I coon hunted once. The County Judge picked me up about dark. I’da never found ‘em at night. The dogs cost more than their pickup trucks. Coon huntin’ is at night. There’s no shooting—no hunting by humans at all. Dogs ride in truck beds and jump out and take off when they park. There’s usually a fire. We smoke and maybe have a nip. The barking begins. Old Larry says, “It sounds like ol’ Blue got one treed.” The dogs come back without a racoon, and everybody heads home ‘bout midnight. That’s it!
Look both ways to those people who see things differently.
Mind the gaps. But leave the dogs and coons alone.
Our own Kansas City, major league Girl, pronounced Rochelle, who is in a league of her own, has sent us up to the nosebleed section of Royals stadium for inspiration. It’s her pic, but it’s still football (not baseball) season, for which KC will be smiling and thanking Lubbock, Texas, for sending them the likes of Patrick M. (Superbowl Champs) for many moons. May the Royals be so blessed.
This game is all about telling a complete story in fewer than 101 words (more and you strike out). Click on the stadium pic to hit a home run over at Rochelle’s blog to get her pitch. There you can be umpired on the balls and strikes of Friday Fictioneers. Let the baseball metaphors fly!
Genre: Baseball History
Title: First Base
Word Count: 100
Billy and I bummed on cheap wooden bleachers watching the Rangers. Seven bucks covered everything, including Cowtown to Arlington gas and parking.
“Dad, that lady behind me is blowing on me.”
It was hot. I looked back. A lovely young lady was fanning his neck. She smiled. I mouthed thank you.
He punched his glove, but it would take a homer to get us a ball.
“She’s trying to keep you cool. Some day you’ll appreciate such attention.”
He asked, “Do you think she likes baseball?” I looked again. She winked.
“Yep. She and your mother are both big fans.”
Look both ways when life seems like a dreary competition.
Mind the gaps. At those heights, let the ball come to you.
Lynda Lee Lyberg caught me at the dVerse bar today thinking of a poem about the mavens of music from the days of my time. While I must bow to the discipline of a mere 44 words, I will eventually make a much longer tribute to the quad of this week’s Quadrille. For today—this:
To Carly, Carole, Joni, and Linda
Music, Ladies! Making music was your life.
It’s been seventy years more
since you made your way writing, singing,
and playing for your sake and ours.
With Anticipation I’ll let Tapestry tell me When Will I Be Loved since I see Both Sides Now.
Look both ways and try, try, try to see all sides.
Mind the gaps when the beautiful ladies sing.
It’s where the love is.
Note: Maybe some young ‘uns don’t know that Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Linda Ronstadt were literal folk and rock stars for more than sixty years.
Why do clowns frown?
They’re funny being sullen and glum.
I like Eeyore. His dark humor and
saturnine persona are both spot-on.
attitude, taken too literally, can be sad,
but why be so literal? He’s not Russian,
not a nihilist. He’s just an old jackass.
Look both ways for the humor in the ridiculousness of life.
Mind the gaps, but not too closely, they can be downers, too.
I was at the self-checkout
scanning cans of stuff
searching for zucchini by weight
“a little help here”
for a friendly glitch.
It wants to know
How do I pay?
Card of course.
Push or tap?
The machine speaks advice:
“Please, take your bags.”
“Don’t forget your receipt.”
I wanted to tell the young, attractive,
and helpful (human) workers
about back in my day,
food on credit meant
the grocer or store kept your name
in a book, like a bookie,
then the annoying push-thingy machine and carbons
and you had to sign (press hard).
Do you want your carbons?
I would have bored them
with that not so long ago (true) bullshit.
So I took my stuff in plastic bags
and my receipt, and I smiled
and I thanked them by tagged name.
Two people I’d never set eyes on again.
Look both ways, AI (key word is artificial) is coming, scary or not.
Mind the gaps as some things (like legal pot) are still cash only,
but the drug dealers still allow limited time credit.
The Mistress of Friday Fictioneer micro-fiction (and non-fiction), Rochelle, has floated us a Roger Bulot picture with a bench, a bridge, a fence, a river, and a cityscape to inspire us to write our best story in fewer than 101 words. I shoot for a hundred. Some do less. Never more.
Take the risk and click on Roger’s pic to be shipped over to Rochelle’s blog where it all begins.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Green River Gary
Word Count: 100
Gary Ridgway, a middle-aged man, sat on the bench next to her. He asked her name.
“I’m Jane Sue, wanna party? Twenty-five and you get it all.”
He pulled out a Bible and started reading aloud. She rolled her eyes.
Gary said, “Let’s go to Cody’s Camp near the river. We can moonlight dance.”
Jane said, “Dancing’s extra. Time’s money. Let’s go.”
They got in his truck and drove off.
Her real name wasn’t Jane. To this day she is known as one of several Jane Doe’s. Gary sits out his life plea deal. Did he ever reach 100 murders?
Look both ways and look again and again.
Mind the gaps, it’s a dangerous world out there.
Note: Gary Leon Ridgway is The Green River Killer. He confessed to the murders of more than 70 women, and it may have been over 90. He is still alive (age 73 now), in prison in Walla Walla, Washington.
There is more than one Green River, as the CCR band can testify.
Some cite unfairness, injustices of inequality
when others are born into better but another into less.
Yet both pride and shame rise from elite or proletariat hearts,
be it random common birth, natural placement, or bad seed.
No artist must suffer a lowly soul, in pain from cursed reality or chemical dependence, haunted, as snotty critics bestow their judgement of ironic reverse snobbishness and scorn upon the cleanly washed.
Let demure honestly determine the good in all forms of art and beauty
as critical opine speaks well of all mankind. Let art stand as art.
May wonderous life arise from ashes just as bleak and evil fall from the heavens, the source of rain or shine is not the matter.
Look both ways. Is the artist the art?
Do we choose birth circumstances?
Mind the gaps but judge wisely and care deeply.
Lost in a familiar sea of grave reality, my dysfunctional heart not yet surrendered, something of which none are certain. Worry descended like a pall over my will. Sadness has taken control of my soul. Well-intentioned, high-riding key influencers are wheedling me into their delusional corner. Life, lies, and what matters: shut down before I hit the ground. I ponder death, or better, conceivably, never to have been born at all.
Look both ways, but in the end, it is just the end.
Mind the gaps of life’s traps.
Sometimes it’s your fault. Sometimes it’s not.