MidWeek Musings 1×13

Welcome back to Midweek Musing, our free-write session. I heard this new Pharrell Williams tune last week and have had it on repeat every since. Totally addicting. Can’t wait to see what inky fun it stirs up!

Hold on to me
Don’t let me go
Who cares what they see?
Who cares what they know?
Your first name is Free
Last name is Dom
Cause you still believe in where we’re from
Man’s red flower
It’s in every living thing
Mind use your power
Spirit use your wings

Freedom! x3
Freedom x3

Hold on to me
Ooh don’t let me go
The cheetahs need to eat
Run antelope
Your first name is King
Last name is Dom
Cause you still believe in everyone
When a baby first breathes
When night sees sunrise
When the whale hops the sea
When man recognizes

Freedom! x3
Freedom x2
Breathe in

We are from heat
The Electric one
Does it shock you to see, he left us the sun?
The atoms in the air
Organisms in the sea
The Sun, and yes, man
Are made of the same things

Freedom! x3

 The Guidelines:

  • This is a non-judged free write session.
  • Use the prompt anyway you’d like.
  • Post anytime between now and next Wednesday (1200 EDT).
  • Keep it under 1,000 words.
  • Leave encouraging comments for other participants.
  • Most of all, have FUN!Welcome back to Midweek Musing, our free-write session.

8 thoughts on “MidWeek Musings 1×13

  1. Love and Whiskey

    Los Angeles tested Marley Rhodes’ fidelity every damn minute of every damn day. If not for the culture and history, she’d have split long before now. Truth was, every month she made it without going broke or crazy was a miracle.

    Traffic sucked, people sucked, and paychecks sucked. Pet grooming didn’t pay for shit, unless you were an owner. She loved the job and the dogs, the paychecks not so much. Thank the stars for loyal customers and gracious tips. Only reason she stuck around was for a handful of pets and customers.

    But today, some jackass put the last nail in that coffin. Well, two jackasses. A tight ass boss who rolled out a new price hike and a dumb ass coworker who didn’t know a corgi from a terrier. What the hell happened to fair prices and quality work? If she owned her own shop, those would be its hallmarks. But until she won the lotto, she was just a grunt.

    Now she was stuck with the unenviable chore of presenting unsuspecting customers with higher fees. Maybe it was time to get out of the city. And that right there was the joke that kept on giving. Nobody left L.A.. Mostly because of the damn traffic. Who could get out? Quicker to go home to your dive of an apartment, sleep sandwiched between the smog and the noise, and do it all again the next day.

    Seriously, the traffic was unbelievable. Today, for example, she’d spent more time waiting on stop signs and turn signals than working. Any other day, this close to crossing that fine line between scarcely sane and slightly less than, she’d have thrown in the towel, dropped the van at the shop, and called it quits.

    But it was the end of the week and that last client on her list, the one she was toughing out the shitty traffic for, was her favorite. It was close to five when she got to the house, a humble term for the two million dollar spread overlooking the city. She keyed herself into the gate, parked beside the garage, and prepped the van.

    Her client was late. Should have already dashed across the yard and up the two steps into her van by now. She made a habit of greeting him with his favorite snack and he wasn’t one to miss out on a treat. But there she was with an empty van and worry wriggled down her spine.

    Stripping off her gloves, she walked the brick path to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. Nothing. But she kept waiting because it was her specialty. Hell, who was she kidding? Waiting was her fucking life story. But she wasn’t giving up. Not this time. Not for this client. She pressed the bell again and called out, “Mr. Lovett? Whiskey?”

    Nails scrabbled on the foyer tile, the deadbolt turned, and a drowsy face peered out from a crack in the door. “Oh. Marley. Lost track of the time.”

    Poor guy. Didn’t have anything but time on his hands but couldn’t manage to remember his one weekly appointment. “No problem. Get me Whiskey’s leash and I’ll –“

    “Whiskey,” Lovett’s voice rang out as the energetic ball of fur raced out the door and away from the house.

    “Don’t freak,” she said, trying to calm his panic. “He’s just in a hurry for his treat.”

    But even as she said it, she saw the little scamp shoot past the van and into the yard beyond. Probably just had some business to do, tinkling on the purple iris or something important, and then he’d be right back.

    Lovett yanked the door open and stepped out of the house, bare but for a pair of well-worn jeans. He was six feet of lean gorgeous man but he hardly resembled the confident powerful athlete he’d been two years ago. And he didn’t much look like the guy who usually puttered in the yard or garage, cracking jokes and making sour lemonade for the two of them, while she took care of Whiskey.

    This was a bleary eyed unshaven ghost of the man baseball great Jacob Lovett had been. Weary. Unfocused. Faltering. He raised a hand to shield his amber eyes from the afternoon glare. “He’s on a terror, Marley. Hates being cooped up here with me.”

    Now wasn’t the time to point out that it wasn’t possible to be ‘cooped up’ in a four-thousand square foot house on a ten acre lot. “Trust, me. He’s just fine. You’ll see –“

    Wild barking broke out on the far side of the house. “Damn it! He’s after the peacocks again.”

    What the hell? “Peacocks?”

