and roaring in reply to the dragon call that now echoed across the bay. 
Rosa stumbled out onto the beach, heedless to the burns blistering across her arms and her scorched hair. 
She watched as the young dragon soared, despite damaged wings and escaped into the ocean sky. She wandered forward, in oblivious relief, and blissfully unaware of the singing arrow that lodged between her shoulders. She’d done what she came to do…the caged dragon was free, as now so was she… 
(675 Words inc title)