Click the graphic for Sammi’s blog and more bandaged 61-worded wonders.
Keepin’ Safe
‘hello-‘ello! C’mere, lad.
I hope you’ll be keepin’ well.
It happens every year
after a wee bit, a donnybrook
somewhere near here,
sorry now, so
me shillelagh’s swingin,
callin’ fer bacon.
Not well then are ye?
wackin’ the cod,
wi’ narry a nod, nor a bandage
or pad to be had.
T’ank you for feelin’
brave to go, smart to not.
Look both ways on whisky drinkin’ festival days.
Mind the gaps at the tube and lads at the pub.
The annual Donnybrook Fair near Dublin included fiddlers and dancers, but it was best-known for the frequent eruption of whiskey-fueled fighting – often involving heavy clubs known as shillelaghs. “Bacon” is Irish slang for police and “cod’ for fool.
What day is it boys and girls and other less binary-specific people? It’s not Howdy Doody time with Buffalo Bob. It is Wednesday’s Friday Fictioneers time hosted by the magical and majestic Mistress Rochelle, who by now we all know so well.
By slipping us a Lisa Fox pontoon boat photo taken in front of Preacher (formerly Buffalo) Bob’s Church of What’s Happenin’ Now, we are to be blessedly inspired to contrive a little lily-white, fib-ological story in all its radiant glory.
If you want the whole homily about telling your own fewer than 101 words heavenly-inspired story, clicking on Li’s pic should do the trick.
Genre: Magical Get Realism
Title: The Bigger Boat
Word Count: 100
Wanda said, “The kids are grown and gone. Let’s buy a boat and sail around the world.”
Alfie said, “Great idea, Honeypot. Preacher is selling his.”
At the church Brother Bob says, “Praise God. Wanda and Alfie. We ain’t seen y’all in a coon’s age.”
“We are empty nesters who wanna buy your boat and sail around the world. Wanda’s idea.”
Y’all’s boaters?
We ain’t, Preach. We aim to learn, quit our jobs, sell the house, and go for it.
Well dang, Alf! You’re gonna need a bigger boat. I’ll pray for y’all.
Thanks, Preacher. A bigger boat you say?
Look both ways, find what you love, and let it kill you.
Mind the gaps and check the weather.
The sharks are always biting.
Click HERE to link up with a parcel of other inspired stories, good to go until next Wednesday when we will discover another fine photo with which to proceed.
This story is not truly 100% fiction, but the line about the bigger boat I bogarted from the Jaws movie.
And the humorous nature of my Li-inspired lie was partly set to sail by a scene from Caddyshack.
Dale mentioned the Styx song “Come Sail Away” in THIS recent travel post, so I was tempted to use it. But I steal enough stuff.
Note: While I double check every link, I cannot determine if youtubes work outside of the USA. But it’s all about the micro-fiction. The links are ancillary.
They were not smart or rich. Some might write. Few to none finished school. In many ways they were all slaves.
The children, the men, and the women were trying to survive, to make it through the night.
No great athletes, not a genius among them. The company was the enemy. The boss.
I think of them on Labor Day. About my dad, the filthy coal miner, who swore I’d never work in the mines.
He was right.
When the mines shut down, he was lucky to find any job. He was a plumber’s helper. He mowed lawns and dug sewer ditches. Finally, as a nurse’s aide for the same pay I got as a teenage knucklehead, for my summer job, as a gardener’s assistant, he worked until it was finished.
Mom was a cleaner of footwear in a shoe factory. She had to take two early morning buses and often walked home. Her hands were always dirty and stained from cleaning factory shoes. Sucky work.
I never did piece work, nor had black lung, but at a young age I knew all about both.
Labor Day! I love it, but the more I think about it, and the more I learn about the labor movement, the more pissed off I get.
Wars and soldiers did not build this country. The rich damn sure didn’t. Cowboys (not the jerks in Dallas) and labor did. Workers built America.
Damn it!
