Friday Fictioneers for March 25th, 2022

Our Friday Fictioneers Mistress Rochelle has conjured up an inspirational prompt photo of her own, which sent my muse back to the beginning of it all. My story follows Rochelle’s picture.

Click on the photo prompt (© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields) for a magic carpet ride to Rochelle’s purple palace.

 

Genre: Travel Fiction
Title: You Again?
Word Count: 100

***

I saw the snake, backed away, and warned Sarff.

“Is it poisonous?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

A feminine voice said, “I’m not poisonous.”

Sarff said, “A talking snake. How cool. What’s your name?”

“I’m Petra. You’ll be okay. Just watch your step.”

I said, “Snakes can’t talk. It’s a trick.”

“You’re such a skeptic, Ormr. Read the Bible,” said Sarff.

Petra said, “The pomegranates at the top of the hill are yummy this time of year.”

As we climbed up. Sarff said, “Thanks. I love pomegranates.”

I said, “It’s forbidden to eat the fruit here.” They laughed at me.

Look both ways when reading fact or fiction.
Mind the gaps for hidden serpents.

Click on the pomegranate bush to read more inspired stories.

Monday’s Rune: War Poetry

But First

To balance my blogosphere life, I shall henceforth post my unprompted poems (or prose), called runes, on Mondays (formerly Thursday) so I can plan to post about every other day.

I claim King’s X for April because I hope to be working my way through 30 poems in 30 days with National (Global) Poetry Writing Month (napowrimo.net). I try to write to the daily prompts/assignments (it’s optional, I’m not that masochistic).

Thus, I shall post every day in April. When possible, I will combine or do a second post on Friday Fictioneers and Sammi’s Weekender. I will also try to read and comment on those challenges when I can.

Why Can’t We Be Friends?

What is the difference between
genocide, slavery, life,
and freedom?

It’s war. Granted. War is bad.
It’s literally hell on Earth.
Innocents and soldiers are killed.
War’s destruction is
without logic or proportion.

But pacifism is worse.
Evil cannot be appeased.
War is the symptom.
Humanity is the cause.
Hate is the disease.

Choose well but take a side.
Peace is a dream guarded
by nightmares. History proves
we always get the war we want.
There may be no winners in war,
but there are losers. I’d rather not.

Look both ways in the real world.
We must always fight for what is right.
Mind the gaps for seeds of hate and find the first casualty of war: truth.

 

Sheri’s Alliterative Challenge

Author Sheri J. Kennedy is hosting a writing challenge she calls “Alliterative Literature Plotted Prose and Poetry Challenge.” I call it alliteration on a double dose of steroids. She is taking submissions through April 10th, 2022.

If you would like to test your skills click here or use the link below for Sheri’s blog (Reality With a Twist) with the composition rules, submission instructions, and Sheri’s example.

My entry is posted below. While challenging my story telling ability, my vocabulary, and my overall mental acuity, I found writing this to be fun and educational. You have about three weeks, so why not give it a try?

Benevolent Bedlam

Bronco buster, Bret Butler and his beautiful brunette bride, bonnie Bamby Buttercup, bebopped into the Bohica Brothers Barrelhouse and Brewpub brandishing boo-coo bucks to buy beer, bratwurst, and beans.

They bantered with the blond bimbo barmaid Brenda Bobbitt before her bashful barback boyfriend, Buck Bukowski (brilliant but a bit of a boor), butted-in with bragging babble about Bret’s bright blondish brew. Bebop blared on the boom box.

Bamby bought brandy but Bret brabbled and briskly begged Brenda to bring boosted bitters of basic brown or beclouded brews for his blooming belly, blessedly beseeching her to bear with him and bide his bleak befuddlement. Bret could be a bit of a bullheaded brute.

Brenda beamed back at Bret’s bargaining blast and brought him bottles of black booze. Bret belted back the boss beer. Buck begot barley-broo from behind the billet. Before bada-bing bested bada-boom, the blasted boys were buzzed and boasting bushels of blarney.

Bamby briskly beseeched her bae to bring back a brindled bundle from the boot of the Buick. Bret brought her brand-new babushka, beholding his brazen brilliance. Then all blazes broke out blunting the barroom bliss.

Buck boasted about Bamby’s bodacious breasts baffling a befuddled Bret and betraying Brenda. Briefly, Bret was bar borne and bounced bedeviled upon Buck and began bashing and beating his brains while bumping Brenda’s bodice. Beaten Buck became befogged by Bret’s bustling brawl and bummer blowout. Bret and Buck bled. Before long, the blotto bestial barbarians were befouled and besmeared with blood.

