Friday Night Write ~ I Ain’t Superstitious

July 13, 2012
By Bullish

Welcome to the fourth edition of Friday Night Write!

This week we chose a song to celebrate the spirit of Friday The Thirteenth! 

The Challenge 

  • 1 Song (see image right)
  • 48 Hours (Friday @ 5pm to Sunday @ 5pm pacific)
  • 500 Words

The Basics

  • New prompt posts at 5pm pacific on Friday
  • Listen to the music here
  • Let it stir up a story
  • Post your story in the comment box below
  • Comments will close at 5 pm pacific on Sunday

The Details

  • The story does not have to contain any reference to the song. 
  • The music is merely the catalyst for your muse. 
  • The story you create is entirely your own and Sweet Banana Ink makes no claim to it.
  • You are free to post your story on your own blog.
  • Remember: as we are still in our beta stage, there are no winners, judges, badges or prizes – but I'm happy to announce that (barring catastrophic meltdown) all that will change as of Friday, August 3


    32 Responses to Friday Night Write ~ I Ain’t Superstitious

    1. Pingback: Friday Night Write – I Ain’t Superstitious « write for life
    2. Christina Krieger
      July 14, 2012 at 12:17 pm

      I know I wrote about this character last week, but the story was beckoning me to write more. So here it is at 500 words:
      Carlo refused to cry. The love of his life was dead and he would not mourn until her killer was brought to justice. He clenched his fists and rose from his knelt position over Jules' grave.
      "Carlo Capelletti, may I have a moment of your time?" A stranger said.
      "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
      "No, but I have a proposition for you." The man was in his late forties; aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.
      "I don't have time for this." Carlo swore in Italian, his native language, as he did often. Who did this guy this guy think he was talking to? Obviously Carlo's bulky, muscular appearance, slick black hair, and sharp jaw line didn't intimidate him as it did every other sane human being.
      "I think you'll want to hear what I have to say. It's about Julia."
      "She's dead, or could you not tell by the grave?" Carlo pointed to the fresh mound of dirt.
      The man nodded once as if Carlo's words were not news.
      "If you're interested in what I have to say, come to this address tomorrow night."
      The man handed Carlo a scrap of paper with messy handwriting then started to walk away.
      "I don't even know your name."
      "You may call me G."
      He had no intentions of going. G—what kind of name was that anyway?
      Carlo was not a man given to curiosity, but something about the whole situation wouldn't let him walk away. He had to know if the guy was legit or just full of it. He had to know what he knew.
      So Carlo went to the address, but not without certain precautions: a pistol on his hip, a knife in his boot, and a sniper rifle hidden in his black Buick.
      Rottweilers barked viciously as he approached the enormous house. G seemed like the type who took crap from no one. The house was surrounded by security cameras, fences, and guards who escorted him across the premises. What did the man do that required all this?
      A knotted firmly planted itself in Carlo's stomach. He also wasn't a man given to superstitions. But something didn't sit well with him, and somehow he knew that things would end badly for him. But still, he had to know.
      Once inside, Carlo was instructed to wait in the "living room" which was twice the size of any normal one.
      A moment later, G emerged and sat down.
      "I'll get right to the point Mr. Cappelletti. I would like you to come work for me. I'm in need of a certain set of… skills."
      "You're offering me a job?"
      "Do you even know who was actually behind Julia's murder? The man at the top?"
      The question caught Carlo off guard. Something that didn’t happen often. There was no need to answer; G knew he had no idea.
      "The fact is, I do know who is responsible, and I can put you in a prime position to take him out."

      • JB Lacaden
        July 14, 2012 at 4:22 pm

        Nice way to expand Carlo's story. More please!

      • Bliss
        Miss Bliss
        July 15, 2012 at 3:58 pm

        Excellent…Yes I'm pretty curious about what this is all about.  More Carlo please.

      • Kern Windwraith
        July 15, 2012 at 5:59 pm

        Now you've piqued my curiosity! I'm guessing Carlo might want to think twice about taking this job, but I'm also guessing he's not going to walk away from the opportunity of avenging Julia. Nicely done!

      • JTsuruoka
        July 15, 2012 at 7:27 pm

        Yes…. keep the Carlo coming!

    3. Pingback: The King Mansion – A Friday Night Write Post
    4. LE Jamez
      July 15, 2012 at 2:49 am

      Ok guys, Here is my first attempt at a Friday Night Write, Hope you enjoy.

