Monday’s Rune: Not looking so good.

 

They called him Tom—not his real name.
This guy was no head-hanging Tom Dooley.
Tom liked to watch. A voyeur. A peeking peeper.
A people watcher of the lowest and riskiest form.
Yet, old Tom was submissive. Not dangerous. But who knew?

Night was his time—windows framed his fantasies.

One day Tom saw something that made him
stop peeping—almost. “Now I’ve seen everything.
My life is complete. And I need to go to confession,
but not with that priest.” Tom, confided in himself.

Then, late one warm summer night, there was a scream.
Someone else yelled.
Dogs barked.
Tom ran.
He heard a gunshot.

Maybe Tom had seen everything. But he never made it
to confession. He died doing what he loved.
What he needed.
And he died running,
just not fast enough. Peeping Tom was no more.
“And another one gone” and
“Another one bites the dust.”

Look both ways.
Exhibitionists and watchers can work together,
each according to his, her, or their wants and needs.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #294 (script)

Click the Script graphic for Sammi’s page and more writings.

 

So, Tell Me

I want to know you. The real, secret you.
I want to read your mind’s script.
Show me your play list. Who do you love?
What about friends? What’s your deal?

I want to know what you do in private
and tell no one. What was your childhood like?
When did you decide to be you?
Who do you hate? What was
your relationship with your parents?

Do you swear? Ever been sexually molested?
How many sex partners do you have?
Tell me your favorite everything.
I’d ask you what you think of me,
but that’s none of my business.

Look both ways at people.
It’s okay to wonder and to imagine.
But mind the gaps.
Not everything makes sense or is what you expect it to be.

Friday Fictioneers for January 13th, 2023

Our mysterious and mischievous Mistress, Rochelle, passionate for the pool (she could swim circles around most of us), has bestowed upon us a Friday the 13th photo by Fleur Lind. We are to be magically inspired and motivated to write a story of fewer than 101 words (unlike Dalmatians or Arabian Nights).

To help enlighten you as you steer your story to the inlinkz squares, click on Fleur’s photo to be driven to Rochelle’s blog where it’s all mapped out for us. It’s fun. Try it. Then join the pack as we read and hopefully comment on as many stories as we like.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

Genre: Narrative Poetry
Title: A Verse of Light
Word Count: 100

***

Driving, my twisted mind a malaise of anger
lost in sorrow that love controls,
I think of her and of him.

That Sting song played,
“I’m so happy that I can’t stop crying
… I’m laughing through my tears”
The blood red sky, like love. The clouds cheering,
“Something about the universe and how it’s all connected”

I saw light coming. I heard,
“Everybody’s got to leave the darkness sometime”

As I drove into the light, I felt the pain leaving me.
“I’m so happy that I can’t stop crying
I’m laughing through my tears” And the pain is gone.

***

Look both ways.
At times, let the future heal the past.
Mind the gaps, some pain remains.

Click on the crash to read other (more uplifting) stories.

 

I have no idea why I like this old Sting song so much.

 

Monday’s Rune: Rescue This

 

Innocently Unhelpful

One day I was chopping weeds.
When I looked up Libby, our toy poodle, was gone.
I knew she would go home with virtually anyone.
But she’d been fixed years earlier, so she could go play.
I noticed a familiar SUV driving away. I was unarmed, but I felt, maybe,
Libby had been dognapped. I called for her and looked around.

After a while, the car returned and pulled over near me.
The lady driving rolled down the window. She held a small black dog
in her lap and asked if it was my dog. I said, “I don’t know. Lemme check
her license right here on her collar.” Libby was calm. I got semi-sarcastic.
“Yep. Last seen right over there in my yard sniffing her own shit.”

The indignant do-gooder gave me a look and said, “I’m a dog
rescuer. I rescue strays.” I took Libby and said, “Today you’ve
moved up to dognapping. Last I checked that was against the law.
Now may I see your rescue license?”

I could tell she was getting pissed at me.

Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall
started pounding my mind and I turned up my volume,

“Hey!       Lady!         Leave this dog alone!”

All-in-all, look both ways when tending your flock.
Your poor wretched strays may get “rescued” the minute you look one way.
Mind the gaps in the minds of those dumbly righteous souls who do good to feel better than.

Sammie’s Weekender #293 (preposterous)

Click here for more preposterous writings linked at Sammi’s blog page.

 

 

Dear Danny,

Here’s the thing, man.

It probably seems pathetically preposterous
to a person such as your profoundly proud self,
but at least pretend to listen.

Don’t worry.

I understand.

You cannot validate me.
You are not me, nor I you.
You’re right about that part.
but I’m more you than you’d think,
in a darkly nonspecific way.

See how silly and sad that is?

You despise me for breathing
——- and for being right.

Look both ways as you try to understand people.
All the same, yet different.
Mind the gaps to help keep communication civil.

 

Friday Fictioneers for January 6th, 2023

I first posted a story on Friday Fictioneers on 8/14/2020. That was less than three years ago.