Bret brooded about Bamby’s besmirched beauty and his babe’s big as buckets bosoms. Buck brandished a borrowed Baretta, but Bret bullied him badly by bashing his bean with a board. By and by, Bret’s biscuit was buttered, and Buck’s bacon was baked and boiled. Both bemoaned the bustle as the Beatles blasted Bad Boy in the background.

The boxing bickering buddies became Bamby and Brenda’s bane. Bedimmed and befogged, Brenda bitched and barked barbs about the bamboozled buffoons so their breathless ballyhoo could be belayed. Bamby bargained with the boneheaded, broken, badass boys.

The beginning bourne bombed because the bloke and beau butthead’s blatant boisterousness brought bandy bromides, blank bywords, and behests before breaking off the boxing bout. Bewitched, bombastic, and bedaubed, Bret and Buck broke bottles on bones before breaking up the brouhaha. The brainless bumpkins backed their bodies off, bearing beaming blue blisters.

Now buffoon Bret bowed to benighted Buck. Brandy berated Bret to begone. Betrayed, they booked as Buck breathed, being borderline bitterly batshit and buggered. Brenda beheld Buck as a binger of a bacchanalia. By and by, byes were blabbed and broadcast by all. Brandy and Bret bolted for their bus. Blowsy and bursting, Buck blubbered, babbled, and bawled as Brenda bickered, bayed, and bellowed.

(by Bill Reynolds)

And this is the link to her blog: https://realitywithatwistbooks.wordpress.com/2022/02/25/alliterative-literature-plotted-prose-and-poetry-challenge/

****

A glossary is unnecessary for submission, but since I used some unusual words, I am adding one here.

Glossary: referenced from merriam-webster.com, or as cited

babushka: triangular head covering, scarf
bacchanalia: Roman festival, an orgy.
bae (ˈbā): slang acronym, before anyone else; baby, babe, or sweetheart
bandy: to discuss banteringly
barbed: pointed, biting criticism
barley-broo: whiskey (also, barley-bree)
bedaubed: ornamented with vulgar excess
belayed: stopped, to cancel
benighted: a state of intellectual, moral, or social darkness
bide: to tolerate, withstand
billet: a chunk piece of wood (synonym for bar)
binger: a drunken revel, excessive – compulsive
Bobbitt: alludes to Lorena Bobbitt
bohica: (slang; Google, Wikipedia, urban dictionary; ‘Bend Over, Here It Comes Again’)
boo-coo: much (Google, military slang)
bourne: a goal or destination (synonym – plan)
brabble: squabble
bromides: tiresome person, a bore
brouhaha: uproar, hubbub
Bukowski: alludes to Charles
bywords: epithet (disparaging, abusive word)

Friday Fictioneers for March 18th, 2022

Throughout history, Anonymous has produced some of the best known and loved poetry, art, crime, and mystery. Also, cadavers (aka, John Doe) and AA members.

I’ve considered publishing my next book (also my first) under the Anonymous nom de plume to benefit from his/her/their great success and notoriety. Sometimes, events in my life made me want to be that person: Anonymous.

Today, Her Royal Craftiness, The Princess of Prevarication, Mistress of History, and Duchess of the Storied Squares, Madame Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has teamed with the formerly unknown, but now revealed, Brenda Cox, photo contributor to tempt us into the gated domain of Friday Fictioneers story telling.

Click the pic for a fantasy ride to Rochelle’s castle to learn how to play by her rules. Can you tell your story in one hundred words or fewer? Try it if you dare.

Prompt photo by Brenda Cox. One click away from the Rochelle’s purple world.

Genre: Dark Fiction
Title: My New Home
Word Count: 100

***

Vlad was my goth-looking guide into the witness protection program. As we approached the old ramshackle house I asked, “What is that horrible smell?”

“That’s cadaverine. We spray the perimeter with the ptomaine to keep people away. Only harpies and vampire groupies like it. The death odor attracts buzzards but keeps cartel soldiers, nosey lawmen, and reporters away. You’ll get used to it.”

When I opened the gate, I was struck by the sweet odors of hyacinth and incense. I saw the casket and glared at Vlad.

“Appearances. Protecting people like you is dangerous. Living quarters are underground. Welcome home.”