      • JTsuruoka
        July 15, 2012 at 9:58 pm

        It's good!  I like the way the story unfolds as each piece of action builds on the hints you've left for us along the way.  A fun read.

    5. JB Lacaden
      July 15, 2012 at 4:00 am

      Here's my entry for this week's Friday Night Write
      Forgot to comment the link yesterday.

      • JTsuruoka
        July 15, 2012 at 9:45 pm

        Nice work!  Who doesn't love a good haunted house yarn?

    6. Bliss
      Miss Bliss
      July 15, 2012 at 3:47 pm

      This story just won't leave me alone…so here's another Friday Night Write with Lucy. 
      Word Count: 470
      She stood with her back to the bar facing the stage where girls spun around brass poles under garish lighting.  Every time she had to meet Gregory at The Black Cat she would watch the girls dance and think “DAMN they look tired.”  She eyed the whip cord thin man as he approached the bar to stand next to her.  He was a good looking guy with blonde hair swept back from a slight widow’s peak, just long enough to brush his black button down shirt collar.  He shot her a sideway amused look with his muddy blue eyes.
      “Just say the word Luce and I could make you star on that stage.”  He nodded to the bartender who poured him a club soda.
      Lucy snorted, “Darlin’ I’m too lazy for work that hard”  
      “What? Breaking legs is so easy?” 
      “Compared to the shifts you make these girls dance?  HELL YEAH!  Besides I’ve never actually broken anyone’s legs.”  She grinned and picked up her own soda, “Well now that we’ve gotten the obligatory ‘baby I’ll make you star’ bullshit out of the way, why am I here Gregory?”  
      He picked up his drink and nodded to a booth in the back away from the bar and the stage.  She followed him over and they sat down.  His mood changed the moment they were settled.  All the humor gone replaced with a grimness that didn’t bode well at all.
      “You know I’ve always had a policy that no matter who came in here or what they did in here it was confidential.  It’s the only reason I’m still open and enjoy the…generosity of the local law enforcement.”
      Lucy frowned, “Yeah.  Where are you going with this Greg?”
      He leaned forward, “Gabriel and about half of his pack have been spending quite a bit of time in here lately.  That’s not unusual when they’re flush.  Thing is they’ve been flush quite a lot recently.  The way I’m hearing it from the girls Gabriel’s gotten them into something that is rolling in a lot of cash.  Now I know who runs the dope around here and Gabe doesn’t have what it takes to get into that scene.  
      Lucy snorted softly, “No shit.”
      “There’s only one thing other than dope that brings in the kind of cash they’ve been flashing.”  
      He gave her a hard look until the penny finally dropped.  Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
      ‘Mother fucker.  That’s why they’ve been taking off to Cedar Key every couple of weeks.”
      Gregory nodded, “I figure the boats come up the coast from Clearwater.  He picks them up at Cedar Key and then they truck them to wherever they are…distributing. “
      The rage that exploded on her face made him flinch, “Distributing?  Selling, Gregory, he’s fucking selling people into fucking slavery.”  

      • Kern Windwraith
        July 15, 2012 at 6:14 pm

        This is terrific–great pacing, dialogue is spot on, characters fly off the page and I want to read more, more, MORE! I love Lucy! More Lucy, please!

      • JTsuruoka
        July 15, 2012 at 9:41 pm

        Lucy's a winner… You really bring her to life.  More next week???????????

      • LE Jamez
        July 17, 2012 at 3:59 am

        Loved this, I really hope we hear more about from Lucy and how she confronts Gregory

      • Bullish
        July 17, 2012 at 1:43 pm

        Okay, you know this is going to become a Friday Night Write staple, right?! Because I HAVE to know what happens next!!! Love this story, Bliss!!

