I love music—always have. As I mentioned last week, I spent a lot of years writing songs and playing bass in rock and blues bands. Personally, I enjoy all types of music with the exception of rap, and I might even enjoy some of it if I could understand the lyrics and they weren’t about slappin’ yo mama (or something worse). Some folks are not so tolerant, as you will see in today’s story.
This week’s Friday Flash Fictioneer photo is courtesy of Roger Cohen. To read other stories, or learn how to participate, visit our hostess, RenettaWisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinkz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
BIG BASS IN COW TOWN
“Any information on those two prisoners, Marshal?”
“Yeah, I just got a telegram from the Sheriff in Wichita. They’re known as Texas Red and Brown Bart.”
“Any serious crimes?”
“Naw, same as here, Festus. Switching sheet music when the piano player isn’t looking.”
“What kind of music, classical?”
“No, even worse—Jazz.”
Marshal Dillon faced the prisoners.
“Boys, you may get away with this kind of thing in New Orleans, but this is a western town and we listen to western music. If I catch you around here again we’ll string you up. Now, get the hell out of Dodge.”
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This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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