My Friends and I Read online

MY FRIENDS & I

  A Song & Story Collaboration

  First Publication 2013

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2013 OfficeMango

  Copyright © 2013 All Stories copyright their respective authors

  Copyright © 2013 Cover Design by Micah Van Zandt

  Copyright © 2013 Story Illustrations by Mark Holden, Mark’sAlot-Studio on Facebook

  A Note From Earl Matthews

  I’d like to share a little of the “My Friends and I” history. MFaI is a group of 13 bands/singer-songwriters and one pen-and-ink artist from Stanislaus county in the great central valley of California. We live, work, play, and raise our families here and we make art that reflects our life and experiences.

  The idea for this project came on a trip to Santa Cruz to play a show with my band The Poorhouse Millionaires. We were playing at a little place called the Crepe Place and it occurred to me that everywhere I go, I want to tell all the people I meet about all the great music in my little community.

  However, words don’t cut it in the music business. It always comes down to the sound. I can talk till I’m blue in the face about how much I love a band but unless the other person can actually hear the music, it’s all for naught. Being the problem-solver I am, I realized we needed a way to get the sounds of these terrific bands into more ears and the best way to do that is by sharing their recordings.

  So I contacted Mr. Chandler Pratt, who is a member of The Good Luck Thrift Store Outfit and the House of Orange. He is an excellent producer and I wanted to get him involved with this project. He loved the idea and immediately suggested that we make it a collaborative project. It was so much fun to lend our individual talents to each other during the recording process.

  Chandler organized the recordings and I organized a Kickstarter campaign. Seven months and a lot of elbow grease later, we were fully funded and had a cd that we were all very proud of. All that’s left to do now is to send it out into the world and share its sounds with all of you. We hope you enjoy this collaboration as much as we have. We look forward to doing it again next year and watching it take off as an annual event.

  A Note from Ruth Long

  After participating in the Audiomachine collaborative story created and hosted by Samantha Geary, I began to wonder how a project like that might work on a smaller scale.

  I put the idea to a friend, musician Big Earl Matthews, who was getting ready to release a cd put together by a handful of local bands.

  What we came up with is a collection of stories inspired by the cd. Thirteen songs + thirteen writers crazy enough to donate 1,000 words for an assigned track = a unique and first-of-its-kind creative collaboration – an ebook companion to the cd.

  Local artist, musician, and all-around-cool-dude, Micah Van Zandt, donated his mad ink skills to design a book cover that mimicked the cd cover.

  Creativity begets creativity!

  Now it’s your turn to get into the mix!

  Purchase the cd ( Amazon / CD Baby )

  Leave feedback for the musicians and writers

  Support indie creatives across all disciplines

  Thanking you in advance for your support,

  Lady Bullish (aka Ruth Long)

  CONTENTS

  1.Sunday Afternoon

  2.It’s Your Time

  3.Ring Master

  4.If I Catch You

  5.Under the Olive Tree

  6.Runaway Train

  7.Lionheart

  8.History and Love

  9.Here We Go

  10.Darkness

  11.Broken Hands

  12.You Make Me Ink

  13.Dark End of the Bar

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON / The Poorhouse Millionaires

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON / M.L. Gammella

  "We shouldn't wait ten years before doing this again," Frank commented, looking across the grass at the lively activity by he and his friends' families. Life, family, and the usual things kept the three lifelong friends from seeing one another with any frequency.

  "No, that's for sure," Joe agreed. He raised his hand to shade his eyes, peering into the distance at the group of kids. "Is that your boy out in front of the pack?"

  "Sure is," Frank replied with pride. "He's the fastest tight end that Marion High School has ever seen. The coach can't wait to put him in the varsity team next fall."

  The third of their trio, John, grunted and adjusted his worn ballcap. "We could use speed like that at Carver. Our team is in desperate need of help."

  "That's too bad," Frank commented. "Your boy doesn't play?"

  "Oh, he does, but he's not in high school yet. You and Sharon got an early start on us."

  Frank chuckled. The impending arrival of Frank Jr was a surprise for the university juniors and made the young couple shift their priorities real quick. Sure, having a kid while still in college wasn't a part of the plan, but they rolled with it and they both still graduated on time.

  Nearby, Frank's wife kicked a cooler lid shut, her hands full of ice-cold beers for the men and their wives. Rollicking music accompanied the sway of her hips, the bluesy tempo keeping time with her steps. Frank reminded himself of how thankful he was for the woman who walked toward them.

  Sharon was just as gorgeous today as she was when he first saw her at the University of Alabama, talking with a group of her friends in the Quad. Sharon's long brunette hair was the first thing that caught his eye, shimmering in the warm southern sun. Now there were a few grays in her hair, but they had names: Frank Jr, Rose, and Emily.

  "Here you go, boys," Sharon said as she handed each man his beer, then served the wives.