Look both ways.
Be alert doing good or evil.
Mind the gaps for major life changes.

***

The vampire mansion is a hotlink to inlinkz and more mico-fiction stories.

Sammi’s Weekender #252 (purport)

Click the graphic to be portered to Sammi’s blog for more great poems and prose.

 

Adverbial Alliteration

Advisedly, we’re normally explanatorily told not to
write clichéd adverbial conquests, but to eschew such modifications
faithfully as frivolously fast fingers freely flow creatively composing
craftily constructed compositions, purportedly passing on poorly
penned prepositional phrases padded with mystery.

Reality rudely reeks seeking adjunct, conjunct, disjunct, or just plain junk.
To prepare perfectly pedestrian, speciously deceptive poems and prose,
paint in some opposition of affirmation.

Look both ways crossing artful Grammar Ave. Mind the gaps that set the traps.

Thursday’s Rune: 3/10/2022

The Whole Damn Thing

I listened to a song today
it said I want to rule the world.
How did they know?
Before you get all smug and shit,
they said you do too.
Can we both rule
the whole damn thing,
or should we each take half?

How do we do it?
Longwise, like pole to pole
or do we go top and bottom,
like bunk beds,
but with an equator?

Listen, it’s no big ass deal,
but one dumb ass will never
oversee the whole
damn thing—ever!

The very fact that
every motherfucking one of us
wants to be King of the Hill
is the very reason
none of us ever will.

Look both ways for the power that corrupts.
Mind the gaps in geography and greed.

Friday Fictioneers for March 11, 2022

Star aquatic endurance athlete and mistress of the micro-fiction, flash-splash, Friday on Wednesday, the magnifico Rochelle has paired with Lisa Fox to push a prompt for our creative muses to produce 100 words or fewer, from a genre of our choosing, and to write a story for the world to read.

Click on Lisa’s photo to fly over to Rochelle’s Purple Maze and get read-in on the top-secret life of global fictioneers. My story follows the prompt pic.

PHOTO PROMPT © Lisa Fox (click for Rochelle’s blog page)

Genre: Spy Fiction
Title: It’s a Living
Word Count: 100

***

“That’s it, Ted. The ad said five hundred a month.”

Bill pointed toward the house, “Interesting antennas. The owners are either aliens or spies. Nice metal roof though. The wooden one burned when the old lab exploded. They’ve added electrical and plumbing.”

“It needs to look like the lab’s back. We’ll piggyback with the comm towers on the house. Nobody suspects a counter intel op in an old garage slash meth kitchen.”

“I’ll go sign the lease. You call in and arrange equipment delivery for tomorrow night. Forecast thunderstorms will provide cover. Spies spying on spies. Hell, it’s a living.”

Look both ways with skeptical eyes.
Mind the gaps in all intelligence.

Click on the CIA floor logo to link up with more fun stories.

***

I need to watch this movie, don’t cha think?

Thursday’s Rune: 3 3 22

Ode to Sexy GCS

Saying it’s iconic is a trite, ubiquitous
marketing cliché to honor nouns.

Yet, certain foods deserve menu pride of place
for meaningful simplicity,

for memories, taste, and community pleasure;
for ingredient brevity, seldom seeking savory mystery.

I salivate composing a poem
to the American grilled cheese sandwich.

GCSs have been around more ‘n a hundred years,
frequent fare served at fun food venues,

including my house, where casual is key
and kiss is a simple, honorable principle.

Why many recipes? Bread, cheese, butter,
and heat. It’s American. Add more and

it’s a melt. If that’s what you want, well fine!
Let Brits have their toasties, jaffles for Aussies,

panini is Italian and bless the French
for le croque monsieur. Nice. But none of that is GCS.

Done right, fried golden crisp with a shell’s
shades of black to yellow-brown, either square or round.

Cut squares diagonally, two isosceles right triangles
for proper holding, touching, and eating (warm to hot).

And kissing if you want. See the colors and shape,
the moist but firm surface.

Pick up with clean dry fingers, opposite the
triangle’s hypotenuse, gently between two legs.

At the right-angle corner, hold it between your
index and middle fingers, and thumb, gently lift

its moist crisp oiliness to your face. Allow it
to touch, to be felt on your skin and lips.

Holding near your nose and mouth, invite
sensual fragrance to enter your nose, slide

it gently between your lips, barely touching,
before being taken into the mouth.

