Dig It
Destined to climb
cliffs, walls, grottos,
towers, trees, and poles.
Discovering, exploring
hidey hole caves,
abandoned mines; hunters of
excitement and danger.
Excavators, trail blazers;
spelunker boys still alive want
to climb the stairs.
Come closer to me.
Look both ways.
Explore the Universe while you can.
Mind the gaps in the grottos for hidden treasure: the mysteries of the past.
I thought, he’s like Cousin Eddie.
He sat there,
smart in his mind,
middle-aged,
“right” minded,
then he asked me
(innocently enough).
“What do you do,”
he says to me,
“to keep busy?”
Busy?
Suddenly,
I had a moment!,
ya know?
Maybe
it weren’t his fault, but still.
I swallowed hard and
played nice by avoiding
my roar of revenge.
(Fuck you very much
for asking.)
I listened
as he bragged on
for hours
giving testimonial evidence
of his high holy wonderfulness,
and dogged dedication
to his personal
world of work.
I nodded and smiled. Bit my lip,
while slowly bleeding
feigned interest.
What do I do to keep busy?
For God’s sake, Bumpkin.
I waste my few remaining days
listening to friendly folks,
feeding on family fodder;
pleasingly holding my tongue,
and sitting on my hands.
Legs crossed.
I smile
like Hannibal Lecter
pondering…
mon ne pas savoir répliquer
sur le moment.
Look both ways. Dine well.
Choose friends from the menu, accept family from the stars.
Mind you, there are gaps.
Ponder politely the wellsprings of innocent idiocy and the moods of sensitive old lions.
***
Glos: In English, the title means staircase poetry. The last line translates as my not knowing how to reply at the moment. ‘Cousin Eddy’ is a character (Randy Quaid) from the National Lampoon Christmas Vacation movie. As for Hannibal, “Well, Clarice. Have the lambs stopped screaming?”
Once again, the lovely Mistress of Fiction, Rochelle, has orchestrated the launch of a photo prompt to inspire my story telling muse into a frenzy of guns and guitars, of love recalled, of romantic tension.
Click on the Bradly Harris photo to jet on over to Rochelle’s place for the big picture. My one-hundred-word micro-story, inspired by an old Abba song, follows.
Genre: Literary Fiction
Title: Better Worlds
Word Count: 100
Maria whispered, “Do you remember, Fernando, when we last stood here? That night, long ago; a night of guns and guitars, of dreams and distant drums, of freedom, love, and fear?”
“Oh, Maria. We were so young and full of life. Revolution held many promises for a better world. I deeply miss it all: the guns, cannons, and cries of our love for liberty; for our people. I miss us, then. I want to go back. To that night, to make those feelings forever.”
“No regrets, Fernando. Let’s return to that night.”
Holding hands, they took their final steps back.
Look both ways, back to that night.
Seek the love of hopeless romantics, the glamor of disco days,
and never let your memories die.
Mind the gaps while turning pages in the book of life.
***
***
Enjoy this rendition of ‘Fernando’ by Cher and Andy Garcia from the movie, Mama Mia.
Old Man Sugarfoot
At FUBAR’s bar on the Redneck Riviera, I ordered up.
“I’ll have a sarsaparilla with a dash of cherry.”
The young redhead tending bar gave me a look, “Who are you?”
“I’m Sugarfoot, Ma’am.” (Removing my hat)
(I could’ve said, “Will Rogers, Jr., Slim Pickens, or Sheb Wooley.”
She’d a remained clueless.)
I responded to her saucy look by asking,
“What’s your darkest beer?”
She said, “Shiner Bock. But try this instead.”
I agreed.
She put a glass of white-capped, watery, light-gold liquid on the bar.
I looked at Yolonda, then at the drink, at the bar tender, and back at the drink.
“Is this beer?” I asked.
With a catty smile and in a demanding tone, “Drink up old man.”
I downed the grog and slammed my glass back on the bar.
(I don’t know why men do such foolish things.)
She gave me a minute, then, “Well? What do you think, Mr. Foot?”
With my most honest, I been trick-fucked again look, I replied,
“Ma’am, I think your horse is diabetic.”
She cut me off, so we left.
Giggling as we walked out, Yolonda said, “You’re such a funny old fool. I’ll drive.”
Look both ways and across the bar. Mind the gaps and opinions of bartenders.
(Note: FUBAR is acronym for fucked up beyond all reason.)
For the first time in 2022, our dear and lovely lady, the queen of Friday Fictionalism, Mistress Rochelle has joined forces with Brenda Cox to masterfully tempt me into yet another maddening moment of muse-some, mendacious micro-storytelling.
Click on the next photo for a free taxi ride over to Rochelle’s place where you may want to get smart about writing fibs to a photographer’s photo. My sad story follows the prompt pic.
