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This piece out of an exercise in a creative writing class involving visual art. We each brought some form of it, be it a picture, postcard, whatever. Then we went around until we saw piece we liked and were asked to write what immediately came to mind.
I chose a photo of some large, round, blue fluorescent lights. I sat down to write and this story came to me.

Submitted:Oct 10, 2009    Reads: 162    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

They were all blue-some not as blue as the others, but blue nonetheless. They stood out against the beauty of the night sky only in their brightness, nearly blending in with the star-ridden, moon lit expanse high above the city. I hadn't reached the club where I was due to play-I still had about seven blocks to go, but I stopped. I didn't even bother to check my watch to see if I had enough time, but somehow I didn't care. The lights drew me in. They were like a collection of eyes that would be smiling calmly and softly if they had a mouth. The indigo that shone from their round bulbs was a calming one that seemed to stop time. I suddenly felt as if this place was calling my name, that it wanted me. It was inviting me.
I looked above the sea of light to see a buzzing white neon sign that read "The Blue Moon". I knew this city like the back of my hand, and I especially knew all the jazz and blue clubs within it. But I had never seen this place, had never even heard wind of it, and that intrigued me quite a bit. I had a strange desire to go inside and see it. Then something happened that made me sure I was supposed to go inside-it started raining, a torrential downpour of what seemed like buckets of water. I took the hint and stepped quickly under the entry, pulling the door open.
The place was low-lit and smoky, and it smelled of gin. Most of the space was taken up by small tables with a candle in the center, and a bar lined one of the walls. Everyone in the place turned and looked at me-about twenty people were seated at round tables near a stage with blue lights in the back and a single spotlight in front, cast upon a microphone. I looked at my case in disbelief.
"We've been waiting for you." A warm voice said from outside my line of vision, making me jump. A bartender of about 55 smiled at me as he polished a glass. He stopped and offered his hand to the stage. "Well?"
I put my case on the bar and opened it.


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