This week’s submission to
’s Stories From The Jukebox weekly writing prompt is based on “Your Song” by Elton John. If you want to submit you have to do so by midnight on Mondays, all the instructions are in the article.The thing I love most about Sir Elton John and his lyricist Bernie Taupin is their ability to tell a story in about four minutes.
Check out the other submissions Wednesday, September 17th.
Update!
has done me the incredible honor of narrating Your Song! I love his rendition of my words, enjoy!Your Song
The rattle of the ice in his glass was the only song left in him tonight. He gestured for a refill. Another city. Another dive. Another night alone. Sam had lost count. The bar smelled of stale smoke and old beer. The low hum of house music bled from the speakers. He checked the reservation email on his phone to be sure where he was. Kansas City, Kansas. A place so dull they named it twice. He shook his head and laughed to himself.
“What’s so funny?” The bartender poured him another round.
“Nothing. Leave the bottle.”
The bartender cocked his head. “Yeah … we don’t do that anymore. Shouldn’t you be on stage?”
Sam sucked down the two fingers of brown and shook the glass at the bartender. “I’m on my break.”
“Buster’s gonna be pissed if you get drunk.”
“We’ve miles to go, you and I, before I sleep.” Sam held out the glass and raised an eyebrow.
The bartender relented and filled his glass. The truth he didn’t tell this man-shaped boy was he played better drunk. His fingers could take over, letting his mind go blank. He turned on his stool to look over the crowd. Not the right word for them really, unless you think your average bus stop at three AM is a crowd. This was his first time playing at Buster’s Cantina and it left much to be desired.
“When does it pick up in here?”
The bartender was wiping the bar behind him. “This is up.”
“Fuck,” Sam muttered. “It’s a Friday night, man. Is there a curfew around here or something?”
The bartender slapped a coaster on the bar in front of Sam and walked away. Sam drained his glass.
“Let’s get this over with.” He turned to put his glass on the bar.
“I see you’re still talking to yourself.” Her voice was an echo from the past. It coursed through him like he’d licked a live wire.
He raised his eyes, and there she was. A siren risen from the deep, hair wild as ever and her black eyes glinting in the dim lights. One her hand on her hip—half judgment, half invitation. A faint smile played at her lips.
“Cass?” His brain was spinning on black ice. “As I live and fucking breathe.”
“Hey, Sam.” Her left cheek dimpled. How often he’d pictured that stupid dimple. How often he’d wanted to trace his finger around it again.
Sam stood and they embraced.
“How long has it been?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
They pulled apart, hands lingering on each other.
“A while.” He shook his head. “You look amazing.” He made a show of his eyes gliding over her body.
She feigned a giggle and pushed him away. “That’s enough of that.”
They stared at each other. Memories tore through him like feedback off a hot mic. He’d spent so many nights rehearsing what he would say to her. But what could he say, really? What was there left between them but the piece of him he’d given, the piece she still carried. Did she know? He couldn’t bear to see pity melt her smile.
“How in the hell did you end up in Kansas? What happened to never leaving New York?” Sam gestured to the bartender. “Let me buy you a drink, I want to hear it all.”
She pushed her hair behind her ear. He knew what that meant. “I can’t Sam. I’m … well, I saw you were playing here and I had to come …”
Sam’s hand drifted down to the bar. “Yeah. OK, you don’t need to explain.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” There was the pity he hadn’t wanted to see.
He sat on the barstool again. “Don’t be. Is he good to you?”
“She is. We are good for each other.”
Sam raised his empty glass to her. “Good for you, Cass. What’s her name?”
“Sarah. She’s right over there.” Cass turned and waved, a woman across the room waved back. “She’s a big fan of yours. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
Sam waved to Sarah. “No shit.” His voice cracked.
“Maybe … if you are up for it, after your set you could come say hello?”
“Of course I will. Here … hang on.” He grabbed a napkin from the bar. “Hey man, lend me a pen.” The bartender pulled a pen out of his apron. Sam scribbled a note and handed it to Cass.
She raised an eyebrow and read it aloud. “For Sarah, take care of my Cass, all my love Sam.” She looked up at him, her eyes glistened. “Thank you Sammy.” She held the note to her chest. “See you after? Do you think … would it be OK if you played …”
“Your song?” Sam nodded. “I always do.”
Cass smiled and started to walk away.
“Hey, Cass,” Sam called out to her.
She turned, still holding the note to her heart.
“Eight thousand one-hundred and …” Sam checked his watch. “Nine days.”
Her brows pulled tight. She drew in a breath, lips parting, but no words came. A smile blossomed. She nodded once, turned, and slipped away.
Photo by Stockcake
"we don't do that anymore" small things like this... They say a lot in your writing. Especially when the bartender asks what's so funny. Like, trust is so one sided. I want you to trust me, but I'm not allowed to trust you.
Not sure if any of that is intentional, but it adds a lot of depth.
Loved this!! Really great imagery and feeling.