For Thanksgiving Eve this year, Boss Rochelle, our lovely, multi-talented, family oriented, and artistically gifted literary ladyship guide has gone redux to prompt us all with a pic from the awesome Brit, Sandra Crook. Sandra’s photo has many prompting options, but I was mused into a musical mood.
Click on Sandra’s photographic prompt to jump off into Rochelle’s blog page from where you may climb back up with your own story based upon whatever inspiration you received.
“Toy! Hey, Toy. What y’all doin’? Where’s that devil woman yer in lust with?”
Toy sang out, “She gone, Mick. Done left me in Spartanburg. Oh, Lawdy, Ima gunna buy a ticket till it run out of track.”
He pulled his guitar up and sang, “Gonna climb that highest mountain. Gonna jump right off. Ain’t nobody gunna know. That woman, Lawdy. What she done to me. Can’t ya see, Mick?”
I said, “Yer too stoned to climb up there. I’m sorry. We told ya she’s a black-hearted woman, man.”
Toy yelled, “Mean ol’ woman’s with Marshall. Never told me goodbye!”
Look both ways in love and lust.
Mind the gaps for tips, trips, and occasional slips.
My story is based on the early 70’s southern/country rock song lyrics, Can’t You See, by the Marshall Tucker Band, written by Toy Caldwell. Other allusions: Mick (Jones) from the band Foreigner (Cold as Ice) and Black-Hearted Woman by the Allman Brothers Band.
He had much to say
about Texas, Texans, Mexicans,
and the cowboy way.
McMurtry, best known
for essays, books, and movie scripts
which Hollywood’s Oscar would pay.
But Larry most loved book scouting,
a proud bibliopolist,
another dying breed.
Look both ways learning about history, myth, legend, and reality.
Mind the gaps because therein may hide the best of the stories.
Larry Jeff McMurtry (1936-2021) was an American novelist, essayist, bookseller (book-scout) and screenwriter whose work was predominantly set in either the Old West or contemporary Texas. Dying breeds, historical truth, and books attracted him personally and professionally. My favorite McMurtry quotes are:
“People would be bored shitless if they had to love only the good in someone they care about.”
“Backward is just not a natural direction for Americans to look – historical ignorance remains a national characteristic.”
“Only a rank degenerate would drive 1,500 miles across Texas without eating a chicken fried steak.”
Rochelle, our dear dancing diva with big black boots and broken toes, has punted a Friday Fictioneers photo from Starsinclayjars to us, twice actually. Her intent is for us to score goals by netting our 100-word (or fewer) stories for mid-November. We are to look and see the picture, big or small, and then write a story from our mused inspiration. Thence, to blog post said fibs for all the world to admire and love.
Be bold and click on the boot by the bush for a fast flash over to Mistress Rochelle’s rockin’ blog to kick up some fun with micro fiction. Post your story in one of the squares thingies and jump in on others to tell them what you think, even if you don’t know who they are.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Canned English
Word Count: 100
The young Englishman intended to stand against the obstinate, award-winning poet, and sardonic senior citizen.
“You must wear the standard green uniform, Sir, or face the boot.”
Peter glared, “Unsatisfactory. I’ve done this vapid work well-enough for twenty-two years. I want the job. Not uniforms.”
“Sir, the National Agribusiness empowered me to inform you that you are suspended. Agree to our terms, the job is still yours.”
Peter watched a bird and sipped his wine, “You’re a callow, grotesquely inadequate twit. I’d rather live in Marfa bloody Texas than work for you jackasses.”
The young man was beet-red, “Where’s Marfan?”
Look both ways and be true to your conscience.
Mind the gaps, especially if your day job is on the proverbial line.
English poet Peter Reading and I were born an ocean apart on the same day, 27 July 1946. He was “one of Britan’s most original and controversial poets: angry, uncompromising, gruesomely ironic, hilarious, and heartbreaking. His scathing and grotesque accounts of lives blighted by greed, meanness, ignorance, and cultural impoverishment” captured this Bokowski-lover’s mind, heart, and imagination.
He was fired for refusing to wear a uniform, lived in Marfa, Texas, for a time, and titled the book about that experience Marfan. Peter died about 11 years ago, but his attitude and poetry live on.
It was one of those warm and humid days.
When it’s like that in LA, it is
miserably smoggy, but here
it is just moody and gloomy—no rain—
in the mid-seventies, like me.
Drove and hour to Temple, Texas,
for tests (the answers to which I thought I knew)
and to see a new PA-doc
and then to get gas
and drive another hour back home.
It’s boring sitting and waiting,
but since this is a hospital, boring and routine are good.
