My love affair with parody began long before my first Weird Al Yankovich song.  Between editing the Song Stories anthologies and watching the videos from the Key of Awesome, I’ve been inspired to finish the lyrics to a parody I started when I was eight.  
*Warning* this song may offend people who are upset by violence, the mentally ill, and anyone with good taste (especially people that taste good).

This Grudge has got a Hold on Me
(With sincerest apologies to Smokey Robinson)

I don't hate you
No, I despise you
Seems like I'm dreaming of
your demise ooh
oh it ended badly
The truth is sadly

This grudge has got a hold on me
(This grudge has got a hold on me)
This grudge has got a hold on me
(This grudge has got a hold on me)

Baby
You can't escape me
Although you try to
I'll slice and I'll dice you
And then I'll fry you
Oh ho, ho, I'll never leave you
After I cleave you

I've really grown a taste for you
(I've really grown a taste for you)
I'm gonna make a baste for you
(I'm gonna make a baste for you)

You left me, and if that's how it's gonna be, I'm gonna
kill you,
fill you,
chill you,
grill you...

Munching
Crunching

I want to leave here
They've got me locked up
Straight jacket on, and I'm
Electroshocked up
Oh ho ho, I'm going to bed now
It's time for meds now

I learned some things from therapy
(I learned some things from therapy)
I learned some things from therapy
(I learned some things from therapy)

Baby
I ate you. That was the wrong thing to do
But now it's
Too late (burp)
You're ate (oof)
Taste great
Cleaned the plate

That grudge has really rounded me
(That grudge has really rounded me)
That grudge has packed some pounds on me
(That grudge has packed some pounds on me)

I’ve been away for quite a while.  A mistake in the battle against the psychotic robots nearly cost me my life.  A nest of eggs I discovered in my barn turned out to be draconic aliens.  And my brief affair with a Russian spy, well you know that never ends well.  At any rate, I’m on my way back.  Motivation Monday will take a while to return, but I will be finishing the Song Stories anthologies.  In the interim, I will still be silent as often as not.  Do not worry my friends, Wakefield is returning with a vengeance, the event horizon is approaching.

Keep writing!

My first attempt at Rebekah Postupak's Flash! Friday fell way outside of the contest rules.  On the positive side, I have an excellent core for a song story!

Punk and Steam
By Wakefield Mahon

The pipe burst and Vincent cursed. Fifteen minutes to quitting time and he had to track down a leak and Vernon Joules did not believe in that new-fangled overtime for his steamworks employees.
Vincent resisted the urge to leave the problem for the night shift. Darcy was a dapper chap, but he didn’t know a bolt from a wrench.
A bit of ingenuity and a lot of elbow grease later, Vincent was done.
Exhausted, Vincent began to enter the nearest pub he could find, a new place called Dairyman’s Ghost, when he was nearly decapitated by some sort of flying contraption.
“My bad!”
Vincent started at the sound of a young woman’s voice as the driver took off her goggles and helmet.
“A woman, riding about in such an odd contraption, what does your husband think of this?”
She stared at him as if her were mad. “I don’t have a husband, or a fiancé for that matter,” she paused as a grin grew across her face, “at least none that I know of.”
Vincent didn’t understand much of the wild woman, but he wild abandon intrigued him. He didn’t realize he was staring until she cleared her throat.
“At any rate, as I nearly ran you over, it’s appropriate I should compensate you. Let my buy you a cup of tea.”
“YOU want to buy ME…”
“Just recompense mind you. And my name is Susan”
Vincent shrugged. It was a new pub; perhaps no one would notice him there.
All hopes of anonymity were shattered when the waitress informed Susan, they only served chilled tea.
Susan jumped on top of the table and shouted, “Anarchy! That’s what the world has come to when a woman can’t get a hot cup of tea in London. The world’s gone mad!”
The waitress glared. “The only mad one I see is on my table.”
Vincent tried to help Susan down from the table, but she pulled him up. Stunned at first he looked around the room and all the eyes fixed on him. “My friend has a point. No hot tea, on such a winter’s day? I have to agree it’s rather peculiar.”
“Gunnar, we have a couple of trouble makers in here.”

“That would be our cue to leave” Again Susan grabbed Vincent’s hand and they dashed out of the pub and into her flying contraption. Susan laughed as two large men chased them down the street while they hovered just out of reach.

At last Susan delivered Vincent to the modest flat where lived.

“This was fun,” she said. “You should come meet my parents for tea on Sunday.”

Vincent smiled. “I would like that very much. Say, I’ve a question before you leave.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you build this contraption?”

