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.
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.
Genre: Speculative Travel Fiction
Title: Castle Horror Picture Show
Word Count: 100
***
Elizabeth tugged the wheel, “Left side. We meet up there at midnight.”
I asked, “Why join more judgmental, malcontent, freak poets?”
She pointed, “That’s our B&B. It’s a cover coven with vampire poets. Ancestry shows DNA matches.”
“You’re a hedge witch!”
“Be quiet!”
Later, I heard church bells as we walked into the ancient castle ruins.
A male voice, “Mistress Lizzy, is it? Douse them torches. Remove your clothes. Join us for sexy dungeon dancing. William must be bit.”
I felt a prick in my neck. Elizabeth laughed and danced away with a vampire named Charles. We were home free.
***
Look both ways and don’t think love conquers all.
Mind the gaps for mind control nips
and put some garlic powder on your tasty neck.
***
***
If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show, here is a trailer.
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.
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.
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.
Patience Grasshopper
I don’t give a damn what
you think about what
I think I thought
that am entitled to,
or what is my business.
Motive matters. How are ya
means I fucking care
about you and your problems,
no matter how ya got ‘em.
When you shut me out,
when you will not talk,
when anyone close
informs me just
exactly what the fuck
is and is not my business,
Blood boils, tongues twist,
ears backen, and eyes redden.
Sir, the witness has rights!
Code fucking red. RED!
Read it right. No matter
WHAT! I’m on your side.
Hell, high water, thunder,
fucking flashes of lightning
or the end of my damn sidewalk.
Look both ways and see it as you must,
but I’ve been minding the gaps in this wall for more than 50 years.
I suppose it depends upon what it is applied to and how.
Today, Mistress Rochelle, Queen of Friday Fictioneer Musing, and Fleur Lind have provided a photo prompt that (I admit to getting lost here) took me to a movie scene and jerked my sense of political humor. If I offended any Texas Reps, they have my most insincere apologies.
If you want to play with us (and we are a diverse, international, fun lot), click on Fleur’s photo to serve up Rochelle’s page for your personal written invitation and a quick brief on the few story-telling rules and suggestions.
Genre: Political Humor
Title: Sexist Mandates
Word Count: 100
***
After sipping her wine, the lady at the next table tossed her head back and yelled “yes, yes, yes.”
Her knickers slid down to her ankles.
Our waiter asked, “Have you decided, sir?”
I smiled, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
He asked, “May I see your driver’s license?”
I laughed, handing over my Texas license. “I am way over 21.”
“That’s not it, Mr. Bill. The wine you requested is forbidden by Abbott Mandate for males, which your DL says you are. It can cause multiple orgasms and no biological males can survive that.”
I ordered Bud Lite and Roadkill.
***
Look both ways as I remove my tongue from my cheek.
Mind the gaps found between truth and fiction.
Live, love, and laugh often.
Click HERE to read more fantastic Friday Fictioneer stories.
If you are unfamiliar with the scene from the movie, When Harry Met Sally, allow this YouTube trailer to make your day.
Hopeless is bad enough,
often said with sarcastic humor.
But helpless is feeling
a deeper truth.
We believe we can,
and maybe
for a time,
we can, and
we do. But we are
being watched.
An inevitable
universal reality
brings truth to
the rarity of existence.
Entropic inevitability,
be it a mayfly, a giant star;
you, or me, degradation
into disorganized chaos
and randomness rules.
As everything changes,
nothing ever changes.
Look both ways into the abyss of eternity.
It is the way, the only way.
Mind the gaps and appreciate the flashes of life.
Neverending
It’s how I remember the year that she died.
I watched for weeks while she suffered, and I cried.
It made a big impression on me although I was still a young man.
Her life was over—suffering ended. I still do the best I can.
Look both ways year after year.
Mind the gaps as we try to remember, and we try to forget.
My inspiration:
To test out my creative muse, Mistress Rochelle apparently worked out an international picture deal with everybody’s ever-smiling, favorite Canuck, Dale Rogerson. A summer day residential photo of the otherwise Great White North ginned up a fib about two Yanks looking about.
Click on Dale’s photo to open Rochelle’s page to read about how it’s done.
Genre: Travel Fiction
Title: Canada Wry
Word Count: 100
***
So, this is Canada, eh? Where’s all the people?
Inside. It’s too warm. Thirty don’t ya know?
That’s not warm?
Celsius. Eighty-six Fahrenheit. We’re north of North Dakota.
They use metric?
Yes and no. It depends.
What else do I need to know?
Canadians are the politest and friendliest people on Earth. They say “sorry” a lot.
That movie, One Week, made me want to move here even before 2016.
Yes. But Gunless is better. Funnier. We need to get out of here.
Why?
Dale is taking our picture. If we stay, we’ll be all over the internet by noon.
***
Look both ways because everybody has a camera these days.
Mind the gaps but be nice.
Keep your passport current and safe.
This is a trailer from the movie Gunless in case you wanna see what it’s like. I’ve not seen it, but may giver them a try.
Bukowski had six cats,
a horrific history,
(eventually) a (2nd) wife, a daughter,
and hated his father,
maybe mother too.
he smoked cigarettes
and drank wine
while writing poems
until the wee hours
while
listening
to classical music.
He drove an old VW bug
and was attractively
unattractive.
Playing the horses
was more than
a gambling vice,
it was an avocation.
You say so what?
I say, you don’t know?
Look both ways when you need a poem to post on a Monday.
Mind the gaps cuz yer on yer own dude.
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