No, “I’m sorry, Mister Bill, but … ‘oh, no’.”
I saw nicely dressed police or correctional officers escorting
a mildly overweight bald man in an orange jump suit
and fake shoes
with handcuffs in the front,
all making it hard for others to not stare and wonder.
It was not so boring thinking about that.
Got an obit email that morning.
Another high school classmate had died
(they say he passed to be euphemistic
as though he just kept driving).
Patrick Murphy (Murph)
was an artist and philosopher
of Irish descent, and a Vietnam War vet.
His obituary was more interesting than most.
Anyway, I shall not be
characteristically pointing out problems or deficiencies today
because Murph is dead, and I am not. It’s all good, thanks.
So, I’ll just sit here trying to remember him
from art class, I think,
and be happily bored on a gloomy day
in a hospital clinic waiting area
in Temple, fucking, Texas.
Looking both ways at the days of gloom and doom. Mind the gaps in loose cuffs and I wonder who wipes his butt.
Click the photo of Robin Williams and Matt Damon to watch this scene from the movie, Good Will Hunting.
I found thalassic in Robin Devoe’s Dictionary of the Strange, Curious, & Lovely. I wrote an acrostic insult poem with more rare words from the same book. It’s Monday. I started this Saturday morning. I’m tardy.
Tin gods abound worldwide. Practiced prevaricators Hemipygicly half-assed witlessness, Adonized avatars in their own lost and low minds, Lardaceous lickpennies of limicolous living with Acherontic soulless evil demonic spirits, those Snollygosters comfortable within any snobocracy, Slubberdegullions of the lowest order or less, Imbruted by nature without redemption. Cacodemons with sycophants.
Look both ways when searching for right.
Mind the gaps for the tin gods because they disguise well.
Yesterday was Election Day, or ED day (snicker), depending on your POV. Tomorrow (Thursday, 10 November) is the USMC birthday, and Friday is Veterans Day.
Our lovely and world-class author, artist, and story-teller-mom, Rochelle, has, yet again, teamed up with the Magical Mistress of Montreal, the fabulous photographer, gifted story-maker in her own right, and social butterfly, Dale Rogerson, to delve deep into our creative minds for flashes of micro fiction miracles.
After seeing Dale’s pic, you only need a monochrome click to be transferred to the bright purple world of Her Nibs blog to clear the dark fog from your mind and create your own story with fewer than 100 words, beginning, middle, and end. If you’ve read this far, what are you waiting for? Click on Dale’s photo for the codes of color.
Genre: Gonzo Medical Journalism
Word Count: 100
I wasn’t dreaming. I could see only faint monochrome outlines. Where was I? Was I dead? While conscious and lucid, I felt neither pain nor pleasure. I was weightless, but grounded.
She turned and smiled at me. I recognized her face. She said, “You’re back. I’ve missed you. Shall we dance?” We danced. When we kissed, I was thunderstruck.
I felt the jolt lift me. Then I heard her voice.
“Stop defib. No more shocking him. We have a heartbeat. He’s alive.”
A male voice said, “I thought he was gone for sure. Good job everyone. Welcome back, Mister Bill.”
Look both ways and decide your own reality.
Mind the gaps for shots and shocks.
We’ll be glad to see you again.
A twisted, and super-popular, little take on an AC/DC rocker covered by the hillbilly bluegrassers, Steve’n’Seagulls. (Turn the volume up loud and fasten your seatbelt.)
Liquor goes down easy
and way, way too easy
and too often takes folks
down ruin’s road.
So why do I?
Since it makes me so queasy.
And nobody loves a drunk
not even another drunk,
okay, maybe sometimes, maybe,
but not after they grow up
or get sober
and we or they make
such an unforgivable mess
and land in such an unrecoverable funk.
It’s best to drink beer—
after eating a full meal,
with dessert and coffee
late at night,
one beer or two might be all right
for you if you’re not
Irish or German,
but then—then what?
It’s gastronomically unclear.
Wine, it seems, might be finely biblical,
if it’s tannins
don’t give you headaches,
hives, or hallucinations and
if it’s warm, cheap, and red,
because white wine
tastes like fermented kerosene,
smells it too,
so we pretend it’s good.
My dearly departed friend,
Jack, held to the standard
that all Dutch courage
must be drinkable.
Good ideas are the worst
when you’re in your cups,
those delusional wonders,
which thankfully rarely occur
except in the tank
or the boot of the hearse.
Look both ways to find the source of the lie.
Mind the growing gaps as they turn memories eternally black.
A little Tom T with his famous beer song, may he rest in peace.