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Good Vibrations
Feel the crackle of excitement, the hum of expectation, the warmth of good vibrations. It might be the dentures or it could be the mob to welcome refugees with life-affirming signs. No matter the reason or sensations, we can readily embrace the promise of good vibes.
This week, writers chased the source. They explored people feeling or distributing the good vibes, and came up with surprising stories.
The following are based on the June 18, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes good vibrations.
Music as a Painkiller by John Lane
A cut-rate dentist pulled out the final piece of Jim’s molar using as little Novocain as possible. The dentist refused to sign a prescription for pain, insisting that he could go right back to work. Jim made it as far as the next town before he barely pulled into the convenience store parking lot with his mouth throbbing from the pain. Aware that Jim placed his hand on his jaw, a quick-thinking store clerk grabbed his CD player, walked to Jim’s car and played the song, Beach Boys “Good Vibrations”. The pain slowly went away and Jim fell asleep.
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The Devil Is In The Dentures by Geoff Le Pard
‘Can’t you sit still, Morgan?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re not. Your foot’s twitching like you’re wired to the mains and everything is vibrating. I can hear my own teeth.’
‘My gran was convinced the devil was in her dentures.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You do.’
…….
‘Go on.’
‘She’d a new plate made and the first evening heard voices.’
‘She was a loony?’
‘The neighbour’s radio. Something to do with a harmonica…’
‘Do you mean harmonics?’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Caused vibrations, apparently.’
‘Fascinating. Will you stop vibrating?’
‘They’re good vibrations…’
‘Morgan, please don’t start singing….’
‘I’m picking up good vibrations…’
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Novice Sensations by R. V. Mitchell
Patrick filed into the choir and waited for the signal to sit. As the abbot made his way into the chapel, Brother Isaac played a low simple piece on the organ. Vespers had begun.
Soon the gathered brothers were fully engaged in the chants, and Patrick, only in his first full day in the house, felt a deep vibration shivering, no shimmering through his entire being.
Was it the physical effect of Isaac’s base notes? Was it the numinous of the collective praise? Or was it the true realisation that he was being touched by the finger of God?
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Good Vibrations by kathy70
How long since I felt vibrations about something, it was just a little over a week ago. A friend put a picture of a quilt block up and it drew me in totally. I created 4 similar blocks in just over a week using scraps. Unheard of. New fabric’s quarantined.
I am now in the final stage of quilting the entire quilt inspired by that picture.
It is 4 faces made from random fabric pieces and things like a purple nose seemed to work for me. Today a friend reminded me about a quilt show looking for covid-19 projects to display.
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Liberation by Charli Mills
Gran’ma’s mama was an Okie from Muskogee, a fruit-picker in Tres Pinos, California, where Steinbeck Country ended in hayfields, orchards, and coastal mountains. She died young – 36 – cancer from unbridled use of pesticides in the 1930s. Gran’ma married a bull rider, a real bull shitter, too. They chased the tails of rodeos and ranch work across Nevada and back to Tres Pinos too many circuits to count. When he finally died of liver cirrhosis, Gran’ma shocked us all and married a Moscogo. White hand in black, they held the good vibes of Juneteenth, understanding the long wait for liberation.
🥕🥕🥕
Sixties Vibe by Sherri Matthews
She got up early, made tea and thumbed through Gardner’s Weekly. The Beach Boys played on the radio while she waited for her husband to get dressed. Hmmm…Good Vibrations…he loved that one! His other favourite song ran through her head and he appeared, fresh and bright, at last. Ready? Ready! Their arrival at the allotment was greeted by a patch of once empty scrub ground now awash with giant sunflowers in full yellow bloom. ‘You grew all these?’ ‘Yes’, she said, beaming. ‘Sixty-Four, for you’. She kissed his head. I still need you and I’ll still feed you. Always.
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Good Vibrations by Anita Dawes
The sight of spring flowers
Rushing me back to the sixties
Where we believed in liquid bliss
Not the bottle kind
It’s something in the air
It washes over you.
Dark days drop away
Days when we wore flowers in our hair
Music, smiles on people’s faces
Especially on the faces of my grandchildren
When I speak about the old days, strange clothes,
like the bell bottom jeans, the mini skirt.
Nowadays, I walk home washed over
With good vibrations
From the smile of a stranger
Young man who offers to carry my shopping bags
I look for tomorrow…
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Rainbow by Reena Saxena
What was so pathetic about her, that most people turned apathetic?
She silently suffered the punishment for being different. Her skin color and facial features all resembled that of the family, but the mind was different. Her mother often made these remarks, that her brain on a petri-dish, would look green or black or some atrocious color, not pink.
She grew up to be a writer, and discovered to her delight that readers loved her flow of thoughts. The atrocious green had metamorphosed into a lovely rainbow.
The good vibrations she waited for all her life were finally there.
