Blues for Bongo

The solo flowed from the stage and crashed over the audience, which gasped and hollered. The great ape ignored them, his head bent low, a cigarette trailing smoke from the corner of his mouth. His simian fingers wrung music from the guitar like he was made for it.

Which he was.

“Whose idea were the super-intelligent blues apes?” The lab-coated woman downed her whiskey expertly.

“Melanie. New hire. Loves Howlin’ Wolf”, replied her companion.

“Shame she couldn’t solve the post-concert flinging problem.”

“Yeah.”

They pushed back from the bar and headed out. Behind them, the crowd chanted for an encore.

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I’m back on the straight and narrow this week. No wild excursions outside the confines of the 100-word limit for me this week! Nope. I’m sticking to a perfectly restrained story about a blues-playing ape. Or maybe the story’s really about why you shouldn’t monkey around with nature. Heh.

In other news…I’m not sure there is other news this week. I’ve a few things simmering in pots in my mental creative kitchen, but nothing that’s ready to hit the table. But you should subscribe or follow or like or whatever you find best to keep me on your radar. You will not regret it!