Fun With Fiction

Mable and Me

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Tue, 13 Oct 2026 23:20:14 +0000

Theme Stated: A statement made by a character (typically not the hero) that hints at what the hero’s arc will be (that is, what the hero must learn/discover before the end of the book). Also referred to as a life lesson.

– Jessica Brody, Save The Cat! Writes A Novel

Saturday morning came creeping through my window too early. I combed my hair back and looked at the clock.

One hour until Marty.

Marty didn’t like to wait, and I didn’t like to upset him.

The blonde was scampering about, recovering assorted garments tossed around the night before.

“I had fun,” she said.

“Me too, sweetie.”

And that was that.

After we both had fully dressed, we exited my room and walked down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom, looking into the empty Midnight Room. Daylight had stripped the place bare to the essentials. Stale beer, dead stage lights, chairs stacked and put away… You could see years’ worth of stains on the carpet. We walked up to the piano. Her fingers brushed the closed piano fallboard.

“You want to get drinks tonight? I know a place-“

I kissed her quick. I didn’t have time for such plans.

“Got an appointment,” I said, and steered her toward the door. At the threshold she turned back. I gave her a smile. The million-dollar one.

“Later, sweetie.”

She blinked once, then walked out. Through the window I watched her cross the lot to a silver Honda with two parking tickets under the wipers. She peeled them off, looked at them, and let them fall out of her hands onto the asphalt.

I turned down the hallway toward Mabel’s apartment. The walls were lined with photographs, years of them, all a little crooked in their frames. Mabel with Dizzy, both of them laughing at something off-camera. Mabel with Basie, young and sharp. An older picture of Mabel at St. Jude’s, taken mid-song, surrounded by kids fighting cancer. I passed these decorations every week. Her living room opened at the end of the hall. It was cluttered. Records were stacked in leaning towers. Books lay on the coffee table with cracked spines. In the corner, she had an upright piano, the one Hank set me down in front of the year he brought me here. At that time I was fifteen years old and mean, with seven years of Los Angeles still under my skin. Hank and Mabel gave me that piano to keep my hands busy.

Mabel was in the kitchen. Bacon snapped in the skillet. “Morning, beautiful.” I kissed her cheek. “Mind if I steal some bacon?”

“You always do. Help yourself.”

I took a strip off the paper towel and enjoyed the crispy flavor. Saturday morning, same as always.

“Busy last night?” she asked. “Didn’t see you after your last set.”

“Had a late gig. Unexpected jam session.”

“That what you’re calling it now?” She didn’t turn around. Her voice had that edge. “That room upstairs is for musicians too tired to drive home. Not for these random latenight ‘gigs’ you score.”

“Just spreading the joy,” I said. “It’s my brand.”

“Mmm.” She turned with the spoon in her hand. “Your brand.”

I leaned against the counter and reached for another strip. “Most landlords just complain about rent.”

“You know what your trouble is?”

“Not that conversation again.”

“It’s simple. You got it too easy. Understand? Easy livin’ is goin’ be the ruin of you. You’re hiding from the most important things.”

“Hiding from what things?”

“I don’t know, son. You think I’m a preacher or somethin’? You’re just wasting your life, that’s all. You be drifting’ around instead of settling down.”

I smiled again. Mabel always had a motherly instinct.

“You’ve got talent,” she continued. “Looks. More charm than a man your age ought to be trusted with. But you don’t keep anything. You don’t build anything. Soon as a thing starts to matter, you slide out the side door.”

“I’ve done okay so far.”

“This far.” She set the spoon down. “And by that you mean playing lounge piano. Selling cigarettes you don’t smoke. Borrowing everybody else’s roof.” She looked at me. “I never met your mama, God rest her soul. But I know she’d be sick to death of you.”

“She’d be proud I skipped the smoking, even if I sell the cigarettes.”

“Sit down,” she said.

I sat.

She stood over me, dish towel in one hand, spoon in the other. “You’re rootless, Vic. Got no anchor. Got no stake in the ground. Got nothing holding you to what matters.”

“Rootless.” I echoed the word back to her. “That’s new. You reading poetry again?”

“Don’t get smart.” She folded the towel over the oven handle. “You think Hank and I gave you a life. We didn’t. We gave you a room and a piano and the best teachers money could buy. That’s dirt, son. That’s all anybody can hand you.” Her voice dropped. “A man’s got to put something in the ground himself. Thirty years old and you never once did.”

“That’s why I have you, Mabel. You’re roots enough for both of us.”

She swatted at me with the towel. I ducked just in time, and celebrated by flashing my million dollar smile at her. She didn’t smile back.

“One day that smile of yours is going to fail you. Then what?”

“Then I’ll come down here for bacon and wise counsel.”

“Out of my kitchen.” I took one last piece of bacon. She let me. I kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

“Save me a whiskey,” I said. “I’ll need one.”

I walked back down the hall, past the photographs, past the empty club where my own face still smiled out from Marty’s favorite new poster of me and the cigarettes. Outside, Vegas was already bright, hot, and sexy. Somewhere there was a faint smell of sewage. My mind thought about Marty, waiting. What if I fought with him about the Havener contract? That was always stressful. Besides, nothing would change. That was the arrangement.