“No gods, no masters.”
Look both ways and try to understand.
All workers and all labor around the world are brothers and sisters.
Mind the gaps and may we treat them well. Welcome to America.
Click the graphic to fly to Sammi’s blog page to submit and to read other’s prose or poems.
Got My Six
His name was Jay.
We called him Jay Bird
due to his avian-like
looks and behavior.
Callsigns were
seldom complimentary,
like Maverick or Viper.
Jay Bird was my friend.
Look both ways in life but memories are treasures of the mind.
And mind the ever-present gaps as you connect the dots and wonder why.
To slip nicely from the end of sweet summer sweat and August’s heat into September’s pre-Labor Day weekend; her magnificence, Rochelle of the purple addiction, and Wednesday Wonder Woman, has cast a David Stewart late night photo for all to see and to be mused into a fictional tryst for Friday.
If you wish to try a fib, a lie, or you have a story to aspire, click on David’s photo, and you shall flash over to the blog of our magical mistress to learn all her secrets.
My tale grew from an effect echoed by a favorite musical afterglow. Fans of the band or the song may glean the tune from the nature of some lines I borrowed.
Genre: Musical Fan Fiction
Title: Programed to Read
Word Count: 100
***
Shimmering lights lit the shed.
Don pointed. “There’s the doorway. Step inside. Say, ‘1969.’ Another door opens to a colitas casino.”
I said, “Gambling’s legal. Why the drama?”
“Libraries are underground since books and music became illegal. Dancing to remember is forbidden.”
I did as he said. I heard happy voices. Such a lovely place with music and books. I asked the librarian, “Could I check anything out?”
She lit a candle and replied, “Such a lovely face. Relax. We are all prisoners here programmed to read. You may check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
***
Look both ways.
Saying it will not happen again doesn’t mean it won’t.
Mind the gaps for fears in the middle of the night, just to hear them say,
“Bring your alibis.”
Click on the Eagles “Hotel California” poster to zip to links for more great flash/micro fiction stories.
***
This is not the Eagles, but cred to their song by buskers Sherlock and Rodrigues. My deep apologies if this YouTube fails you, I don’t know how to tell if it’s banned in Boston, London, or Montreal.
Soldiers, farmers, and lovers all seek the same shelter. Protection from nature’s miseries is ubiquitously sought and taken. Adapt or die. Respect not given wisely results in lessons learned only for brief periods.
Her glorious beauty shows in the warm sunrise that follows the night’s frightful, unsheltered story. The singing bird allows for the climax of thunder as from lightening, all seek cover. Even snakes warm in the sun.
Rain or dry seasons, Nature judges the foolish lover, the seeker of warmth without cover, harshly. Live and learn; learn and live.
respect nature first
awesome beauty is the beast
take cover or die
Look both ways when seeking escape or shelter.
Better to mind the gaps and wait for the storm to pass
than to win the latest Darwin Award.
at the park, the
San Gabriel River slow flows as
trees, grass, and gardens grow,
ducks and squirrels search
while dogs wander;
people—few kiddos play,
adults do nothing—just relax while
idle athletic fields recover, empty
picnic tables under shade; and
boulders and benches go unused,
feel the summer zephyr, nice,
some souls are alone, but
I’m with you.
It’s Wednesday. Recover.
Relax. Everything else
can wait.
Look both ways — up and down stream;
mind the gaps for crossings over to another side.
Sometimes just go and be — hear, feel, and wait and see.
Click this opera thingy to find links to more operatic writings
For Opera’s Sake
Poets find inspiration in
music
I do,
not opera
or classical,
Whitman did.
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
Charles Bukowski
who wrote,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”
A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
and misogynist
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
music.
Buk’s been saluted by
diversity like
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.
I’ve been
accused
of being mused by
Bukowski
and his oeuvre.
Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.
This is the poem, “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” … done operatically (a bit risqué). My apologies if this youtube does not work for you.
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.
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.”
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