  Everyone mumbled their thanks and the sounds of caps being twisted from bottles quickly followed.

  Sharon and the other women walked toward where the children were playing while Frank, Joe, and John continued to talk in the shade of a large elm tree.

  "John, do you remember that one night by the old water tower, behind the high school?" Joe asked, his eyes twinkling.

  "How could I forget? We nearly got expelled for that stunt!"

  Frank laughed after taking a sip of his beer. "You're lucky my daddy was the sheriff, otherwise you would've had more problems than just being expelled!"

  "Boy, don't I know it! My pa sure tore me a new one that night. I don't think I could sit right for days."

  The three life-long friends chuckled, lost in their memories of that night and others. Frank, Joe, and John kept law enforcement on their toes as they grew up and got rowdy. Frank's father kept them out of the worst trouble, to the never-ending gratitude of Joe's and John's parents.

  "How is your father doing nowadays, John?"

  "Ah, he has good days and bad days. Mom tries to do her best, but it may be time to bring someone in. She can't do it by herself and she won't let me or Jenny help."

  "I'm sorry, man. If there's anything we can do ... "

  John shrugged and sipped his beer. "Thanks for the offer, but you can't stop the clock, man. Time ticks for all of us."

  "You're getting philosophical in your old age," Joe commented with a smirk.

  "I was the philosophy major, remember?"

  The three men started laughing again.

  "Your dad was so mad. I remember him raging around the neighborhood talking about his boy taking philosophy, 'some tree-huggin hippie crap.'"

  "I only did it to piss him off. I never wanted to go to college in the first place."

  "You seemed to do well with it," Frank commented.

  "Surprisingly enough, I did. Helps me now, that's for sure."

  A familiar tune began to play on the radio, one that brought out the best memories of their teenag
ed years and brightened the mood.

  Frank turned the music up looked around eagerly for his wife. Taking the final sip of his beer, he caught her eye and waved her over. Sharon turned and said something to Cindy and Trina, Joe's and John's wives respectively. The three women laughed as they walked toward their husbands. The collective group of children were following their mothers, more or less. There were a few stragglers, notably the oldest three who looked like they were up to something. The look was very familiar to the three men.

  "Think they are taking after us?" John asked.

  "Lord I hope not," Frank replied with a snort.

  As soon as Sharon was close enough, Frank swept her up in his arms and began dancing with her. Joe and John followed suit with their wives, and even the kids got into the music.

  Surrounded by the love of his life, his friends, and all their children, he couldn't think of any place he'd rather be. "Can't get much better than this," Frank hollered over the music, his smile stretched from ear to ear. "My love, my kids, and my friends and I on this Sunday afternoon!"

  "Here, here!" John and Joe echoed. "On this Sunday afternoon!"

  ********

  M L Gammella has been writing on and off since high school, where she was often found scribbling in her notebook instead of following along in class. She put down her pen for several years when she got caught up with college and work, but has finally found her muse again. Her favorite green notebook is never far from her side, where she can jot notes or a quick scene down no matter where she is. She is currently working on finishing her paranormal suspense novel from National Novel Writing Month 2012 (in which she won for the first time in her third attempt). She also participates in several weekly flash fiction contests.

  You can find her at:

  Daily Picspiration

  Onward to the Written Word

  Facebook

  @MLGammella

  IT’S YOUR TIME / Ryan Russell

  EPITAPH / Ruth Long

  Nights like this, when autumn's stained-glass skies blow jagged kisses and whisper blood oaths, death comes sweet as candy and cruel as coincidence.

  A gun in your hand is a promise, like a left hook or an engagement ring. I am that promise, sworn to maintain order, defend members, protect the club. This 'sergeant-at-arms' patch means I do the heavy lifting, don’t mind getting my hands dirty and my boots scuffed.

  Tonight, I'm risking my colors and my life by going rogue to keep the club from bleeding out.

  Charlie Knox and I came up through school together. Prospected together. Built bikes together. Buried skeletons together. Few months back, he got himself voted VP. Started changing things up. His crew, his confidantes, his contacts. He didn’t burn me out but he for damn sure stonewalled me.

  Took some time but I got beyond the betrayal. Turned out the distance between us was a good thing. Meant I could keep a cool head when I figured out he was the one skimming from the club. I needed that cold detachment because revenge is impulsive and messy but retribution is controlled and precise, like ballet or surgery.

  You got metastasizing cancer, you don't turn a blind eye. You don't lodge a complaint with the board of health. You don't whine about it to a support group. You bump heads with the chief oncologist and fast-track a strategy for eradicating the disease.

  Bottom line, the club is the body, Knox is the cancer, and I’m the best damn surgeon you're never gonna meet.

  I wait until it's late and dark, until colors are slick with suds and eyeballs are rolling up like lucky sevens in slot machines. Slipping out of the roadhouse, I stop by my bike for a moment before hopping into the shortbed. That's when I find myself in trouble.

