Once again, the lovely Mistress of Fiction, Rochelle, has orchestrated the launch of a photo prompt to inspire my story telling muse into a frenzy of guns and guitars, of love recalled, of romantic tension.
Click on the Bradly Harris photo to jet on over to Rochelle’s place for the big picture. My one-hundred-word micro-story, inspired by an old Abba song, follows.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Title: Better Worlds
Word Count: 100
Maria whispered, “Do you remember, Fernando, when we last stood here? That night, long ago; a night of guns and guitars, of dreams and distant drums, of freedom, love, and fear?”
“Oh, Maria. We were so young and full of life. Revolution held many promises for a better world. I deeply miss it all: the guns, cannons, and cries of our love for liberty; for our people. I miss us, then. I want to go back. To that night, to make those feelings forever.”
“No regrets, Fernando. Let’s return to that night.”
Holding hands, they took their final steps back.
Look both ways, back to that night.
Seek the love of hopeless romantics, the glamor of disco days,
and never let your memories die.
Mind the gaps while turning pages in the book of life.
***
Click on Che to read more stories from the same picture prompt.
***
Enjoy this rendition of ‘Fernando’ by Cher and Andy Garcia from the movie, Mama Mia.
I shudda been dead years ago.
Every rock wall or cliff I ever saw
was for climbin’ up or down
got kinda hairy sometimes, ripped pants,
scrapes, scratches, and snakes
got bee stung once.
Every train was our ride, tracks for playing
and high trestles for wide river crossings.
A train’s comin’?
I knew two guys who
killed themselves
jumpin’ off a them bridges.
Every roof was to be jumped from
after a building’s been climbed, got
wrenched, twisted, and sprained —
never broken.
Me and Jimmy swam
butt-naked
in that filthy, dirty, Susquehanna
in our bathing suits, which means naked.
Immunity.
We climbed up shit.
Like towers, bridges, trees, buildings.
Shinnied up rusty poles. If we fell,
we’d die. Motivation!
If a train came, we’d die.
Fucking people jumped
from there
into the river
to kill their selves.
My uncle did – Dad’s brother,
Was his name? James maybe,
Something. Yes it was James. Same as Dad’s dad.
His sons said he was trying to save a dog.
Uncle Jimmy weren’t savin’ no fucking dog,
But glorious if he had.
We poached – fish. Got shot at!
Fuckers missed us – on purpose likely.
When you get shot at,
you hear the bullets buzz past.
Crack, crack,
buzz
buzz.
We left — pronto.
Fish were prolly scared anyway.
It was fun to be
scared. And nothing
scared us more than
death.
But Jimmy and me – we
would live forever.
Then Jimmy died
after heart surgery.
Took him off a machine that
breathed
for him – how fucking
inglorious!
I’ll die too.
Too fucking late for
glorious.
Or is it?
Tom died too. Jumped
off a tower. ‘chute didn’t open.
BASErs say gear malfunction.
Midnight. New Year’s Eve.
BASE jump. Glorious.
Jack died of fucking cancer.
He knew. He called me cuz
he knew. I knew too. When his
wife called to tell me. I
fucking couldn’t talk – I
went totally fucking Dumb.
Give me the Light Brigade.
Fuck pas. Gimme a rifle,
a cause, a revolution, a reason.
Fernando!
Teach me how to
die. All the lessons of
life – not one teaches
me how to die.
Love hard, live fast,
die old. But die for a reason.
If yer gunna die, have a cause.
¡viva la revolución!
Aces’n eights ain’t my hand.
I’m not motherfucking dead yet.
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