PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
The sun’s coming up and I’m getting down, the heartbeat of the city. Jeweled lights, flaring stars of the street outside, blaze through the nicotine stained windows. Ned, his lip nearly blown after eight hours above high C, exploring where only angels, and Dizzy, dare tread, has put on the Harmon mute and has put on his Miles’ suite, and is growling low and mean. Bev, starting the night like Bird, has moved a little more Dexter-eous, gone from Bopicity to cool-city. The piano’s a choir and the brushes on the drums are soft. I make love to my bass.
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(Read it out loud ;) )
Word count = 100
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This weeks prompt is here and uses a photo provided by © Björn Rudberg. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.
Listen to the wolf. Do you hear what it’s saying? Can you hear the loneliness and the longing? No, really listen. Do you hear it? In its howls it is singing a song, a song to the Moon.
The Moon is for wanting. The Moon is for longing. The wolf knows. Look at her up there, so beautiful but always out of reach. She’s like a long dead lover. She still tugs on your heart but you can feel no warmth from her touch. But then, the sun may touch you with his hot fingers, but he can also burn and torture. You don’t have to worry about being burned by that dead lover, the Moon.
And yet she is so alive, so much in the present, the keeper of time. Her silver fingers tickle your upturned face, her serene beauty tickles your upturned heart. She is always there for you, smiling down for you and you alone. Continue reading