There are days when I dislike how email blog follows work. I get some messages late in the night on the day the particular challenge is happening. Not the fault of the blog offering the follow, but more how my email accepts and alerts me to such. Harumph. That's why I got the Speakeasy message late. Again, I say: Harumph.
So enough of my fault-finding with technology and down to business. This week's Yeah Write Speakeasy challenge offering is below. I call it "An Old-Fashioned Love Song:"
The bottle was nearly empty and Carl kept singing, at least in his mind; his lips had gone numb about a half-hour prior, making any attempts at actual singing nearly impossible. Clementine had been more than his muse: she had been his best friend, his lover, his surrogate mother, his roadie, and his confidante. She'd left two months ago, having grown weary of his wandering eyes and other things; Honey-babe, you know I only have eyes for you, he cried again for the umpteenth time as she threw a few sets of clothes in a bag and walked out of their condo. She turned once to look at him and he knew what she knew; while his eyes may have been only for her, he had other body parts that had been a few other places. When the door closed he knew she would never come through it again.
Wayne had gotten him in at the usual places, but without her, without her there, his music wasn't the same. The audiences got thinner each night and Wayne was forced to book him in local bars only because the stadiums and concert halls were costing money rather than bringing it in. Carl had tried to imagine her standing at stage right like always, but it was obvious that he couldn't pull it off anymore.
He picked up the drug store bottle and dropped the last benzo into his palm, then washed it down with a swig of 151. I wanna dedicate my last song tonight to the one who shoulda been my wife, he thought as he lay back with one hand on his heart and the other on the neck of his Martin D18, Clementine, my honey-babe--this one's for you.