Gently bite it. Feel your teeth crunch through the crust
into the warm melted cheese. Chew slowly, thoroughly.

Swallow the bite while planning the next. No rush.
Eye the stack and plan your next attack.

Look both ways.
Food and sex are both pleasures.
Enjoy.
Mind the gaps, the dips, and company.
Bond with the world.

Friday Fictioneers for March 4th, 2022

Mistress Rochelle is on a twisted tantrum with tilted photos and pictures of leaning towers in the swamplands of Italy. If this photo, supplied by Anne Higa, inspires you to write a story on the straight and vertical, click on the Pisa Plaza picture to gondola over to the Maven of Purple (Rochelle) for the rules and regulations and how to post your square right over there.

My unholy semi-fib follows the photo.

Click the PHOTO PROMPT © Anne Higa to open Rochelle’s blog page.

 

Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Holy Land for Pisa
Word Count: 100

***

“Drudo, tomorrow we sail for the Holy Land.”

“Good, Gotto. I’m sick of this damn tower. The world isn’t impressed. Every tower in town leans. Merda!”

“We’ll return with holy cargo from Calvary in Jerusalem for this Square of Miracles. Pisa will be famous. The excursion is funded with riches we took from Sicily.”

“We’ll never be known for our towers, Gotto. What bounty shall make us heroes?”

Gotto grinned. “Fifty-three shiploads of dirt.”

Drudo whines, “We battle for riches. We spend blood-won bounty on shiploads of dirt for a cemetery in a swamp. The tower is a better idea.”

Look both ways.
Historical truth need not make sense.
Mind the gaps in the foundations of towers.
Fame comes as much from failure as from success.
(It could have happened like that.)

Click on Superman straightening the tower to read other creative stories.

About one year after his birth, Galileo was baptized in the Pisa Baptistry of the Square of Miracles in 1565. And yes, it is historical fact. 53 shiploads of dirt from the Hill at Calvary in Jerusalem for the cemetery.

Essay: Neither politics nor religion

I had started a different essay for this post when my wife informed me that our 43-year-old daughter asked this question. “How can these people talk so calmly about nuclear war?” Calmly? I needed to get caught up on the news. Who is calm?

As we discussed our distant past, Yolonda said, “You know, when you would go for a week of nuclear alert, I never thought much about it. It was your job. Nuclear war was simply your job.” She’s right. I was the Radar Navigator (bombardier) on a nuclear armed B-52D either at Carswell Air Force Base (AFB), Texas, or later at Andersen AFB, Guam (and at other “satellite” locations).

At that time, we were in the midst of the “Cold War.” If Russia (or any country) launched a nuclear attack against the United States, my crew would be in the air within minutes, turning north to strike pre-determined targets in the Soviet Union. Basically, WWIII.

I told her, “I know exactly what damage nuclear bombs (or missiles) can do.” For eight years, it was my profession. For one week each month, it was my life: 24/7. The concept of nuclear war was real, possible, conceivable, but even then, somehow unthinkable. We did not believe it would happen because we would retaliate in kind. That was called second strike and we had plans for a third. The strategy was called mutually assure destruction (MAD). It was real. It was then.

Through my elementary and high school years (Cuban Missile Crises), through Viet Nam, and on up until my first day of pre-flighting and “cocking” a loaded B-52, the threat of nuclear war was impressed upon me repeatedly. Doomsday was both a reality and a joke.

Today I read that Vlad P. has threatened the world with nukes if anyone interferes with his war on Ukraine. The no love lost between Russia and Ukraine goes way back, but the point is the threat. He could nuke any nation in the world—and certainly in Europe.

I’ve also read that Russia may use nukes against Ukrainian resistance. These people are fighting for their right to exist. The only thing Ukrainians want from Russia is to be left alone and to live in peace. But Russia does not care. Their excuse? The Ukrainians don’t like them. Dah?

While it would be unprecedented for nukes to be used in such a limited conflict/war, Ukraine lacks the wherewithal to assure Russia’s destruction. We, on the other hand, in conjunction with our allies could provide such assurance. I would like them all, especially Vlad P., to believe we would.

On the lighter side, in 1964 (age 18), I sat in a theater on a Strategic Air Command base, and I watched this movie (Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb). Little did I know my future would not be so funny, although I confess, I did my best to make it so.

Look both ways and take a side.
Mind the gaps between the wars and push for peace.
Morality is not a spectator sport.

These four clips from he movie are short.