“No I stole it from my Uncle Verne. He and my father run Joules Steamworks. Have you heard of it?”

Vincent saw his life flash before his eyes, then – looking at Susan once more – decided it had all been worth it.

****
Inspired by Punk Rock Girl copyright ©1988 The Dead Milkmen

Dinner is served
By Wakefield Mahon

Clara blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

She felt their eyes bot could not see them.

Dozens of hungry ghosts danced, drooling over her scantily clad body.

Clara’s heart raced as she turned back and the horror sunk in.

Dozens of ghosts shrieked as Clara opened her maw and inhaled their everlasting souls.

This labor of love is finally coming to fruition.  Song Stories: Volume 1 is on sale now.

Song Stories are stories from across the globe, from across the genre spectrum, unified by the inspiration of song.
A lyricist has the immense challenge of capturing an entire story in a handful of verses Some melodies convey a story without a single word.
What stories might have arisen if the lyricists and composers chose to share their stories in a different medium? Sit back, relax, and spend some time with an old friend, or find a new one.

Volume 1 features Stories from: Lou Antonelli, Becky Beard, Anthony Box, Raymond Clarke, Chris Devito, LT Dalin, Steven Gepp, Wayne Helge, Jack Horne, Stephen Jensen, Erik T Johnson, Vic Kerry, Adam Knight, Robert Neilson, Nicky Peacock, Steve Voelker

Cover Art by Diana Whiley

Spectator

Razor-wire sculptures dipped in poisonous oil
Fascinating to observe
Deadly to touch

These addictions
Distractions
Delusions
Stealing truth
Stealing joy
Stealing pain

At night, I lie alone in mediocre meditation over emotions weakly acknowledged

Tinkle
The wind chimes beckon
Come let's play
Let us frolic in the springtime sun.

Liars!
Death hovers
One foot dangling o'er my doorstep
And here I've scarcely begun

(c) 2013 Wakefield G Mahon III

It started with a touch of horror.  Last year, I wrote a story about the Pygmalion tale gone very wrong.  As I started work on other stories, a string of related themes gelled until AI: Genesis took on a life of its own.

The Book of Adam and Eve is the first novelette in the AI: Genesis saga.  The story introduces four of the main characters.  Adam Haddad is a bright man with big dreams that often exceed his reach.  Adam’s equally brilliant wife, Lilith has devoted her life to the study of neurology, psychology and sociology.  With the help of Adam’s lab assistant, Lucy, they embark on the ambitious project of creating genuine electronic sentience, a true artificial intelligence.

Longing and jealousy enter the equation and EDITH, their creation becomes so much more than any of them expected. Their lives will all change forever as they witness the dawn of an epic revolution.

The Book of Adam and Eve is available for your Kindle at Amazon.com.

All I Want for Christmas
By Wakefield Mahon

I don’t have much in my former luxury condo. I have a couple of shopping instead of furniture. There are a few tatters and remnants of the furniture. Wires hang from the ceiling where they ripped my crystal chandelier from the ceilings.
The one really beautiful thing I have left is the view. Outside my panoramic, window shine the lights of the most opulent city on earth.
If I could ask that old guy in the red suit to bring me one thing in his sleigh this year, tell you what it would be: a good thick set of curtains.

100 words
@WakefieldMahon

The End of Terrax
By Wakefield Mahon

The wall three feet away from Lilit exploded. She tucked the bundle in her arms under her cloak and surged forward. She jumped through the wormhole portal just as it closed.

She exited in a tropical oasis of some sort. Before she could take stock of her surroundings she collapsed from exhaustion.

She awoke with a strange garden with a tall gray-skinned man with large eyes in an oversized face kneeling over her with some sort of scanning device.

She tried to remember her elementary education. “Centaurian?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good, you understand me. Are you a healer?”

“Physician, yes. My name is Mikal. You are going to be alright. You’re safe now.”

“Nothing will ever be alright again. I couldn’t do anything to save them. I stood by helplessly while the Siriusians systematically exterminated my people.”

“But you escaped. You made it here safely, that’s something. And you are a very fertile people.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m the only one left. Well except for Havah.” She panicked, momentarily, looking around for the bundle she’d been carrying.

Mikal held her up. “She’s fine, I checked.” He completed Lilit’s scan. “So, you see, all hope is not lost.”

Tears fell as Lilit shook her head. “I don’t know about Centaurian physiology, but two female Terraxians cannot reseed a race.

“Perhaps this will ease your mind.” He showed Lilit the results. “Congratulations, it’s a boy.”

Her tears became tears of joy. “Oh my little piece of earth from Terrax. I will call you Adam.”

250 words
@WakefieldMahon