Wailing notes squeezed from metal strings pealed through the smoke-softened air. The stained maple body of the instrument as dark as the whiskey in my glass. The axe man clutched it to himself, bent and wracked as he reeled out a banshee’s call for a lost lover.
I sat alone at my table, boot heel snagged on a jagged tile on the beaten floor. Third cigarette burning down untasted between my fingers. My eyes pinned on the guitar player’s grimace.
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
I cupped my ear and leaned toward the woman who’d materialized at my left.
“Heard good things,” I said. “Thought I’d check it out.”
“If you like the real blues, this is the only place to be.”
I nodded, admiring the nut brown skin that revealed in the deep neckline of her dress. Her hair was back in a bun, her eyes flicking from the stage to me. Short clipped red nails tipped slender fingers, curled around her glass.
Under the blue lights, the bluesman sang of a woman too good for him, a woman now buried because of his jealous ways. He slipped back into the chorus.
“And now I got these prison bars, ain’t got her lovin’ arms…” His lip got that wicked curl again, giving a thin gleam of teeth.
“She’s too good for this old snake, and she’s too good for this world,” his voice rumbled over the finale, and the room broke into claps and hollers.
I clapped with the rest of them, his music was righteous. Now I knew what she’d seen in him.
Her chair scraped closer to mine. “I wonder how he channels that kind of pain.”
I almost flashed a smile, but cut it off. My hand dropped to my belt, where I’d tucked the cheap .32 the kid had sold me.
“Something like that has to come from the heart,” she said. “He’s gone through it.”
I nodded. “That’s the stone truth.”
I stood up and slipped through the thinning crowd, toward the stage.
~ fin ~
Thomas Pluck writes unflinching fiction with heart. His debut novel Blade of Dishonor stars MMA fighter 'Rage Cage' Reeves rescuing his WWII vet grandpa from a battle between ninja and samurai over a stolen sword. His work has appeared in The Utne Reader, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Burnt Bridge, PANK Magazine, McSweeney's, The Morning News, Beat to a Pulp, and numerous anthologies. He writes regular columns for Devil Gourmet, The Big Thrill, Criminal Element, and The Good Men Project. He is also the editor of Protectors: Stories to Benefit PROTECT. You can find him on the web at www.thomaspluck.com and Twitter as @tommysalami
17 Responses
Prose like poetry. Scene is set, actors are in motion, and you can almost taste the smoke of the whiskey. Protagonist is utterly believable – focused, knows the why of it, and knows it makes no difference. Thoroughly enjoyed reading this and look forward to more.
As always, it left me wishing for the next page. Great story Thomas
Thank you, everyone.
Gorgeous writing as always, you devil.
Powerful and lyrical. Mega.
Really lovely.
This one’s got atmosphere. Terrific.
Poetry. Atmosphere and poetry. You captured the blues, and then gave us enough of a taste of revenge to let us know where all those bullets are going. Good job.
nice job mr. pluck… you captured the essence of the blues. like a good guitar solo, i didn’t want that to end…
So much done with so little. So much happening off the page.
Wonderful. You know just where to stop. Leaves me both satisfied and wanting more. Grand story.
Thumbs up!
Wonderful descriptions, atmosphere. Really loved this.
Beautifully written. Your eyes water from the smoke; the room spins lightly from the warm burn of the whiskey; the atmosphere delightfully oppressive. The admiration is apparent, yet the purpose is clear and without remorse. Poetry indeed. Brava.
I like that you left it with the threat of violence rather than any graphic details. Smoky, just like the room.
Nice. You showed a lot of discipline with the writing. I like that! Anonymous-9