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Growing Pains by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Janina sat on the stone wall of the spring-fed pool. Behind her, her father’s castle clashed with loud music, shattering glass, and women’s high-pitched giggles. Her fourteenth birthday; she was sick of it all.
Slipping out a door, she’d dashed to the ocean-side pond, losing her shoes and muddying her hem in the marshy grass.
“Boo!” the frog interrupted her thoughts, nodding at the golden ball balanced in her palm. “All that glitters isn’t gold. Choose and transform!”
The ball became translucent; it vibrated, glowing. Popping it in her mouth, she swallowed.
Flipping her new tail, she dove deep.
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Minority by Eliza Mimski
People always tell me I have a 100-watt smile, that I give off good vibrations. I light up a room. I’m a breath of fresh air. The sun has nothing over me.
I use that smile to hide my rage. Inside, I simmer. I boil. I seethe. The years have worn me down. All the crap I’ve put up with. But there’s something called self-preservation. Yeah. You do what you have to do. That smile has protected me. It’s been my friend. It’s a force I hide behind. My smile is white and bright and it will eat you.
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Fight’s A Beach by Dave Madden
The cage on the sand with a backdrop of the Pacific Ocean made the first installment of Shark Tank the, as advertised, “most scenic violence in MMA.”
James sold over a hundred tickets for his pro debut, but all the nerves that served as a disruption throughout his time as an amateur drifted away in the salty breeze.
To coincide with Shark Tank’s theme, James walked out to “Good Vibrations” by The Beach Boys. Win or lose, he intended on having some fun in the sun when the cage door locked and the referee ordered the bout to begin.
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Butterfly Kites by Saifun Hassam
Early morning sunlight and flitting shadows weaved between open spaces around broken sandstone pillars of the temple.
A sea breeze sent elusive vibrations rising and falling in the air. Wind chimes and miniature bells caught the good vibrations from the sea.
Sandalwood smoke wafted through the temple. Diamante prayed for the coastal villages. Tears fell as he prayed for rain, for a plentiful harvest on the farms, for the sea to share its abundance of fish.
The excited laughter of children came up the path, tugging at blue butterfly kites, winged kites vibrating with celestial music of their own.
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Perfect by Ritu Bhathal
Pete took a few steps onto the pathway leading up to the house.
After seeing numerous houses, he was hoping that this would be The One.
Positive energy radiated off the property.
He glanced over at his wife, Nina, noticing a glimmer of a smile curling her full lips upwards.
She could feel it too.
Taking her hand in his, they stepped up to the door, lifting the brass knocker.
Nina winced, suddenly, and pulled his hand to her swollen belly.
A kick reverberated against the palm of his hand.
Looks like Junior was feeling the good vibrations, too.
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Good News by Joanne Fisher
Cindy spent the afternoon planting saplings. Hidnoot, her gnome helper, dug the holes while she brought them over. During a break Hidnoot surveyed the land.
“You’ve done a great job with the farm,” he said.
“Thanks, I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure Miss Cindy. I think good news is coming. I can feel it in my bones.” He suddenly hid behind a bush. Cindy saw Jess was walking over with a letter in her hand.
“Hey sweetheart, we’ve been accepted for IVF treatment! We’re going to have a baby!” Jess told her excitedly. They hugged for a long time.
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Meeting the Granddaughter by Susan Sleggs
Michael said, “I’m sorry. I need to stop at the next rest stop.”
Tessa reached for his hand, gave him a sideways glance, and asked, “Are you all right? I can feel you shaking. Besides, we just stopped.”
“Believe me, I know. I don’t know if I’m excited to meet your granddaughter, or scared, but I need to go again.”
Tessa laughed aloud. “I thought only women had nervous bladders.”
“Don’t pick on me,” he laughed. “I haven’t held a baby since I was in high school and I want this to go well.”
“You’ll be a fine Grandpa.”
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Summer, 1966 by Bill Engleson
The sweet river water flows. The small G.E. transistor catches bits and pieces of the local station’s airwaves…”the way the sunlight plays on her hair…” and it does, glancing off the light blond strands that dangle just above her left breast.
“Is that where…?” I ask.
“The tick? Yes,” she says.
“We should have come back here earlier,” I lament.
“You’re the one who left.”
“I did. And I shouldn’t have.”
“It might not have mattered. It was destiny.”
“You were destined for me,” I say.
“That’s sweet…but…”
“Don’t say it….” I dream…as “the sunlight plays on her hair…”
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A Dream of Airliners by Gordon Le Pard
Men dream, these men dreamt of airliners.
The wings vibrated as the tiny steam engine spun.
“Good to go.” Called Henson.
Stringfellow released the tail and the Aerial ran along the line gathering speed, as it came free at the end the wings lifted it and the machine flew across the room, dropping into the catch net at the far end.
