Blues Cleaners

Photo by: Sunayana MoiPensieve

Jamal was one of the finest blues men in London. While busking near the market, his guitar case always overflowed with cash appreciation. His music was powerful, literally sweeping away his audience’s bad feelings. People walked away from Jamal feeling clean and happy. He sang:

Well I’m a blues broom for you
I’ll sweep away that bad doo-doo.

But there was a cost for absorbing all those blues. Now everyone’s troubles had become Jamal’s troubles. The blues weighed heavily on him. After a few hours he traveled to the park. A crowd of other street performers had collected to listen to¬† Anita’s music. She sang:

So when your face is sad and wan
Just drop your blues inside my trash can

Soon Jamal felt fresh and clean. Still, he wondered how Anita recovered. Then as he turned a corner he found his answer. A musician played before the house of a prominent and self-aggrandizing politician. Raul sang:

Just take your blues into the blues dump
I’ll give ’em all to this pompous chump!

Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers:

Author’s Notes:

A “Busker” is a street performer:

This story was inspired by “Steamroller Blues” by James Taylor.

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The Visions

Photo by: Al Forbes

Bradley started the day as a foreman overseeing the demolition of the old church on Robard Ave. Now he sat in a psychologist’s office, his job on the line. At least he was spared the indignity of the couch.

“So what happened?” said Dr. Valdez.

“The truck carrying the wrecking ball broke down,” said Bradley. “We ordered another truck to get the ball. Then, it had an accident. The wrecking ball was…wrecked.”

“And then you had your hallucination?”

“A vision, actually. A nun and a priest stood in the church gallery. I knew then the church shouldn’t be demolished. I told the demolition company owner. He’s furious, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Okay, what did this ‘vision’ say to you?”

“Nothing. They never do. I can just figure out what’s wrong from the vision.”

“They? You’ve hallucinated before?”

“Visions,” corrected Bradley. “I’ve always had them. For instance, there’s something wrong with that doughnut.”

Valdez paused, about to take a bite. “Don’t be silly.” He bit in, then spluttered and spat the bite out. “Ach! It’s salty!”

“Yeah, I saw a baker face-palming just now. Salt looks just like sugar. An understandable mistake by a busy baker.”

“Don’t you think that’s a lucky coincidence?” smirked Valdez. His phone rang. “I’m sorry, that’s my wife. I should…”

“Maybe wait on that,” warned Bradley. “You should prepare yourself.”

Valdez paused. “Why?”

Bradley studiously avoided looking towards the couch. “I think your wife knows about the cheerleader.”
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction:

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Internet Safety

Photo by: Dawn Miller

Larry found the fire pot in a small town in Mexico. He could tell it was ancient. After a quick google search he learned the pot was infamous. The “Fire Pot of Quixochanagua” was dangerous. It came with numerous warnings. Larry bought it for 50 pesos and took it home.

He found the releasing ceremony on youtube. A little later he found a forum suggesting the best protection from a guy who survived the pot. Larry put in an emergency order with Amazon.

The following day Larry had meat on the grill just waiting for fire. Larry grinned up at the snarling, 7-foot tall black jaguar. “It’s easy,” said Larry, pointing. “Just cook the food.”

“What?” boomed the godlike voice of Quixochanagua. “I’ve burned down entire cities for the children of gods! I…”

The monster ranted until Larry offered Ginger Candy.

“I shall rip your flesh and roast your…oooh! Ginger Candy!” Quixochanagua flicked a finger and the steaks became perfectly cooked in an instant.

The doorbell rang and Larry answered it.

“Uh I’m not sure this is right,” mumbled the UPS man. “You ordered 800 boxes of Ginger Candy, right?”

“Yep,” said Larry. “You can never be too safe.”
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction:

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Weight Loss Program

Photo by: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo by: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Immelda Vanderbilt, wealthy financier, walked in the field beside Dr. Egambe. “I knew physicists would produce a better, more successful weight loss program!” she enthused.

“Yes,” said Egambe, “But with our success comes new problems.”

“Of course! We need to find a manufacturer, publicity corps, FDA approval…”

“Ah, that’s not what I meant.”

“Eh? Where is Dr. Horowitz? And why aren’t we in his lab?”

Without a word, Egambe handed her a pair of binoculars and pointed into the sky.

“Oh my!”

“Yes, ma’am. Hopefully we can get him back before he gets lost in the cloud layer.”
Written for the Friday Fictioneers:

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The Dumb Calf

Photo by: Magesticgoldenrose

Photo by: Magesticgoldenrose

Jackson glared at the calf in the barnyard. The cerebral development hormones he’d given him failed to take hold, obviously. “Dang calf ain’t no smarter than his momma,” he grumped.

“What’s he done now?” asked farmhand Watters.

“Found ‘im with my computer.”

“Uh oh. Was he stompin’ on it?”


“Droolin’ on it?”

“Damn near. The ijit was writing programs. Wrote a FOR Loop and forgot to set the initial variables. Then he blamed it all on the C++ compiler, saying it wasn’t patched properly with the online updates. Can you believe it?”

“Well Hells Bells, Jackson!” spat Watters. “That is a dumb calf!”
Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers:

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A Terrible Drink

Photo by: Al Forbes

Photo by: Al Forbes

“My wife is always trying to invent new drinks,” said Stan, talking on the phone with his friend. “She left a sample of a new one in the kitchen for me. Lemme tell ya’, this one really bombed. It was awful!”

They chatted a little longer and Stan hung up. His 9-year old son Mitch, entered the kitchen. “Dad? Have you seen my tadpole?”

“When did you get a tadpole?”

“Found it this morning and put in the kitchen,” said Mitch, with a touch of pride. “I preserved it in formaldehyde like you said…in one of your martini glasses.”
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction:

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The Sleepwalk

Photo by: Al Forbes

Photo by: Al Forbes

Marjorie bought the wooden dragon at a flea market. Her son, Avery had been plagued with nightmares and he occasionally sleepwalked. As she tucked in the 8-year old, Avery gazed at the dragon with trepidation, “Aren’t dragons monsters?” he said.

“Not all,” said Marjorie. “Some are powerful magicians who protect children, like this one.”

The next morning, Avery wasn’t in his bed. Marjorie couldn’t find him in the yard. Near panic, she got in the car and began driving. She found him quickly, calmly waiting for her in a muddy field.

“It was awesome!” said Avery. “These monsters came. They wanted to take me away and replace me with a…a jingaling.”

“You mean a changeling?”

“Yeah, that’s it!”

Marjorie couldn’t recall teaching Avery about changelings.

“You were right about the dragon. He protected me. He grabbed me before the monsters got me and flew me away where it was safe.”

Marjorie smirked. “You sure you weren’t sleepwalking?”

“No way!”

Exhaustion soon overcame Avery’s excitement. Marjorie changed his muddy clothes and tucked him in. The dragon was still there by his bed. She paused to glare accusingly at it.

What she saw chilled her spine.

The dragon had muddy feet.

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction:

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