Brilliant!

“Dude those lyrics, are like, man, they’re like genius!”

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And that’s what we’re about today, on our very second-to last installment of Twisted Mix-Tape Tuesday before sabbatical.

Now, I could literally run with this theme, five songs a day, for the next several years. But I won’t. And I also didn’t inflict any undue mental exhaustion by trying to choose the “best of the bunch” either.

No, what follows instead are the lyrical giants for me that deal with topics quirky, topics not normally brought to light in polite society. And to that end, I suppose we’d have to start with the grand daddy of them all…

Followed by a little gender identification sing-a-long…

Before we see if anyone would care for another dose?

Because we all know that we sometimes just don’t fit in…

Until of course, someone loves us true.

And for today’s bonus track, well, I’m hoping that at least some of you will have seen this one coming. I mean, the week’s prompt was about “genius lyrics,” after all…

In The Mood For A Dance.

As m’dad used to always say, “Follow where the pirates they lead you.”

Well, I suppose that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as what he actually used to say was quite a bit more dismissive, of both pirates, and people in general. But for this week, and as I continue to take prompt advice from my favorite Word Pirate (this time leading me over to the kids at Write Tribe), I’m pretending that the words written above, did at one point come from his mouth. As to my own mouth, I’ll simply continue saying that I hope that you enjoy this bit of fictional fluff…

6743bc0c-f84c-4b75-b2aa-82bafb353f8e_zps485e2995How do you do that?

How do I do what, honey?

How do you dance like that?

I don’t know sugar,  I suppose I just do it.

Just “do it?”

Just do it. Easy breezy.

But, you’re so graceful. Your hips are so swirly – your twirls, almost majestic!

Awww, thank you sweetie!

And those heels! Why, they have to be at least six inches….

Four.

They have to be at least four inches tall. How do you pirouette so flawlessly?

I don’t know sugar. Honestly, I don’t.

C’mon dad, seriously – how do you do that?

I don’t know honey, I suppose I just do.

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Twisted Wind Down

Much like the ancient computer that eventually won out in forcing me to cease and desist from creating posts for this group, my heart is literally broken over the news that Twisted Mix-Tape Tuesday will be closing its doors for a spell in three short weeks!

I’m going to try to participate in these final endeavors, though at the speed with which my ‘puter works, they may not be ready until Wednesday/Thursday time frame.

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Jen, you are still (in my mind at least) easily one of the top five people (give or take) in all of human history for creating this prompt, and I want to thank you for hosting our musical maniacal meanderings over the past year.

As this is the last “Your Choice,” prompt, I suppose none of us should be surprised that I went here…

Darin did it all. Really. Rock, pop, country, and folk. He even (as detailed here) could be said to have been one of the originators of the Gothic scene. Don’t believe me? Try some of this pudding for your proof…

Rock:

Pop:

Country:

Folk:

And yes, even “Gothic:”

You see, with B.D., we always got “the real thing.” With B.D., we always got more. Which leads me to my third-to last bonus track (there’s always a bonus track…), my personal favorite most favorited of all time, Darin tune:

PS: I intentionally avoided his more “popular” songs today as I was hoping to broaden horizons while applying my adept skills at music snobbery…

Silent Conversations

Sorry kids, but a very busy week means that this week’s Inspiration Monday isn’t arriving until Friday – err – today.

As always, I hope you enjoy…

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The clean, crisply folded clothes sat behind him, pleading to be placed safely back away, deep within their horizontally sliding wood and formica hovels. Begging to be taken out of the broken and rather dreary piece of molded plastic, that at one point had been proud to call itself a laundry basket. But instead of doing so, he sat facing away and inattentive, sipping aggressively at his vodka-straight while he stared into his computer screen.

In front of the screen was a keyboard of no importance, but atop it was a slightly crumpled, possibly tear-stained sheet of scrap paper. Scrap paper that had the word “flight” noted excitedly upon it. Scrap paper that was intended as a reminder for a task that was never realized, never completed. The scrap paper that now mocked him knowingly, as he moved it nervously – unable to dispose of it altogether – from this side to that, across the keyboard which remained of no importance.

To the left of that very keyboard, his phone violently burped out a small blue light, alerting him as to incoming messages, silent conversations wishing to be held. Raising its electronic hand in this fashion meekly, the phone likewise hoped to garner his attention. But much like the laundry before it, it had no success, as he continued to stare – dead-eyed but not numbed – into his computer screen, with one finger aimlessly stroking the rim of the vodka’s tumbler.

The tumbler itself and the vodka had very little to say, as they were both feeling incredibly loved and important at the moment. Seeing that the ice cubes might cause an interruption to the affection being unceremoniously showered upon it, the vodka had already taken careful measures – through the use of its limited knowledge of chemistry – to ensure that both cubes were forever silenced by their watered-down oblivion. Their raucous clinking now abated, still, into the screen he stared, sucking a combination of air and 80 proof through clenched teeth.

