For the first Friday (or is it Wednesday?) of this November in the year twenty-twenty-two, our Princes of Purple Passion and fantastic facilitator of fictioneers, her regal wonderfulness, Rochelle, has drawn and dealt to us a photo by Brenda Cox with which we are to stimulate our personal fictional muses to compose, each of their own, a story and all its parts within the lane lines of one-hundred words.
To check the map and find your way, click on Brenda’s pic for a ride into the center of Rochelle’s blog, where growing-up is optional and all the whys and wherefores a laid down. The first story of the week sets the example.
Genre: Clutch Fiction
Title: Run, Rabbit, Run
Word Count: 100
After killing the eighty-year-old PM, two morons, graduates of the Come and Take It Academy of Finer Creative Conspiracies, ran to the getaway car.
Louie said, “Great green color, Shell. Easy to find. You are smart.”
“I’m Shellby, Louie. Pass me the car key.”
Louie handed Shellby the key. The doors were locked. “Where’s the clicker thing?”
“Just use the key in the door handle.” When both doors were unlocked, they bumped heads getting in.”
“Uh oh, man. Unless you know how to drive a stick shift, we got a big problem. They didn’t teach clutching use at the academy.”
Look both ways.
As they say, see and be seen.
Mind the gaps and plan well for your great escape.
I cannot think of an escape without recalling this movie.
Last night, as I sat with my extended family, a mixture of baby boomers, Gen X’s, and Millennials, we spoke of haunting experiences: fear intentionally endured for fun. Few of us said we wanted to repeat those ‘fun’ occasions. They were things that fell into the it seemed like a good idea at the time category, but now we wished we hadn’t risked them.
We have learned that Halloween can be fun and scary without doing long term psychological damage. What adrenalin rush is worth the walk into nightmarish darkness? I recall the fun: the costumes, the parties, the doors to knock on, the treats, the stories, and the songs we made up and sang. We were having fun. But when scared, boy did we run!
I recall winning a Halloween party costume contest as an adult. I was not in the best costume. Was I given an honor for courage? Was humor involved? Did my green legs catch the judges’ eyes? No one fears a giant tomato.
What I like about Halloween is that I owe no one anything for it. It has a strange history and a life of its own with unique childish traditions. It is when it is, on the last day of October, followed immediately by November. Halloween has as many bizarre religious undertones as it does silly religious rejections.
With nods to the goths and the goolies, to the vampires and fried eggs, to the ubiquitous hobos and fun folks in clever, challenging outfits, I like Halloween and I know I’m in good, scary, company.
Look both ways on those dark October nights.
Mind the gaps where memories of youth dance and sing because it is time for all of that.
“You may see this again,” our dear and fabulous mistress, Rochelle, forewarned me. For the final October Friday Fictioneers photo prompt, which corresponds with Halloween weekend. She has cast a photographic spell of what I’ve referred to as “Uncle Billy’s Phish Camp.”
Click on the photo to be trailered over to Rochelle’s purple blog camp and stake your claim after gettin’ all learnt up on how-to and the wherefores of pitching your own flash or micro story.
Genre: Pastiche Fiction
Title: Hippie Hollow Hill
Word Count: 100
When I drove up, I noticed what looked like a homeless campsite, population two. It had a Texas style Phish Donuts flag, a teardrop camper, guitar, and some random wires.
As I walked toward the site, I noticed Julie setting up an easel and blank canvas.
She sang, “Come here, Dad, sit and have a cigar.”
“This is band-tastic, baby girl. We love y’all, most sincere. Where’s Billy?”
“Hell, he’s talkin’ to the pink monster. This is the life, Dad — music, art, sunshine, and a knockout view. We’re so happy we cannot count. We call it riding the gravy train.”
Look both ways and try it all.
It’s your life. Live it any damn way you please.
But mind the gaps and tent stakes.
Consequences follow everything.
Gloss: pastiche is a work of art (literature, in this case) that imitates the work of other artists. Unlike parody, pastiche pays homage to the work it imitates, rather than mocking it. In this case, the Pink Floyd (Roger Waters) song “Have a Cigar,” (click for lyrics) which, ironically, is a parody of a record company executive. Billy and Julie are my children, and the prompt photo is of Billy’s campsite located on Julie’s West-Texas ranch.
And finally, the pastiche song as covered by the band, Elephant Revival. If the YouTube does not work, try this hyperlink.
Monday or Tuesday is
the time to be sick.
Those same days are best
for having hospital
Weekend emergency rooms can
get crowded and are often
staffed for far fewer sick people
but what are you gunna do?
Friday night I knew. Damn!
Saturday morning I was
off to an urgent care clinic,
a relatively new ubiquitous
phenomenon in the health care business,
because I was not sick enough
for an ER, and no routine
doctor care would be available
until Monday, if then.
The nice, large, waiting room had maybe
five people, not all patients,
queued up as walk-ins,
first come, first served, maybe.
“Have a seat, Mister Bill. Someone
will be with you in about three hours.”
I read, wrote, and people watched.
Moms with kids had long waits too.
A lady using a walker was whining
and moaning, kind of lost.
But she was soon packed off to an ER by EMS.
It was a classic civilian version
of hurry up and wait. Yet,
I confess to enjoying the sights,
people watching, and the quiet reading time.
Three hours later
I was off to pick up a script.
Look both ways on weekends for doctors at the beach.
Mind the gaps when you clean-catch into the cup.
This week our magical Mistress Rochelle pulled a mare’s nest from order to muddle my muse and trigger my call to organization.
Texans might say I’ve been feeling puny (ill) for a few days, so I was uninspired until today (Friday – imagine that).
It’s all Rochelle this week as she scattered a photo of her own randomly into the blogosphere. If you think you’d like to push a stormy story of fewer than 101 words, find your way to join the free-for-all by clicking on her photo and seeking order at her purple patterned blog page. Click >here< to read other chaotic stories.
Genre: Therapeutic Fiction
Title: Bollix Minds Word Count: 100
Why did you bring me here?
I wanted you to see this metaphor for your mind.
Ridiculous. I’m neat. I hang-up clothes, organize socks, and straighten art. My OCD would organize this fast.
Bill, you were arrested for tampering with a murder investigation. The judge ordered counseling as part of your plea deal.
I simply organized and cleaned up blood. The detectives got upset.
This chaos is how you see the world. Do you understand?
Not true. I do have leads on jobs.
Tell me more.
Stores want me to follow customers around and straighten things up after they pass.
Look both ways for all sorts of metaphors.
Mind the gaps and try to understand, things will never be perfect.
This musical bit (If the youtube will not play for you, try this imbedded link.) brought a chuckle to my mind and almost a bit of relating to the song.
I wrote this silly, nonsensical poem for the dVerse Quadrille #162 – “For whom the bell tolls” (a 44-word poem) where any meaning or form of the word bell was to be included. Clickhereto find more awesomely ringing poetry.
removes reaper fear.
Play more cowbell.
Cure your Oyster.
This poem needs more cowbell.
Walken wanders and wonders,
Is there more cowbell out there?
Play the saw or rub your washboard,
a cowbell makes music from hell—
needs more cowbell!
Look both ways when you hear a cowbell because you are not the bull.
Mind the gaps to beat the raps.
Some skits and actors shall live forever.
The cowbell skit from SNL that took a life of its own. Since my previous link did not work outside of the USA, maybe this one will.