Midweek Musings 1×07

While our ongoing intention with Midweek Musings is to bring you the latest and greatest (as we’ve heard and perceived it) music, we’re slacking just a tiny bit this month to ALSO tackle this little 50K project, NaNoWriMo’s little brother/sister/cousin/pet mongoose: JuNoWriMo.

*JuNoWriMo Edition*

*JuNoWriMo Edition*

We’re still bringing you NEW music, but it’s not quite as new as usual, as we’re prepping these posts in advance.

I love this tune from Vance Joy, and not just because the video features a polar bear and tatooed bums (and by “bums” I mean both backsides and the social variety – FAIR WARNING). Check out “Mess is Mine” and weep for cab-driving polar bears everywhere.

Talking like we used to do
It was always me and you
Shaping up and shipping out
Check me in and check me out

Do you like walking in the rain?
When you think of love, do you think of pain?
You can tell me what you see
I will choose what I believe

Hold on, darling
This body is yours,
This body is yours and mine
Well hold on, my darling
This mess was yours,
Now your mess is mine

Your mess is mine

See you in the marketplace
Walking ’round at 8am
Got 2 hours before my flight
Luck be on my side tonight

You’re the reason that I feel so strong
The reason that I’m hanging on
You know you gave me all the time
Oh, did I give enough of mine?

Hold on, darling
This body is yours,
This body is yours and mine
Well hold on, my darling
This mess was yours,
Now your mess is mine

Bring me to your house
Tell me sorry for the mess
Hey, I don’t mind
You’re talking in your sleep
Out of time
Well, you still make sense to me
Your mess is mine

Your mess is mine
This body’s yours and this body’s mine
Your mess is mine

The Guidelines:

  • This is a non-judged free write session.
  • Use the prompt anyway you’d like.
  • Post anytime between now and next Tuesday.
  • Keep it under 1,000 words.
  • Leave encouraging comments for other participants.
  • Most of all, have FUN!

5 thoughts on “Midweek Musings 1×07

  1. Scene One

    Out here, everything looks the same. Sun dried grasses, red clay earth, and gnarled oak trees. GPs doesn’t work, maps make no mention of the private roads that crop every mile or so, and there hasn’t been a gas station or house, where one could stop for directions, in the last thirty miles of winding mountain highway. It’s past four o’clock now, the sun is beginning to set, and Yesenia Barajas is convinced she’s going to end up as dinner for a pack of coyotes long before she finds the damn ranch house.

    Right about now, giving up her dependable but stressful nursing job at the public medical clinic to take a position at a private facility doesn’t seem like such a great idea. Spending the fall in the Sierra Nevadas with three patients and lots of down time sounded like a dream job on paper. In reality, it’s damn near hellish. She needed a restroom fifteen miles ago and in spite of that pressing mater, she’s also jonesing for an icy cold soda. And she might give a pint of blood in exchange for a static free radio station to break up the monotony of this disaster.

    Two miles later, she passes a large red metal mailbox emblazoned with the silver letters RECYCLED. She hits the brakes, backs up, and turns into the dirt drive. On the ground behind the mailbox, lying in the grass, is a green county street sign that reads: Culpepper Drive. At least she’s in the right place but there are still ten miles to go on this godforsaken road that looks as though it will dead end at the base of a rock outcropping. She looks at her watch and sighs. Already an hour and a half late. Not the kind of first impression she wanted to make on her new employer.

    She first glimpses the house’s red siding though a manzanita copse. It’s a simple metal structure, two stories with a large porch out front sheltered by a quarter of the upper story’s grey metal roof overhang. It’s stark and rugged, but beautiful too, with the sun setting behind it and lights on the porch. The elevation change in the last five miles have added pine trees and other vegetation to the swath of oak trees scattered around the main house. Further back, is a second structure about half the size of the house and built in the same manner but with roll up doors instead of a porch.

    A man comes out onto the porch as she pulls up to the house. He’s dressed in jeans and a battered green military jacket. His face is hidden beneath an overgrown mustache and beard. Leaning on a cane, he negotiates the three stone steps from the house down to the drive and walks to the truck. “You’re late.”