A screen that, being unlike the rest, in that it was unable to speak, was feeling very uncomfortable at this moment. For as he stared at it, it in turn was forced to stare at him – forced to gaze deep into his booze-soaked eyes. Held captive as it observed the sadness that created the tears, that in turn slowly strolled down his cheek, into the forest of his absent-minded beard.

The screen realized of course that he wasn’t staring at it, per say, but this understanding did little to make the whole experience any more palatable. And on the occasions when he actually touched it drunkenly – caressing it really – longingly, the screen could almost imagine what it must feel like to shiver with desire. It did not of course, as it was only a speechless screen after all.

While touching the un-shivering screen, he softly wondered why. Why had he made her countenance his screen saver in the first? With his free hand he found himself again stroking the lip of the tumbler, in some hope of finding a nick or a gouge – just something – to make him bleed. Just enough as to remind him that he was alive, and in this space, not hers.

He missed her.

Dammit, he missed her.

And that wasn’t like him. It wasn’t what he said this life would be, moving forward. And yet, here he was – the cacophony of his everyday life literally screaming for attention – and he, being only able to sit and stare. Not blankly at a random and mute screen, but at every nuance of the personage represented there, eyes and hair aglow, coming to life in vibrant 1024 x 768 dpi.

A cat, the only solitary living being within the house besides he (and a growing family of mice that neither yet had figured out was sharing the same roof), silently nudged its head against his shin, hoping as well to begin a conversation of sorts that would involve many strokes to the forehead and maybe even a treat or two.

Not diverting his eyes, he rubbed his thumb forcefully against the cat’s head – right where favored, upon the bridge – in blind observance of the tradition. But otherwise the feline as well, found itself unsuccessful in engaging, and decided to stalk off to its favorite corner instead, watching him with disdain, as he slowly continued to caress the random piece of glass that happened to be housed within an equally random piece of plastic. Both of which worked together to contain a countenance – due to its blatant lack of scent – unrecognizable to the cat, but still somehow very real to the man who beheld it.

•••

A Fruitless Endeavor

I’m SO glad I finally “balled-up” enough to join in with this group, and including this intro, I believe I’m more than maxing the 500-word count allowable for this week’s Write On Edge challenge. 

Please click the link above to learn more about the prompt and the community, and as always, I hope you enjoy…

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Watching him zip up the last of the three bags he’d hastily thought to pack, she became further irritated as he tried to compress its contents – with one shaky knee held hard against the fabric lid – while fiddling with the steel slider which protested loudly as he tugged it along the plastic teeth that were its mate. Timing it to where the entire endeavor appeared to be at its most fruitless, she waited before asking snidely, “So that’s it? You’re leaving then?”

Wha? Oh. Yeah.

“Just like that?”

Yes.

“Just ‘poof,’ and you’re gone?”

For God’s sake, YES! Why?

“She’s not going to be waiting for you, you know.”

She will.

“She won’t.”

She might.

Emboldened by his moment of caution and pause, she leapt forward unmindful into the din of her verbal castration of him, stressing, “Listen. There is nothing waiting for you out there anyway. You know that, right?”

There’s nothing waiting for me here either.

“Oh yeah? What about your career?”

Not for nothing, but I’m fairly certain that they have those where I’m going as well…

“What about the house?”

It’s not in my name anymore – it’s not my house anymore. It’s… it’s not my home.

“And what about me? What about your poor mother?”

Well. I’m sure the ole girl will understand. I’m sure you’ll get it, why I need to do this… Maybe some day.

“Well don’t be so certain of that. And what about the children? What about your children?”

Having finally secured the zipper – now groaning under its newfound charge of keeping all the baggage safely contained within, he sat back for a moment and wiped his haggled brow before almost whispering, and almost to himself, “Yes, there is them. That’s true.”

What…?

“I said that yes, there is that to contend with.”

See? You can’t leave. You need them.

“I do. But don’t you see? I sleep alone every night, while they sleep in the same house as her latest fling. No, they’ve already been taken from me. A long time ago. And besides, they’re almost adults now themselves.”

You can’t leave. I won’t let you. They need you.

“You know what? I’ve always told them that we’d all someday get out of this dump. I just never thought that I’d be the first to make the break. They do need me, but they need me to continue to lead by example. I think I’m doing the right thing here.”

She’s not going to be waiting for you, you know.

“She might.”

She won’t.

Rising on steady legs, he casually pulled the over-stuffed, yet self-contained third bag from the floor, and slung it across his back. Ignoring the still-protesting zipper as he did so, his step matched his smile as he strode enlivened towards the front door and the gate that lay beyond it, while saying much more to himself then to anyone within earshot, “She will.”

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