It happens
like this
it all comes together
too seldom,
so brief
but when
it comes,
we feel it
forever.
It’s more
than love,
family,
sisterhood;
life has enough
pain and suffering
and sadness.
Forget that—
remember this—
time always was
always will be
just because when
it’s like this
it’s cosmic.
No
everyday thing.
That wouldn’t work.
The right people,
the right time and place
discovering high levels
of special happiness.
We need to do that
more often—
again soon.
One bottle passed through
snifters near dripping candles
lighting empty chairs
reflections
light and dark
happy and sad
yin and yang
simultaneous synergy
of family energy.
Look both ways to find soul in family.
Mind the gaps. Set the stage. Live the love.
I think the a/c has been running since May. It’s August now, driving hotly through a summer of record temperatures and daily threats of more Texas power grid snafus. I just missed being born in this horrible month, but I know several who are so saddled. Yes. I should be grateful. Maybe I am, but.
I’m also somewhat non-clinically depressed and worried, not about me even though if I ain’t dead in ten years, I will be in twelve and if I leave the world better, will it be good enough?
Fourteen billion eyes, ears, and feet, for now; and I only ask for a couple dozen or so to be alright. Go ahead. Ask. How’s that workin’ for me?
Half of humanity seems nuts and hates the other half who hate back. There’s a hypothetical, conjectural god who seems completely cavalier about it all and is dismissal about unbridled slavery, too. They insist I stock credence and believe. What? Why?
The most important thing, apparently, comes conveniently after, and it’s not heaven. It’s hell. That’s where August takes all three-hundred and sixty-five days and nothing was last or is next and some guy keeps asking, what if this is as good as it gets? Ever?
Sweet dreams are made of this,
Amen to that,
Bill
PS: Everybody’s looking (both ways) for something. Mind the gaps for what some of them want to do. Who am I to disagree?
Mistress Rochelle shuffled her photo deck and dealt us a Roger Bultot metro scene to provoke our creative juices with a New York state of mind. This one mused up too many stories for one day, in this case a pair of Ragin’ Cajuns in the Empire State. If you can gin up a microburst of fewer than 101 words, click on Roger’s pic to sky over to Rochelle’s blog and get the lay of the land. Come play with us. This is fun.
At the car wash
busy with trucks and SUVs
but few cars.
I spy a young HR lady
as she
explains personnel things
to a few male employees
who look confidently confused.
They pay “up to” twelve dollars per hour
there—
so says the help wanted sign.
It’s a hundred degrees Fahrenheit
again today, outside, at the car wash
for not enough dinero to live on.
A customer—tall skinny guy wearing
starched, ironed Wranglers with
a big wide belt holding up a bigger
shiny rodeo belt buckle, in
black cowboy boots
boasting bright diamond earrings,
under a big black felt
unairconditioned cowboy hat with
a long wallet jutting up from
his tight right back pocket
and chained to his belt,
and his big-ass cell phone in the other,
all in his stiff, creased, ironed
cowboy blue jeans while
Mansplaining to his nicely wigged
lady friend—he even told me when
my car was ready (it wasn’t)—she nodded and smiled—
people waiting for their clean and polished rides—
one rest (wash) room for all. With
a mercifully short waiting line,
I see no ‘young’ customers, but
one old man wore his ballooning
starched & ironed loud pink, long-sleeved shirt with
pearl buttons in this noisy, busy business
somewhere in the middle of Texas
where dressing to subculture
ignores realities like sun and heat
except for the guys making top
dollar, one every five minutes,
at the car wash. Plus, a tip from me
in my worn Phish tee and shorts, ball cap
and old gym shoes. My subculture.
At the car wash.
Look both ways at the car wash.
Take notes on the sights and write ‘em up: prose or poetry to get you through the day.
Mind the gaps unless you pay the upcharge for a greater job, done by hand, details.
If you’re unfamiliar with the mid-seventies song and movie, here is a youtube trailer version.
Her Majesty, Mistress Rochelle took up with the artful British Lady, Sandra Crook, and her collection of local history castle photographic art to inspire us to fictionalize a bit of Brit history and fantasy. If we surpass Her Ladyship’s 100-word limit, we’re forgiven (fingers-crossed) but sent to the castle dungeons where a Scot vampire Count will teach us to painfully count—one number at a time.
To join with this British invasion simply point to the below photo and click, from whence you’ll magically be transported to the wonderful purple swimmingly world of Rochelle’s blog where you’ll be provided proper guidance and told how to mind your manners.
Click this graphic to link to Sammi’s blog page and links to more 86-word works of jamboree.
Tanta Belleza
En la ciudad Mexicana de San Antonio, Texas,
Fiesta: eleven April days and nights of wild jamboree
fiestas where diversity is celebrated with parades galore,
like the Battle of the Flowers with royalty;
titled Queen of the Alamo, the Charro Queen,
King Antonio, or King El Rey Feo in his royal ugliness of medieval rivalry,
there’s a Queen of Soul, and La Reina de la Feria de las Flores,
everywhere you’ll find dancing and music, muchos happy people,
if large crowds are your taza de tequila.
Look at crowds both ways for the fun within the melee.
Mind the gaps for the light-fingered chaps.
A fun time. Take the bus. It is always packed. Click the pic if you want to know more.
I woke to a surprise this morning when I discovered that the Maven of freestyle, the Mistress of the breaststroke, and the Madam of fictioneering, Rochelle, had slipped in a prompt photo I took out in the wilds of my daughter and son-in-law’s west Texas grange.
Click on the remnants of the greenhouse to spread over to Rochelle’s blog camp so you can grow your own stories of 100-word micro-fiction.
Click on my prompt photo to go to Rochelle’s page with all the fixin’s.
Genre: Horticultural Fiction
Title: Greenman Phish-heads
Word Count: 100
***
What happened here?
The well-water went bad years back. The plants died. Now it’s only what grows naturally: mesquite, cactus, and other wild things. The Green Man makes his home in there now.
What’s over there?
That’s Uncle Billy’s Phish Camp. That’s Julie’s cat house over to the left, and that big building is the main house.
Green Man isn’t real.
He’s real. Come back next Spring and you’ll see his magic. It’s beautiful. Get in the truck and I’ll show you the business end of the Greenman rebirth. Maybe you’ll meet him. It’ll make you a believer forever.
***
Look both ways and learn to grow new beginnings.
Mind the gaps as you turn tragedy to treasure.
Greenman is all thumbs.
It’s never too late.
Click on Billy or Julie (in the current Greenman Nursery) to read other fantastic stories inspired by the prompt photo.
Click on the west Texas Green Man to learn more than you ever wanted to know about him.
Our Literary Journey 