    7. Jeff Tsuruoka
      July 15, 2012 at 4:16 pm

                  The blackflies buzzed around his head, attracted to the sweat in his hair, as he sat and waited for an answer.
                  The woman on the other side of the rickety card table didn't look like a witch but that's what everyone said she was.
                  Bruja.  Curandera.  A reader of cards and someone capable of stirring the unseen powers to do her bidding.
                  Mick tried in vain to shoe the flies.  Their buzzing was jackhammer loud in the otherwise silent room.
                  When the wind blew the door open a crack he could hear music– a tremulous voice accompanied by an accordion– from somewhere down the street.
                  Magrarita sat still with her eyes closed and and a beatific smile on her lips.  
                  She was young, far younger than Mick expected.  Nature had done well by her in the way of cheekbones and her long black hair hung unrestrained around her shoulders.
                  Her skin glowed golden in the candlelight.
                  Without opening her eyes she reached out her hand to Mick.
                  He gave up his fight against the flies and took her hand in his.  He squirmed a little in the uncomfortable folding chair and stared at her, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing or feeling.
                  She released his hand after just a few seconds and opened her eyes.
                  Mick sat back in his chair and found that he'd broken out in a cold sweat.
                  “They have spoken,” said Margarita.  “You will have no rival for your woman's affections after today.”
                  Mick slammed his hand down on the table hard enough to make the papers and candle on it jump.
                  “That's fantastic!”
                  Margarita regarded him with eyes that were neither kind nor unkind.  “It may be,” she said.  “I cannot tell you how, only what will be.”
                  He jumped out of his chair and dug out a money clip.  He counted off five twenties and put them down on the table in front of her.
                  “Either way, I got no problems after today, like you said.  Gracias, Margarita!”
                  She did not move as he turned and bounded out the door.
                  She also didn't move as six gunshots rang out.
                  The music from down the street stopped and a commotion began to build outside her door.
                  Margarita blew out the candle and left Mick's money on the table as she got up and looked out into the street.
                  Mick was lying in a pool of blood on the sidewalk.
                  The unseen powers were right.  He no longer had any rival for his woman's affection.

      • Bliss
        Miss Bliss
        July 15, 2012 at 4:22 pm

        Oooooooooh…I am a big fan of the whole "maybe a good thing, maybe a bad thing…it remains to be seen" concept.  Really well executed Jeff.

      • Kern Windwraith
        July 15, 2012 at 6:20 pm

        Like Miss Bliss, I love the good news/bad news dichotomy, not to mention stories with the "be careful what you wish for" warning. I really enjoyed this. You've done a great job creating the setting–can feel the heat, hear the music drifting in the open door and the flies buzzing. Great twist at the end, too!

      • LE Jamez
        July 17, 2012 at 4:02 am

        Build up was great, loved how Mick took the fortune as a positive but it came out as a negative. Margarita is an interesting character and I think more stories about her would be fun. hint hint

    8. Kern Windwraith
      July 15, 2012 at 4:56 pm

      In the nick of time, yet again, here's my entry, also available on my website, The Odd Particle Re[View}.
      Rabbit's Foot
      The year Sammy turned eleven, his best friend Toby's parents divorced, and Toby moved back to the mainland with his mum, his pet hamster Kicker, and the lucky rabbit foot Sammy had given him as a parting gift. The rabbit's foot had been a gift to Sammy from his dad, but it had always kind of creeped him out, and he'd never been too sure that he'd want the kind of luck that came with chopping off an animal's foot. Toby had coveted it at first sight, though.
      Because Toby was also Sammy's only friend, his abrupt departure meant Sammy had to stop riding his bike to the Husky Station after school for his daily Dr. Pepper, unless he wanted to get beaten up by Gary Voller and his gang of psycho hangers-on have his backpack up-ended by them into Watt's Creek.
      Toby hadn't been exactly popular, nor particularly big, but he was a scrapper and he had no fear. Of anything. Except maybe Sammy's mother, who never opened her front door without a machete in her hand, and who slept with her 12-gauge Ithaca shotgun lying beside her in the same spot Sammy's father used to occupy before he'd sneaked off to the mainland a couple of years ago with the mayor's wife.
      At any rate, with Toby around, life had been simpler, and Sammy had been to move about with minimal interference, because even Gary Voller and his GV-Wannabes didn't mess with Toby. Sammy had hoped that with Toby gone, his own protected status would remain intact by virtue of his mother's steadily expanding reputation as a whack-job. Unfortunately, either Gary didn't pay attention to the gossip, or he knew that most days Sammy's mother barely registered Sammy's existence and never let maternal instincts come between her and a bottle of Beefeater's.
      With Toby gone, Sammy started spending the cool fall afternoons sitting on a moss-covered rock down by Grey Lake, reading Spiderman and X-Men comics, chewing his cuticles, and sniffing himself to see if he really smelled as bad as Gary said he did. When the sky darkened and the treeline started to blur in the gloom, when he could be reasonably confident his mother would have retired to her bedroom with her bottle and her shotgun, he'd push his bike back through the woods toward the leaky-roofed bungalow, peering over his shoulder at regular intervals to make sure the Gary gang wasn't creeping up behind him.
      It was ironic, he thought many years later, how terrified he'd been of a group of pre-pubescent, zit-infested bully boys when the thing that would end up visiting his nightmares and haunting every nook and cranny of his future waking life was lying in wait for him in living room of that bungalow, sprawled on her back, fingers pale as potworms curled around the trigger of the shotgun, the remains of the left side of her face and head dappling the faded yellow roses on the wallpaper.