So, when Mistress Rochelle slips in an old photo prompt (four years ago, in this case) [Correction. Roger’s pic is new. Rochelle’s story is a rerun.] as she did today with a Roger Bultot photo redux, it’s new to me. Since our maven of end of week mystery has pressed go for 2023, I’ve carved my new story into the blogosphere granite.

If you’re interested, just click on Roger’s pic to take the trip on over to Rochelle’s blog page where we all begin this challenge each week.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Genre: Fiction
Title: Deadly Staircase
Word Count: 100

The stairs down to the underground apartment were blocked by a locked gate. It was a trash bin for whatever was blowing. Daily, people walked past the infamous flat, still haunted by ghosts of the many women who were tortured, raped, and murdered inside.

She said, “Babe, we’ve got to go down there. We need pictures for literary inspiration.”

I replied, “How can you consider breaking in? It’s morbid. Sick. You’re out of your mind.”

She jimmied the lock, walked down to the door, and disappeared inside.

“Honestly officer. That was the last time I saw Rochelle—five hours ago.”

Look both ways to solve mysteries and puzzles.
Mind the gaps. They’re traps for fear to some but inspiration to others.

Click on the police tape to read more great stories.

Sammie’s Weekender #292 (tenet)

Click on the graphic to open Sammi’s page for more writings on tenet.

Insightful Prudence

“I know what you do not believe,”
she said, then asked of me,
“but what are the things
you do believe?”

There are degrees to tenets,
woven into minds and bodies,
affecting life from
existence to death, and for some,
beyond.

Beliefs imbued tinge deeply
whereas doubts draw judgment
and castigation. Rational perception
threatens others.

Do not ask. Watch me.

Look both ways when using reasoned thought.
Mind the gaps for hidden traps.

Friday Fictioneers for December 30th, 2022

During the year twenty-twenty-two, the lovely and wonderful Rochelle has tempted and challenged all comers with photographic inspiration. Every week, she boosted me to the writing of a one-hundred-word story. This is my fifty-second story this year: 5,200 words that might have been a brief short story, but each is a micro fictional attempt to swing fanatically for the fences.

This year’s finale provides us with one of Rochelle’s personal pictures from which we are to connect the dots and write a complete story with fewer words than compose the average parrot’s vocabulary: no more than 100.

Join the fun by clicking on the photo for a quick taxi ride over to Rochelle’s blog. There you can find all you need to know to play along. Post your story with the others on the inlinkz app.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Musical Fiction
Title: Anticipation
Word count: 100

I was enjoying the view, sitting in the Little Lemon Coffee Shop, a bistro (ish) phenom in our city library, when I heard three electronic beeps.

The doors opened. Someone said her name. I saw her floating toward me with that hypnotizing, toothy, Cheshire cat smile.

I lifted my sax and played my feelings. We were in heaven. I felt privileged in the presence of musical royalty.

Then I heard three more beeps, and she sang, “Double shot Americano and cinnamon croissant, for Mister Bill.”

I thought, Death is calling me but I’m not leaving this dream before she does.

Look both ways for the music of a lifetime.
Mind the gaps and cap the lies.
We all have our story to tell.

Carly Simon lost both sisters, Jo and Lucy, to cancer in the same week this past October. Click on them to read more 100-word marvels.

 

Four magnificent minutes of beautiful music.

Monday’s Rune: The final week

Why so Happy?

As Hanukkah ends
Kwanzaa begins, and it is boxing day in Canada.
Because yesterday over two billion enlightened
of the eight billion humans alive
decide a religious thing and dispute
coffee cups and well wishes,
which must be specifically selfish.

It’s also the climaxing week of
collegiate football bowls
so schools can decide who to fire
or to obscenely overpay with locked down
contracts having nothing to do
with anything educational (or successful)
except that we are better than you—
more near neurotic selfishness. Yay,
we’re number one (so what?).

But it is serious business
for calendars. The end of another
elliptical orbital trip around the
minor star we call Sun,
and another 365 days bite the dust.

In the meantime, libraries close,
school music programs falter
or are cancelled to reduce cost,
and art blows in the wind.
Happy holidays. Congratulations,
it’s a wonderful life, Mister Potter.

Look both ways except this week.
For twenty-twenty-two, it’s over.
Mind the gaps for “what have we done?”

Now that is art.

Sammie’s Weekender #291 (acrimony)

Click this graphic for Sammi’s blog page and more acrimonious writing,

Maniacal Mordancy

How does it happen?
Love never dies.
It changes,
and perhaps it fades and dwindles
away. That’s life.

But when it is replaced
by acrimony,
what happened?

Was it greed, lies, cheating,
unfaithfulness, or disloyalty?

Did it happen suddenly
or was it a gradual cancerous growth?
When does letting go
cease to be an option?

Look both ways to see the mystery of human nature.
Mind the gaps for secrets and hidden bones of historical scandal.

 

Who sent out these wedding invitations?