Genre: Gonzo Journalism
Title: Don’t Be Misunderstood
Word Count: 100
Cold and drunk as I might be, I stumbled into the artists den, desperately needing to pee.
Of a painting man I asked, “Where’s the restroom?” my slurred Texas accent sounded like I asked, boom-boom?
With a mean look he yelled at me, “Number ten. Boocoo dinky-dau drunk, american. Take money!”
Through a white curtain, I entered where several young ladies were sitting around laughing and pointing. One demanded money.
I got out my wallet. Then, I heard a loud crack.
Next thing I woke up, dead as you see me now, with wet pants and an empty wallet.
Look both ways in the house of the rising sun.
Mind the gaps, speak clearly, and reconsider the nearest bush.
A bonus, if you dare: —
Ginny-Ginny is Forever
I wish we were again
She, her; I, me, when
Somehow two were one,
All days and nights were special
When bedtime was large
with Daddy’s love.
I kissed her neck, repeating
Goodnight, g’night so fast, ginny-ginny
became our special time,
She’d laugh, then sleep.
Look both ways at special bonds of love,
for wanting to be better than we were,
for past moments that will never be forgotten.
Mind the gaps of imperfection in humanity.
***
“A daughter is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future.” ~ Unknown
“Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million-dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla.” ~ Jim Bishop
Happy New Year, Dewey (Julie). ~ Me
Candles in Darkness (Time to go home)
The streetlight was
outside my second-floor bedroom window,
about sixty feet away,
kiddy corner from me,
but right across from Packy’s Bar.
At night, it dimly lit my bedroom.
(I didn’t like the pull-chain single bulb
that hung from a chain in the middle of the room.)
There was another light
a block farther up on Main Street,
and another was down on Washington
where a traffic signal clicked
when it changed to another color (all night long).
It had to be late and quiet to hear.
I didn’t care.
When I pushed my bed next to the window,
I could feel and smell smoke-free night air.
I saw and heard street and sidewalk sounds,
I watched the glorious night rain,
and sometimes people who were quieter at night.
Summertime I could see bugs flying around the light
as I listened to the raucous people up at Packy’s.
The light was near enough
to work with my mind adding drama to boredom
as the nearby maple-tree limbs and leaves
silhouetted diabolical shapes and shadows.
That’s how I saw them.
Frightening then. Old friends now.
Along with rain, the streetlight showed me
falling snow or eerie fog on dark nights.
Streetlights comforted me.
Now, when I get up before sunrise, I look out
to see another lonely, bored streetlight father away
on a much quieter street with no bars (just houses with old people).
I recall the days when I looked out for the light to tell me things.
I still do.
Look both ways to see the light.
Mind the gaps, the bars, and the interesting shadows.
Watch people.
Another fine photo prompt as FF Mistress Rochelle and Darling Dale team up yet again to prompt me into some foolish fiction for the final 2021 Friday fib.
Click on Dale’s photo to flash over to Rochelle’s blog in case you want to learn more about writing to a photographer’s photo. The prompt pic and my yarn follow.
Genre: Biographical Fiction
Title: Dale’s Candid Camera
Word Count: 100
Are you sure we got the right one, Maggie? We’ll never get away with this. We’re gunna get caught. Who cops trees at Christmas time?
It’ll be fine Ralphie boy. Once we get past this hotel, we’ll have a free tree, Eh?
Who’s that?
Who is what?
That lady over there is taking our fucking picture. Quick, hide your faces. Everybody has a freaking camera these days. It’s almost enough to make me stop stealing things.
Do you think we’ll be published? Maybe she wants to make us famous.
Just keep moving and hope… Oh shit Maggie. I think that’s Dale.
Look both ways, everyone is camera ready these days.
Mind the gaps and check the trees for varmints and critters.
Smile, you’re in the blogosphere.
shameful silence
early morning sounds
soft, in silent darkness
distracted by clichéd neon din
imprisoned without art,
terrified by evil’s truth.
Look both ways to see and to say.
Mind the gaps of paranoia while seeking better days.
Inspired by S&G’s hymn to resistance, The Sound of Silence.
I admit it. Sometimes I joke about lesser folk,
about how I am grateful to them
for making me look better than I am.
We called them shit screens,
or wedges that raised everyone else up
the totem as they forced their way into
the bottom of the pile. Isn’t that awful?
I don’t know by what standard I should be judged,
nor how I should think about myself.
I just want hot coffee on cold mornings
and time to think about a full life,
or to worry about people I love,
for no specific reason except I care.
To all those whose tarnished image I have improved
when I wedged my own way down,
or screened out the shit storm on my own,
or played the bug on your windshield,
you’re most welcome,
from the bottom of my sniffy faults.
Look both ways and reflect on things like envy and greed.
Mind the gaps as dysfunction becomes the new normal.
Our Literary Journey 