Mail men: leather bags, caps, big shoes;
they walked onto front porches,
with letters, bills, or draft notices—
seldom junk.
Now she rides fast. Much junk. No letters
or conscription notices.
Forever stamps may be exactly so.
Look both ways and pine for the past.
Amazon may own your soul or make your day.
Mind the gaps as you fondly recall the memory.
(The irony is that the USPS sends us an email each day alerting of the coming snail mail.)
The queen of Friday Fictioneering and purple lane swimming, the lovely Rochelle, has dealt us a prompt photo from the most awesome Liz Young. With an abundance of humor and joking around, the Queen and her King are chiding us into dealing from our own deck to call or raise a story in fewer than 101 words (beginning, middle, and end).
If you want in on the game, a seat is always open for you. Just shuffle on over to Rochelle’s blog by clicking on Liz’s pic. There you will be cut in on the rules according to her Hoyle-ness, and you may drop your ace story with ours in the inlinkz pot using any ante, wager, or whatever photo pleases you.
Genre: Memoir
Title: Funny Dad
Word Count: 100
***
Astrid owned the store. I dropped my stuff on a table then went to order.
Her father walked over and told me an Aggie joke.
I glared at him, “Should I laugh now?”
He spewed more insulting chaff. I scowled, “That’s dumber than the first!”
He paid for my order. I insisted she take my money. She refused. Astrid had no choice.
Then he said, “Student loan forgiveness is buying votes.” I dropped my items in the trash and said, “My vote’s not for sale. Don’t quit your day job.”
I haven’t returned. It wasn’t her fault. Dad’s a dick.
***
Look both ways because none of us choose our parents.
Mind the gaps because our DNA is 99% the same as monkeys.
Sometimes we can tell.
Acme Technology
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.
Just a little poke
Lying on the Cath Lab table, oxygen
up my nose, needles in my everywhere,
nurses and technicians asking questions.
Technology all around.
It’s like a Federation starship sickbay,
or a Starbase infirmary
with many more actors vying for a role
and space at my table.
There are two main characters. The protagonists are
the Chief Medical Officer and me.
Other smart young wonders,
called residents, watch.
Also, a consulting rep from
the manufacturer of my shiny new transcatheter aortic heart valve,
to be snaked into place and magically,
guided, angiographically trough my veins and arteries,
and into my beating heart, which will soon almost stop,
scaring all except unconscious me,
to replace the defective OEM part.
They all look alike in masks and caps. I’m naked on a procedure table,
surrounded by X-ray machines, big screen monitors,
procedure carts, lights, and computer workstations.
In some other room nearby, more medical miracle role players
wave from behind large windows. I needed a Playbill.
No TV doctor medicine-show drama. Okay, maybe a little,
but two days later I am home and ready to rock.
Ya gotta love modern medical science.
Look both ways and ask lots of questions.
Mind the gaps for diagnoses and prognoses.
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.
Happy Hanukkah everyone.
The eight-day Jewish festival, which began at nightfall yesterday, is also known as the festival of lights, or the Feast of Dedication. It commemorates the recovery of Jerusalem and rededication of the Second Temple at the beginning of the Maccabean revolt.
As a child growing up in a relatively “strict” Roman Catholic family, I recall all the “Christmas” cards we received during December. Mom used them to decorate our home. I recall many of the cards wishing us Happy Holidays and Happy Hanukkah. This was from the late 1940’s through the 1960s.
While I attended a Catholic parochial elementary school, I also recall saying “Happy Hanukkah” and playing with dreidels (or similar toys). A dreidel is a four-sided top bearing Hebrew letters. I ate some Jewish foods (year-round) and drank sweet kosher wine, but I did not learn the full meanings and traditions until years later.
When my children were growing up, they (and we) had Jewish family friends. During the holiday season one Jewish friend went to our children’s public schools and explained the Hanukkah festival. During the eight-day festival, my children spent many evenings at their friend’s home learning about Jewish traditions, eating the special foods, and participating in lighting the nine light menorahs (Chanukiah).
While Hanukkah is a minor Jewish religious holiday, for me it is full of happy (and a few sad) memories, and I ponder the possibilities. One more time, Happy Everything, Everyone.
Look both ways to learn the stories our friends and neighbors have to share.
Mind the gaps because no two are exactly alike.
The Last October Night
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.
But this Halloween tragedy was way over the top.
Saturday Morning Doctor
Monday or Tuesday is
the time to be sick.
Those same days are best
for having hospital
admitted surgeries.
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.”
Urgent? Right.
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.
My favorite doctor song.
Coincidentally, this is the second 44-word poem I have written this week. The other was for the dVerse quadrille challenge. Maybe it’s an omen.
Mom & Me
Mother always pointed out my difficult side;
that contrarian in me, not the exact opposite of good,
more like one who disobeyed, who pushed back,
because I saw life through my own eyes.
Today, I both regret and rejoice my
yin and yang personality.
Look at yourself both ways.
You may not be who you think you are.
Mind the gaps while searching for self.
While I enjoy this musical duet, I am struck by the irony.
No Quid Pro Quo
I have nothing at all to sell.
Or to trade.
I walk alone because
we must.
It’s just me
with my own thoughts,
maybe music or a book,
as I deal with some pain.
A good thing,
claim my many doctors.
Not the pain—the dealing with it.
I like the thought of it—alone time,
but it’s not. Not really.
The Universe, also not for sale,
is with me. Always with us.
I call it being alone
because it makes me feel good,
but I know
I am never totally on my own,
without a piece of eternity
talking some quid pro quo.
Look both ways when dealing, feeling, or logrolling.
Mind the gaps between your steps and use the poles lest you fall and break your nose.
An oldie and a goodie from Mr. Poe.
Our Literary Journey 