    “Yeah, some guy came to the gate last week and –“

    “Tell me you didn’t buy stolen livestock from –“

    “Technically, I don’t think peacocks are livestock, and how did I know they were stolen?”

    “Didn’t you read about that scam in the paper?”

    He shrugged. “You know how it is. Don’t have much to do with the news these days.”

    Okay. Understandable. He hated reading or hearing about the bottomless shithole his career had become. Still, he needed a swift kick in the ass before he tanked permanently. “Okay, let’s go chase down Whiskey. Afterwards, you can fix one of those god-awful fruit drinks I pretend to enjoy while I tell you how to break out of this slump and get your shit together.”

    He mustered enough energy to attempt a glare. “Why the hell should I?”

    She grinned. “For the one reason you can’t argue: the love of Whiskey.”

    – – – – –
    @bullishink / 954 words (rough draft intro to short story WIP ‘Misunderstood’)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: #MidweekMusings 1×13 : Freedom | My Soul's Tears

  3. I sat in my recliner, watching the TV. Some stupid show about how aliens had visited Earth in the past, and shared science and technology with us, and that’s how we started advancing as humans. I’m sure it all made sense to some people, but to me, it was flat silly.

    As I watched, I thought about everything. My job. My art. My life. I was old enough, the kids had grown up, and left the house. I wasn’t sure if I was proud of them standing on their own, as a sign I’d been a successful parent. Or if I was sad at the struggles they faced daily, a sign of my failures as a parent. It was one of those questions you ask yourself, but can never find an answer too. Always, you wonder how you did, and what that means about you, what that says about you.

    I doodled. I did. I drew things on paper. Stupid things. Fairies with butterfly wings, bugs with big eyes and stupid grins. I even had this idea for a bug civilization, where big bugs were busses, with advertisements on the sides, and windows, filled with little bugs looking out. And bug traffic everywhere, with bug street races, and bug old people. I know. Silly, right? It wasn’t a serious thing, just something I did, something fun.

    I must have had three dozen notebooks of doodles, sketches, drawings. It was a hobby for me. I’d never taken it seriously, never thought of selling any of my sketches. Hell, I’d never thought of finishing any of them, cleaning them up, making them worth looking at.

    I doodled. That’s what it was. Something fun, something to pass the time, something to help me relax. It wasn’t real, after all, I wasn’t doing that for a living.

    What I did for a living was work. Full time, like a grown up’s supposed to. Work a full-time job, be responsible, be grown up, be professional. All that stuff you learn in school. That’s what school was for, wasn’t it? You went to school to learn how to get a job, and earn a living. A decent living. Where you could buy a house, get married, have a family, send the kids to college. So they could do the same thing.

    I suppose my work defined me. Or, you know, maybe I let my work define me. I let what I did at work define me. That old question, “And what do you do for a living?”

    I worked. I worked for a good company. They paid me well, gave me medical insurance, two weeks of vacation every year, five days of sick leave if I needed them. It was good money, a good deal. We’d done well with my work, we had cars (three of them), a roomy house, and all the trappings. TVs everywhere, computers, smartphones. All that crap.

    My reflection in the TV screen spoke volumes when I noticed it. And I tried not to notice it. The tubby, balding white guy sitting on his lazy ass, drinking a zillion calorie soda, eating peanut butter fudge cookies, watching some stupid TV show in the middle of the night. The old white guy at the end of his life.

    I didn’t want to see that, didn’t like my reflection in the TV screen. I grabbed the remote, and started surfing the channels, mindlessly clicking through them, until I stopped at the music video channels. I figured I’d watch some of the women sing. You know, one of two of the girl bands, where they dress in skin-tight outfits, with barely present skirts, and push up tops that make their boobs look bigger than they are. And they shimmy their hips, and shake their boobs lots while they sing and dance around. That was always fun to watch, right?

    But that night, it wasn’t. I kept thinking how I was probably older than their parents were, or at least as old as their parents. About how my daughter might be older than the girls in the group. How those girls dressed up, and shook it, for money. How they took advantage of the truth of men spending money to watch them, and have fantasies about them.

    Hell, I hadn’t had any sex with anyone in ages. I couldn’t remember the last time I had, and it didn’t matter. I wasn’t really interested in that anymore. I was too tired, too old. I’d outgrown it, I supposed. But, it was everywhere on that music channel. The ads between the videos were for women’s sexy underwear, bras and panties, always lacy. And the models had big tits, and big asses. The kind of woman a twenty something guy wants to get naked with.

    All those reminded me of was my daughter being older than the models.

    I changed channels, and stopped at one where a guy in jeans was singing. Lots of scene changes, of course, it was a music video. But he was singing something about freedom. And that got me thinking.

    Yeah, my reflection was still there, in the TV screen. My fat, lazy ass was still there, collecting dust. Hell, if I was a car, I’d have been a Junker in the back field somewhere, with weeds growing out of my front end, where my hood was gone, and the engine too.

    That’s when I kept hearing that damn song echo in my head. That word, freedom.

    I started drawing that night. And for once I finished a picture. Maybe that was where I’d find the freedom the guy in the song kept singing about. And that got me thinking. And thinking would change everything.

    950 words

    Liked by 1 person

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