Inspiration: Ella Fitzgerald Sings The Cole Porter Song Book album cover, released on Verve May 15, 1956.

Fun With Fiction may include low-resolution copyrighted images and brief quotations, which remain the property of their respective owners. They appear alongside original fiction and notes on how they shaped it, for purposes of commentary and education. I believe this qualifies as fair use under Section 107 of the U.S. Copyright Act. Fun With Fiction is not affiliated with or endorsed by any of these rights holders. If you own the rights to material that appears here and have concerns about its use, please contact me at derek@dlzboran.com. I’ll review your request promptly and credit or remove the material as appropriate.

The Midnight Room

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Tue, 13 Oct 2026 01:38:14 +0000

Opening Image: A ‘before’ snapshot of your hero and their world.”

– Jessica Brody, Save The Cat! Writes A Novel

The Midnight Room ran hot on Friday nights. Conversation hummed beneath the clink of ice and the soft percussion of glasses meeting tables. Smoke from the cigarettes drifted in thin ribbons, mixing with cologne and the faint sweetness of spilled bourbon. I knew the rhythm of the place the way I knew the Great American Songbook. I was part of a standard tune…filled with predictable sharps and flats.

I finished the last bars of “Sophisticated Lady” and let the final chord hang. Applause came in right on cue. Wallets came out for tips. Tourists had become predictable to me. They clapped, they danced, they paid, they left. Most of them had a good time before going back to their ordinary lives.

Mabel slid a whiskey onto the table beside my bench. She didn’t say anything. She never had to. But tonight she let her hand rest on the piano’s edge for a moment, fingertips touching the wood. I caught her eye and nodded. She didn’t nod back.

Behind the bar, mounted where everyone could see it, my face smiled down at the room. It was the new Havener Cigarettes poster. There I was, The Man with the Million Dollar Smile. A cigarette perched between two fingers I’d never used for smoking.

Mabel hated the sign.

I wasn’t crazy about it either.

Marty said it stayed. Marty’s word was law.

I closed the fallboard and moved to the merchandise table. A guy in an expensive jacket that didn’t quite fit put down a twenty for a CD.

“Didn’t know Vegas had jazz musicians this good,” he said. “I write a column for the Village Voice.“

“That so?”

“You’ve got conservatory hands playing casino music. Somebody should write that story.”

I signed the CD. “I grew up studying the greats. Duke. Dave. Oscar. Ahmad. Casino or not, the hands are real.”

He handed me a business card. “Seriously. Reach out. I’d love to feature you.”

I looked at the card. It was a New York number. Jazz capital of the world, as they say. I’d only been there twice, and never to play piano. I slipped his card into my jacket pocket.

“I’ll talk to my manager.”

“Manager,” he muttered. He shook my hand. Then he drifted off toward the bar.

That’s when I noticed the blonde had her sights set on me. She’d been watching from a table near the back. Her hair was parted down the middle and she had two stark blue eyes. She glowed as if she had swallowed the Las Vegas sun whole and made its radiance her own.

She was moving toward me, cutting through the crowd with self-assurance.

Arriving at the table, she looked down at my hands, lips slightly parted, then back up at me with her sky-blue eyes.

“Nice hands. They play beautifully. Can I buy you a drink after your next set?”

I gave her a smile. The million-dollar one. “I don’t have a next set.”

“Then you’re free?”

“Maybe.”

It was a conversation we both already knew the steps to. I’d had it dozens of times. Different faces, same choreography. She played her part and I played mine.

I reached into my jacket and came out with a room key. “Two-oh-eight. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be there soon.”

She took it without hesitation. “You have a reputation around here. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Then she was gone, slipping back through the room toward the staircase.

A knot of jazz fans closed in, twenties ready. I smiled for them too.

The New York journalist’s business card poked at me through the fabric of my shirt.

Meanwhile, I sold three more CDs and let the smile work its magic.

The music had stopped, but the room kept playing. And I was the center of the performance.

Inspiration: Italian Photobusta, 19″ X 26.25″, used in promotion of the James Bond film Dr. No. Photobustas are vintage Italian movie lobby cards that blend film stills, printed illustrations, and typography into distinctive promotional designs.

Hello world!

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Sat, 05 Sep 2026 21:02:07 +0000

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Exploring digital illustration techniques for better design

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Fri, 03 Jan 2025 19:05:27 +0000

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

– Amara Kanit

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Finding inspiration in the digital art world around you

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

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Essential advice for digital illustrators seeking success

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Fri, 03 Jan 2025 19:03:37 +0000

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

– Amara Kanit

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How to enhance your creativity with free digital tools

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

– Amara Kanit

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Transforming your ideas from sketchbook to illustration

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Fri, 03 Jan 2025 19:01:45 +0000

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

– Amara Kanit

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The art of storytelling through illustration techniques

luke@funwithfiction.com (Luke J. Morris) — Fri, 03 Jan 2025 19:00:39 +0000

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Mastering technique is the foundation for a successful illustrator; it transforms creativity into reality, allowing your vision to come to life.

– Amara Kanit

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