      • Bliss
        Miss Bliss
        July 15, 2012 at 5:50 pm

        Damn Kern…that just made my heart break.  

      • JTsuruoka
        July 15, 2012 at 9:43 pm

        Nice…. it's got a Stephen King thing working in the way it features strong characterization and horrors wrung out of life.

      • Bliss
        Miss Bliss
        July 15, 2012 at 10:08 pm

        Oh Kern…Jeff's right!  That's a perfect comparison.

      • LE Jamez
        July 17, 2012 at 4:04 am

        agree with previous comments, very Stephen King like, really got the visual at the end, great writing.

    9. Bullish
      July 15, 2012 at 4:57 pm


      The Gravedigger's Garden 

      Growing up in a mortuary desensitizes one to certain elements associated with death and accentuates others. Taking a moonlight stroll through a cemetery did not seem extraordinary to Dalton Dalrymple, but that someone would do so for the purpose of frightening another person was grossly offensive.

      He strode across the manicured graves, righteous indignation fueling his footsteps and seventeen years of ridicule sharpening his purpose. Without speaking, he coldcocked the bully and offered the victim his hand, and drew her with him, back across the lawn.

      When they reached the caretaker’s shack, he reassured himself she was unharmed before he said, “Do you need a ride home, miss?”

      Her eyes were violet cosmos in the ivory moon of her face. “I’m safe here, aren’t I?”

      “Yes,” he said, careful to block her view across the graveyard.

      She relaxed some. “He brought me here because his brother was following me last week, and I hid from him in the garden at the corner of this property.”

      He straightened his tie, fingers fidgeting. “That’s my private garden, and I don’t allow people to visit it.”

      “Oh, but I didn’t touch anything. The flowers all seemed to be sleeping.”

      “Yes, they were. It’s a night garden. Now, what does this boy have to do with my garden?”

      A cat walked through the fence and she bent to scratch its ebony ears. “He’s gone missing. The brown plaid jacket he always wore was found on his front lawn yesterday, shredded to bits.”

      “Well, if there’s mischief afoot, we need to get you safely home.”

      “I don’t see why,” she said, gathering up the cat in her arms. “You said yourself that I’m safe right here.”

      “Yes, but it’s no place for a lady.”

      She looked up at him. “At least show me the garden before we go? I’d love to see it properly, beneath the stars.”

      He hesitated a moment, considering, because few living souls knew the garden existed. “Fine, but we must hurry. We don’t want your parents to worry.”

      The cemetery clock struck thirteen as they walked beneath the ladder propped against the arch of moonflowers, now blooming riotously beneath the full moon. Everywhere she looked, luxuriant flowers lay unfurled and spilling their fragrance into the night.

      She put her hand on his arm. “Oh, I simply must learn how to night garden! My name is Abby and I live close by, so it’d be no trouble to come over after dark. I had no idea such glorious flowers existed!”

      “I use a very special fertilizer,” he said, taking a subtle step backwards and kicking dirt over a strip of brown plaid. “Name’s Dalton Dalrymple. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

      Threading her fingers through his, she said, “I know who you are, Dalrymple. I’ve been dying to meet you. Why do you think I dragged that big buffoon here tonight?”

      The sound of barking dogs reverberated in his head and his mouth blossomed into a fearsome smile.



      (495 words)

      • LE Jamez
        July 17, 2012 at 4:08 am

        I always like what you write but this got to me. The subtle reference near the end which allows you to understand what his 'special fertiliser' is so good. 

        • LE Jamez
          July 17, 2012 at 4:09 am

          oops spelling error – subtle….

      • Bliss
        Miss Bliss
        July 17, 2012 at 11:44 am

        Delicious! There is this wonderful mischeviousness and slightly naughty feel to this moment. 

    10. Bullish
      July 15, 2012 at 5:05 pm

      And that's it for timely submissions! Now the fun begins! Let the reading and commenting frenzy begin!!  

    Leave a Reply

    Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *