Author: Bill

Friday Fictioneers for August 26th 2022

Our unrivaled and swimmingly marvelous maven and Friday Fictioneering mistress, Rochelle, has paired up with Brenda Cox to serve up a stinging photo with food, working women, and a mad mugging man to inspire us to fictionalize 100-word stories mused from the minds and memories of twisted fibbers.

If you want to get jiggy with the ways and where-how’s of this Micro-, flash-fictioning adventure, click on Brenda’s photo for a sit down at Rochelle’s blog to check the menu for rules regarding ingredients.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

 

Genre: Derivative Fiction
Title: Barbecue Stir-Fry with Tomatoes
Word Count: 100

***

Frank sat; arms crossed. “These are all women. Why’d you bring me here?”

Ruth smiled at Idgie. “They’ve excellent fried green tomatoes. The stir-fry is to die for.”

Frank mumbled, “These look like illegals. I’m calling Sheriff Smoot.”

Ruth nodded to Idgie and touched her neck.

Idgie waved her arm.

Frank felt a sharp sting. “Damnit! A bee. Give me Benadryl.”

Ruth handed him the bottle. Frank drank then collapsed. A small crowd gathered, then Frank was gone.

Idgie hugged Ruth. “Come back tomorrow, Love. We have fresh meat to barbeque.”

Ruth touched Idgie’s cheek. “I’ll always love you, Bee-charmer.”

***

Look both ways when seeking friendship and love.
Mind the gaps and take karma into account when life hands you Towanda’s rules.

This story is derived from, and inspired by, the book and movie, Fried Green Tomatoes.

Click on Idgie and Ruth at the Whistle Stop Café to truck on over and read other deep-fried stories.

If you’re unfamiliar with the 1991 movie, here’s a trailer to tempt you.

Monday’s Rune: Drove my Chevy to the levee…

But Buyer Be

My family didn’t own one—so,

I knew nothing of
automobiles back then
except about how to drive
(not well) and add gas—

My first (legal) car
was twenty bucks—
I got it for fifteen;
Mom said,
(Dad didn’t know, yet—
he called cars “motors”
and expensive things “dear”)
but she said, “Oh, dear,
I wonder
what’s wrong with it.”

I was about to learn so much
about oil,
rings, pistons, and
timing points, and why not
grab hold of a bare spark plug wire
on a running straight six,
and about positive and negative.

Guys at school, the ones taking
auto mechanics shop classes,
(learning something useful)
were not the ones to ask
even though I took
English III (again) with them.
(I’m still grateful for how
smart they made me look
and feel—but
another story there.)

Because
while those know-it-alls
claimed auto knowledge,
helpful they were not,
and I’d already bought
my old green Chevrolet
capable of burning
a quart of oil
per city block or
country mile—either way,
lesson learned late.
Learn first, then buy
(now I tell me).

And used car salesmen—
that lesson took a lot longer.

Buyer
beware. Be aware.

Look both ways as time keeps on slippin’ into the future.
Mind the gaps, feed the babies, shoe the children, house the people livin’ in the street.

Looks better than mine did. Click on pic to hear Don Mclean’s song, “American Pie.”

Sammi’s Weekender #273 (alcazar)

A 76-word, first-word, acrostic poem, using alcazar, meaning a Spanish fortress, palace, or castle.
I did not use the prompt word as a theme.

Click this graphic to read more writings of alcazar,

Wind, Rain, and Life

All I ask are a few good poems and stories and to have

Lived and loved my seventy-six years as me. My

Children and my children’s children brought me to heavenly happiness

As rain brought new life later claimed by the dry range and the breezes of soft

Zephyrus gently passing us by, like time-forgotten memories

Around our lives with now-shortened horizons pointing to sunsets

Restoring my faith in the discovered purposes of life and humanity.

Look both ways to protect your citadel from plunder and attack.
Mind the gaps of your castle walls which may be vulnerable to the darkness of passing time.

Friday Fictioneers for August 19th, 2022

Mistress Rochelle has returned to her castle from her annual August quest, and she is enticing us with her own painting of shells in a glass. I kind of did a hard left leaning twisty turn on the prompt (coz TMI) to flesh out my 100-word limited story whilst weaving in some suggestive erotica, playing around, and the results of binge-watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.

My tongue-in-cheek apologies for rubbing-in an R-rated Friday Fictioneers (fantasy) story. If you think you might do better, it’s on! Click on Mistress’s fantabulous watercolour ((winks at Brits and Canucks)) to jump on my bike and wheel on over to Rochelle’s purple pleasure posts to get your ticket to ride.

Click a shell to hop on over to see Rochelle.

Genre: Allman Erotic Fiction
Title: Polyamorous Holiday
Word count: 100

***

The lady was an artiste, a trooper. She did it all. When she climbed on behind me, I sang out.
We gotta run to keep from hidin.’ I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’.

Then she sang.
“Not gonna let ‘em catch us, Midnight Riders.”

She grabbed my crotch and yelled in my ear.
“Ten-day vaycay, Babe. Let’s go before I do you here.”

I sang.
I’ve passed the point of caring. I’ve one more silver dollar.

She squeezed hard.

We crashed.

Ten delightfully romantic days in the hospital. Each day we sang.

“Same old bed we both are sharing.”

***

Look both ways during those special summer days.
Mind the gaps unless that’s where your hand lays and stays.

***

 

Click the chick-pic for more marvelous myth, memoir, and mendacity.

I bogarted and messed around with the lyrics to the song. If you don’t recognize it, here goes… I shudda picked a shorter one, but hey, meh likes it.

Monday’s Rune: Special Times

Photo by and © Dale Rogerson

Candlelight Creates Memories.

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.

Sammi’s Weekender #272 (dazzling)

Click this pic for more dazzling 53-word wonders.

Candled Darkness

She dazzled—
blindingly brilliant.

I was humbled, dim and dull—
overwhelmed by sadness and shame.

Yet, in her glitter and gleam,
She loved my blackened heart,

kept me close, when other
men were blinded by her glare

She smiled.

Au contraire, mon amour.
Darker nights make brighter stars,
the moon shines even more.

Look both ways but listen with an open heart.
Mind the gaps for that’s where stars shine brightest.

Caption me.

Epistolary Expository Prose

Howdy, Y’all,

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?

The Eurythmics have an interesting history.

Friday Fictioneers for August 12th 2022

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Genre: Fan Fiction
Title: Look Both Ways
Word Count: 100

***

Philippe say, “Look. Two one-way signs pointing opposite ways. That says STOP ALL WAY. We ain’t in N’Orlins no-more, bro. Nothin’ make no sense.”

I replied, “It’s New York, Bubba. See dat church fence, windows barred, that shop covers windows—tagged.”

The lady across the street walked toward us. There was a loud screech of tires—then a scream. Everyone ran.

“Call 911. Dat lady got run over.”

He called. “Shit man. WTF?”

I sez, “She was reading my blog. Walked into the street before she read my postscript.”

“How you know dat, mista Bill?”

“She didn’t look both ways.”

***

Look both ways, even on one-way streets.
Mind the gaps on sidewalks
and don’t read my blog crossing streets
if you’re in a New York State of Mind.

 

Click on any famous New Yorker to read more wonders of fab fiction.

And then there is Billy J…. (it is a long one)

 

Monday’s Rune: Working for Money

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.

Sammi’s Weekender #271 (sibilance)

Click the graphic for more 28-word takes on the prompt word at Sammi’s blog.

 

The young, attractive, angry suicide survivor glanced at her phone before reciting

an angry poem in contralto voice which obscured nervousness,

each sibilant rapidly voiced in pitiful pain.

As you look into their eyes, look both ways when they tell their story.
Mind the gaps for hidden meanings in of the human condition.