  I fire up the engine, and say, "Get out of the truck."

  She buckles up. "Not this time, Titus. And don't bother saying you're on club business because I know better."

  Way the ink wraps around her arm makes a man think about open roads and fresh tires.

  I switch on the radio. "True, but you still got to get out."

  She turns down the volume. “Not until you tell me why you just put your colors in your saddlebag."

  Anyone else, I'd argue or throw the first punch. But sitting here in the dark with her, the truth about how blurry I've let the line become between revenge and retribution grabs me by the shorthairs.

  I want to put a club officer in the ground because he doesn't deserve to wear the colors and I'm willing to do it behind the club’s back, against bylaws, because I've convinced myself that I’m protecting the club from public embarrassment.

  But the truth is, I’m using a legitimate situation as an excuse to settle an unresolved grievance. And if I do it this way, dark and dirty, I’ll end up being the cancer, a man without honor, unfit to wear the colors myself.

  I never let a woman ride with me, not even this one. Still, here she is, sitting shotgun, knowing I’m about to do something sideways and settling in for the drive anyway.

  Up to this point, I had the proof that Knox was rotten and the balls to take him down. Now I have the motivation to do it right, with club sanction, because my future just bought long-legged real estate.

  Knox thinks he’s too good for me, that I’m just a junkyard dog, meting out midnight justice and digging unmarked graves. Guess he forgot that I know more than one way to use a shovel.

  Nights like this, when her scent coats my nostrils like fine white powder and her proximity stirs my body like a leviathan breaching the surface, I’m tempted to confess that every death on my ledger is a poem, a love letter, a long slow kiss.

  ********

  An incurable ink and paper addict, Californian Ruth Long enjoys adventure stories, vintage cars, and southern rock. She lives in constant fear of the grammar police because she doesn’t write by the book but by ear like a musician. A regular participant on the flash fiction circuit, bi-weekly contributor to the story blog Daily Picspiration, founder of Shutterworks Community Photoblog, and hoarder of numerous unpublished manuscripts, she zealously believes in the power of creative community.

  To find out more about her passion for storytelling, drop by her website bullishink.com or connect with her on twitter @bullishink.

  RING MASTER / House of Orange

  MIRA’S RING / Sarah Aisling

  The buzz of the audience surges through the red and yellow big top. A fresh crop of circus-goers, excited about the show, gape in awe as they take in the sights and sounds. The pungent scents of freshly turned dirt, manure, and hay mingle—not unpleasantly—with that of buttery popcorn and the sweet cloy of caramel apples and cotton candy.

  Garrett the Clown whips up balloon animals, handing them out to lucky children as they pass by. Clara walks the perimeter of the bleachers offering colorful programs featuring performers and animals while men dressed in red T-shirts with knife-creased black pants troll the aisles, peddling light-up toys, ice-cold drinks, and bags of peanuts.

  The circus is a special experience for children, an infusion of color and sound and smell, but adults both young and old also tend to be affected by the glitz, the hype . . . the dream.

  Mira Alexandrescu peeks at the assembling crowd from behind a tent flap. Her perception of the circus is different from theirs. Mira is the daughter of the Ringmaster and grew up in the circus. She feels most alive when moving across the tightrope toward Raul or when Raul's hands set her body aflame on those too-rare nights. Like the dangerous, exciting dance across the tightrope, his fingers play across her dips and curves, igniting a fire that burns almost as hot inside her as the feeling of belonging to the family of the Alexandria Brothers Circus.

  A couple of teenage girls saunter by just outside Mira's hiding spot.

  “Oh my God . . . this looks like so much fun!”

  “Totally. Imagine how much fun they have on the road, going from place to place, meeting handsome strangers . . . Maybe someday that could be us! I wonder when tryouts are.”

  Fools. Mira snorts. Circus
life is hard work. The shows are packed in, two or three a day, and they break down at one venue and have the big top prepped and ready for the next within hours. There's rarely a moment to acknowledge the town they're in; apart from the slight differences in the clientele, each stop could be Anywhere, USA.

  Although not all are related by blood, they are a family—and have the same issues any large family suffers. There's drama and disagreements; occasionally they part ways with someone who isn't pulling their weight. Childbearing is encouraged only to replenish the stable of performers, and there's little patience or attention given to a baby or toddler until they can begin training to earn their keep.

  Mira loves circus life. Granted, she doesn't know anything else, but the envy with which others look at them—town after town, year after year—leads her to believe civilian life is lackluster and mundane. She's developed an almost snobbish air, looking down her nose at those who aren't a part of her elite circle. And therein lies Mira's current problem—an outsider joined their ranks recently. Not only that, but the pale, flaxen-haired beauty captured Raul's attention. Unacceptable.