For a moment the engineers looked stunned, then grinned and shook each other’s hands.
The world’s first powered flying machine, the first aeroplane (albeit a model), had flown.
The first step to realising their dream had been made.
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Good Vibrations by Marjorie Mallon
Good vibrations can come in the most unusual ways! A friend of mine asked me to beta read for her. She mentioned that her story wasn’t her usual style of writing and she was using a pseudonym. With various writing projects on the go, I didn’t give it much thought. I knew I’d help her, as she’s always supported me.
When I started reading the manuscript, I soon realised what she meant. This was a sensual read. I ploughed on; completing the beta edits of the romantic erotica in record time!
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We Are Here For U by Simon
Sam: Please take a seat Mr. Berlin, I have a surprise
Berlin: Well, Thanks. What kind of surprise?
Sam: It’s about the secret to good vibration
Berlin: Really? Can’t wait to learn that.
Sam: Repeat my words slowly “I will never do this again”
Berlin: What? Why should I say that? Berlin face changed.
Sam: repeat after me, you got no choice (Sternly said)
Berlin repeated, after seconds a cop showed up and gave boxes of foods, We know what you go through Berlin. If you need something, ask, don’t steal, we are here to help! Berlin hugs both!
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Migrants Welcome by Anne Goodwin
Turn around! Turn around! There are people on the beach.
White people.
Waving.
Weapons?
Books!
Mein Kampf? Atlas Shrugged?
Who knows?
I’m weary, let’s chance it!
I’m hungry.
I’m so thirsty I could drink seawater.
Turn around! I won’t birth my baby in a detention centre.
They’re waving placards!
To beat us?
To warn us?
To greet us!
Don’t rock the boat, I’ll vomit!
Can’t you feel the good vibrations? Row nearer so we can read the words.
Wow: MIGRANTS’ LIVES MATTER!
What makes you think we can trust them?
Isn’t it obvious? The apostrophe’s in the right place.
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A Walk by joem18b
Walking through this young forest on a game trail, I breathe deeply. The path beneath my feet is soft. Light from a friendly sun, filtered through green canopy, dapples my face. The variety of trees here is amazing. Beech, tulip, oaks and hickories, other hardwoods. An understory of hornbeam, flowering dogwood, strawberry bush. Animals of all kinds thrive in this forest. That’s the word. Thrive. An environment in balance but evolving through vigorous growth. I count my breaths as I walk, to clear my mind. To let in the positive vibrations that envelope me. Life is good in Antartica.
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Resonance by JulesPaige
opportunity
in that empty train car waits
imagine what fills
that vibrating space like birds
taking flight – here’s my ticket
Wynn Woo had never traveled by train before. While he was no longer a younger man, there were still many surprises left for him to encounter. All he had to do was open the door step inside his train compartment. The Steward said he would return in the evening to set the Pullman Bed down. While meditation usually calmed him, it was difficult to keep his eyes from the window and the rolling landscapes filled with free flying birds.
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Shaken, Not Stirred by D. Avery
“Really, Kid? Ya come limpin’ in here, all bruised, an’ yer blamin’ our writer?”
“She decided ta write that ma hoss threw me.”
“Thet’s outta character fer a Carrot Ranch hoss. Why’d it toss ya?”
“They was a rattlesnake.”
“She brought a rattler ta the Ranch?! Not cool. Folks gotta feel safe here.”
“Desperation, Pal. Realized time’d run out on the prompt, thought ‘bout the vibration of a rattler’s tail. I’m jist collateral damage.”
“This ain’t even well writ. An’ she give up her day job? She’ll go hungry at this rate.”
“Mebbe not. Claims rattler tastes like chicken.”
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June 18: Flash Fiction Challenge
When my eldest was a toddler, she’d express her excitement by clenching her fists close to her head and vibrating her entire body. Ever get that feeling? I want to clench, squeal, and vibrate every evening as the Roberts Street “Littles” emerge — a menagerie of baby critters. Somehow, the word’s gone out that my fairy gardens and below deck are safe places to leave off little ones, including two baby chipmunks, two fledged robins, a baby gray squirrel, a baby bunny, and a juvenile frog. They are so cute, my body hums.
Pre-summer evenings linger at the 47th parallel on the tail-end of the eastern time zone. Throughout June and most of July, last light remains past 10:30 p.m. It’s deceptive when we BBQ in the “evening” and realize it’s 9 pm. Of course, my personal time clock is wonky — I come to life in the evening and write or study most productively until 3 am. It’s a joy to watch young life unfold in my yard before sunset the way I imagine some people enjoy sunrises.
My former boss was a sunriser. She’d get that vibration about her every new place we went for conferences or work-related travel. It was bad enough that she was parsimonious (her favorite word), cramming her senior managers into as few hotel rooms as possible. I’ve even slept with my boss. Slept. I joked that I was going to turn her into HR, and from across the room, HR laughed with me. We were a close-knit management team, and I wouldn’t trade the lessons of that period of my life. My boss was a true servant-leader and taught me the value of building platforms that benefited communities. And sometimes, that meant sharing a room, bed, and sunrises.