    She tamps her temper and manages a tight smile. “My apologies. Turns out it wasn’t the breezy country drive I was expecting.”

    His sharp eyes scan her face for several uncomfortably quiet moments. “It’s not an easy road and I’m not an easy man.”

    “But it turns out that if you keep going, there’s something worthwhile at the end of the road,” she says, getting out of the truck, taking a deep breath of the fresh crisp air, and looking at the landscape beyond the house.

    He grunts and reaches for the duffle bag in the bed of the truck. “Don’t get your hopes up. The analogy doesn’t extend to me. Let’s get into the house before the mosquitoes get to you.”

    She starts to take the duffle bag from him but a glare from his sharp blue eyes stops her.

    He leads her into the house, through a spacious and tidy living area, and down a hall to a bedroom. “This is you.”

    She glances past him into the room. Simple but comfortable. A window that looks out across the valley. Floral studies in frames. And surprisingly, a vase of fresh wildflowers on the nightstand. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

    “Kitchen’s through there,” he says, dropping her duffle inside the bedroom door and stepping back into the hall. ”We cook for ourselves out here. Fix what you want. Grocery deliveries come Friday. Put what you need or what we’re out of on the list on the fridge. I’ll be up and out at six tomorrow and be back with the boys midafternoon. Good night, Ms. Barajas.”

    “Oh, I thought we were going to go over my duties and patient overviews tonight.”

    “That was before you were two hours late. I don’t have time for you now. Files are in your office,” he says, nodding to a door at the top of the hall as he walks past it and disappears into the main house.

    She stands in the doorway of her room, stunned. Fifteen minutes with Ray Duvall has convinced her of two things. One, the reason he lives this far out in the sticks is that nobody in their right mind would willingly consent to live anywhere near him. And two, there is no way she can spend the next three months working for him without becoming homicidal. She’s already wondering whether she can bat her eyelashes and get the local sheriff to buy a verdict of suicide by rattlesnake.

    Screw the files. They can wait. Screw pajamas. She’s too tired. She flops onto the bed. And screw Mr. Duvall. She’ll get up and leave before he’s awake, drive back to the city and get her old job back. God she’s so weary. But after an hour of flopping around, and without the solace of cable television or internet, she gives up the hope of sleep, grabs her sneakers and goes out front to enjoy the stars.

    Duvall’s voice floats out to her from an upstairs window. “Stop baiting coyotes and come back into the house, Ms. Barajas.”

    Her hands fist. The man is insufferable. “It’s too quiet to sleep.”

    “This is untamed country. Best to entertain moonlit delusions in the safety and privacy of your own room.”

    She returns to the house and to her room, scarcely resisting the urge to slam the doors. She opens the bedroom window, strips down and pulls a soft cotton nightgown over her head, and lies on the cool clean sheets.

    A breeze comes through the window, ruffling the sheer curtains and caressing her skin and hair. Crickets chirp and leaves rustle. And a guitar speaks, unsure at first, phrases tested slowly, until a whole song spills out, followed by another … until she is dreaming of music notes, coyotes, and blue eyes.

    – – – – –
    @bullishink / WIP

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Sailing

    Abandoned in the waves of desire
    my frustrated loins on fire
    the captain has left his ship stranded
    deserted I am, his needs handled

    He’s misjudged my nature
    Thinks I’m a forgiving creature
    Unaware that mutiny is slowly rising
    revenge looming high on the horizon

    I used to wear rose coloured glasses
    Ignored when at others he made passes
    But my innocence he has forever ruined
    I’ve had enough of being pruned

    Using my feminine wiles
    My adoring body and smile that beguiles
    Secreting money away
    Saving for my get out day

    I’m his eye candy
    On his arm a displayed trophy
    Sick of prettying his table
    I’m no longer willing or able

    I’ve been searching for a new beau
    Alone I’m not a pretty view
    This one is going to be well vetted
    My needs met first expected

    Him and I have finally reached the end of our trip
    his belongings I throw on the skip
    I’m journeying on water’s new
    this time there’s a better view

    He treats me like a queen
    frustration nowhere to be seen
    this sailor adores my curves
    and my ecstatic moans he loves


  3. Pingback: Midweek Musings 1×07 | susanburns1968

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