I know I promised a Mostly Fiction story today, but that’s not happening. The piece I’d originally envisioned grew out of those bounds, and is sitting half-done in google documents. Maybe later. Even this piece grew as I wrote it, thus creating a new tag here, “scrimshaw ivory.” About which I’ll say more later, I hope.

As always, our NSFW stuff is behind a link. The story starts safe enough for both you and Cleo…

Cleo Tickles The Ivory

F-Solo

The groove was going well. Cleo nodded to Sam as she pounded the keys of her synthesizer. The gig was going well, even if the spring heat pointed to an even muggier summer. Still things were good, she’d travelled hundreds of miles to go to the Savanna School of Art and Design, and had been able to hook up with a cool band. They’d been hired to do music in the open air market near the school — a pedestrian friendly, arty space that had become home to her and her friends.

Sam started a complicated riff on her 12-string, and Cleo went for a more subdued complement, following in behind her as she scanned the crowd. It was the normal kind of thing, artsy kids and tourists, and the occasional creepy looking guy. She smiled at the crowd as they approached and dropped loose change into the band’s hat.

The merchant’s association was paying them to play, but tips were always appreciated. One of the creepy guys dropped a bill into the hat, and Cleo felt like he was looking right at her. She shivered, but then got back into the music as he walked away.

After the set, she, Sam and Tal, their drummer, loaded the gear up on Tal’s truck. “I’ll just put the camper shell on it,” Tal said. “We’ll need it all tomorrow anyway. Either of you need a ride back?”
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