One particular sunrise I remember was on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota (that Lady Lake of mine gets around). We were on a work retreat, and it was close enough to autumn to be cold in the pre-dawn morning. No one else would go with our boss to the lake to catch the sunrise. She had figured out the precise point to see dawn slip over the lake’s eastern horizon. By the time she laid a hand on my shoulder, I could smell coffee brewing. We filled a thermos and grabbed two mugs. Everyone else slept. We walked along a narrow and craggy trail to a place where we could sit on the bedrock and wait for the sun to appear. We shivered, huddled around our coffee, and were not disappointed.
When I watch the sunset over the western horizon of Lake Superior, I feel like that sunrise over a decade ago reflects back to me. I’m on the opposite side now, in tune with what harmonizes in me.
Earlier today, I met with a representative at the Michigan Small Business Development Center. It’s a resource of the US Small Business Administration, a government organization that supports entrepreneurs and small businesses. As a professional writer (meaning, this is my source of income), I’ve contracted a patchwork of services. Every author grapples with the reality that books alone will likely not make a living. I say likely because there are exceptions, superstars, and specific strategies to that truth of authorhood. Some exceptions include moderate success within a lucrative commercial genre (this requires multiple books). Superstars are the likes of J. K. Rowling and Stephen King. Specific strategies include shrewd studies of market trends and writing books to fill readership gaps (rather than writing the books you want to pen).
Mostly, professional authors find secondary sources of income. One professor told me he publishes books and “assets” (and, obviously, he teaches). Assets are value-added products that enhance your book — e-book, audio recording, a graphic novel based on your book, a series of podcasts, figurines or jewelry based on characters or props, music based on your book, character drawings. In addition to products (books and assets), professional authors teach — universities, online courses, webinars, workshops, retreats — or speak at conferences for a fee. Some work the book club angle and sell packages of their books and access to Q&A with the author. Some sell international book rights, others option their books for movies or Netflix series. Some offer services — agencies, PR, editing, coaching, marketing. Some supplement income, working odd jobs or temporary gigs in between writing and publishing books.
Whether you make it to superstar status or you work the secondary sources of income, authors do more than pound away at the keyboard and publish books.
This is what I’m working with the SBA to develop — a way to recognize the hard work of any path a writer takes and define what steps next for personal growth and professional development (if that is your path; it doesn’t have to be). Imagine being a writer who writes every single day — that’s commitment! But this dedicated writer has no interest in creating products or offering services, which leads to others not counting them as a “real” writer. I’ll be creating something that honors such a writer in addition to recognition for annual growth. It’s based on a program I used to apply for as a marketing communications manager.
Earlier in my MFA, I got excited (not quite full-body vibrations) about the possibility of coaching. However, after creating plans in my course, I realized it’s hard for me to offer individual services. I’m a high-energy person, and I put a lot into anything I do. Coaching would wipe me out. I realized it’s why I was struggling to work as a writing contractor. What I’m going to build will be more like mass coaching with a platform where I can invite other writers to coach and teach, too. I can get focused, manage my time, grow the literary outreach to expand beyond libraries and veterans to include more diversity and greater involvement from the community. The SBA is helping me build a business plan that is both sustainable and supportive of the writing community. I can incorporate the lessons of my sunriser boss to lift up others to make the writing world a better place. And I get to define my role in that ecosystem as a professional author.
Often, when you follow your North Star, the excitement can be palpable. Yet the possibilities of how to get there can be overwhelming. Sometimes, it shines down on us, and we are in the worst place to manifest its promise. But circumstances are always shifting, like it or not, life is in a daily flux between sunrises and sunsets. What’s important is that we set our North Star and follow its guidance. Right now, mine is starting to hum. And I’m ready.
June 18, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes good vibrations. What is unfolding? Is someone giving off or receiving the feeling? Where is the story situated? Gather some good vibes and go where the prompt leads!
Respond by June 23, 2020. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Submissions closed. Find our most current weekly Flash Fiction Challenge to enter.
Liberation by Charli Mills
Gran’ma’s mama was an Okie from Muskogee, a fruit-picker in Tres Pinos, California, where Steinbeck Country ended in hayfields, orchards, and coastal mountains. She died young – 36 – cancer from unbridled use of pesticides in the 1930s. Gran’ma married a bull rider, a real bull shitter, too. They chased the tails of rodeos and ranch work across Nevada and back to Tres Pinos too many circuits to count. When he finally died of liver cirrhosis, Gran’ma shocked us all and married a Moscogo. White hand in black, they held the good vibes of Juneteenth, understanding the long wait for liberation.