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Memphis Fast Fiction Sampling

Posted by: TGST

Hey everyone,

I was out of town this weekend, freezing my bits off in Nashville. Because of which, I’m clawing my way back to the surface from an avalanche of work. So, no new Opening Lines this week.

Instead, here’s a sampling of 3 Memphis Fast Fictions from my new project. Same method as my normal Fast Fictions. Some one gives me a story title and a word to use in the story. Then, I write a 200 word short story off that prompt. The twist on this is that I’m doing one a day, and I’m doing them all about Memphis. Yep.

Take a read, and if you like what you see, why not drop by and give me a prompt?

Vinyl Record Bandaged Son

Dive bombing the line at the door, he pulled me straight into the Hi-Tone.

One of the bar’s staff tried to stop him and tell him he couldn’t smoke in here.

“You can’t have rock and roll without whiskey, cigarettes and groupies willing to debauch themselves in paphian ways. Don’t piss me off junior, I’m on a mission from God.” was his snarled response.

Snaking over to the bar he ordered a quintuple and threatened to mangle the bar tender’s nipples if he did anything funny to his drink. Like put ice in it.

He seemed to calm as the whiskey passed over his lips, and turned back to me.

“So you want to know the secret of rock and roll?”

I nodded, a pupil before a master.

“The secret is that it’s all about religion. Not like morals and dogma and that annoying tax form crap. But real religion. Faith. Believing in something bigger than you.”

He took a healthy swig.

“Records are missives from God. Rock shows are the last true sermons. Tours are pilgrimages. We’re not making music. We’re saving souls.”

His whiskey was gone, and his eyes danced in the dim light.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Memphis Note
The Hi-Tone at the corner of Overton Park is a music venue that’s got a special history. It used to be the Kang Rhee Institute, the karate studio where Elvis took lessons. So the next time you’re there in there, especially if it’s the first time, look up at the picture of Rhee and Elvis that’s over the bar, and raise a glass to those walls.

Alleys and Glass

The cold air snakes into the room through the half-open window. It runs up the length of her exposed leg, giving her goose pimples. She shivers involuntarily and covers her leg with the thin blanket.

He stands, fully nude, next to the window, peering out into the darkness like a raptor looking for a mouse in a field of grass. All his senses straining against the night.

“Why don’t you come back to bed, baby? It’s warmer over here.” She smoothed out the sheets on the side of the bed next to her.

He doesn’t budge. Instead he cocks his head to the side, and hunkers closer to the gap in the window, predatory.

“What’re ya listenin’ for, baby?”

He holds up a finger, to quiet her. “The music.”

She scrunches up her face. “Beale’s blocks away. There ain’t no music out there cept drunks yowlin’ in the night.”

“You can’t hear it? All that music? Those sounds of desire, of passion, of sin? All scattering like shattered bottles across the back corners of this city.”

“Wish there were more of those sounds comin’ from in here.”

He gives a laugh and returns to bed, leaving the window open.

Memphis Note:
Beale Street is the heart of Memphis. Essentially a two block long row of sin in it’s heyday, Beale became the birth point for the blues. And the inspiration from WC Handy’s classic “Beale Street Blues”.

The Devil’s Tongue

The white blossoms in her hair hung like stars in the night sky, perfectly offset by the ebony cascade of her hair. And the way she moved, in that persimmon orange dress, with the slit that barely left anything to his imagination? Well, it flat out crippled his faculties.

Common sense went down in flames when he asked her to dance. His propriety was shot to hell when he put one hand on the small of her back and the other on that silky thigh. And when she whispered into his ear, her breath hot and sweet, whispered words that would make a sailor blush, he couldn’t help but follow her up those darkened stairs.

Up the stairs she went, sliding through rooms like a snake until she found the empty bathrooms. He followed her the whole way, hypnotized by the sway of her curves. She pushed the door closed behind him and twisted the latch. Her tongue plunged into his mouth. His hand ran up her thigh. They were finding each other.

Which is about the time the door burst open and a hipster ran for the toilet.

After all, this is Ernestine and Hazels. The bathrooms don’t lock.

Memphis Note
Ernestine and Hazel’s is a bar in downtown Memphis that has a storied history. It used to be a sundry’s store, then it became a brothel, and now it’s a bar. A haunted bar, to boot. But fair warning to anyone attempting a tryst – the doors don’t lock as well as you think they do.

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