Friday Fictioneers for December 2nd, 2022

Kicking off the twelfth month of twenty-twenty-two, artist, businesswoman, swimmer, writer, mother, wife, sister, (I could go on), and our friend and fictioneer leader, Rochelle, has provided us with a peek out from Roger Bultot’s window with his inspiring photo as a bridge to creativity.

It goes like this. We look at the picture and write whatever story (beginning, middle, & end) we want. Easy, right? It’s doesn’t even have to be pure fiction. But we must prove our micro (or flash) – (non-)fiction bone fides by trimming our stories to any number of words under 101. Try it!

The directions are simple and available on Rochelle’s blog page, reachable with a simple tap, click, or press on Roger’s picture, like it was a detonator.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Genre: Espionage Fiction
Title: Truncated Bridge
Word Count: 100
***

Looking out the window, I felt stress. Ignorance fed by fear. After this job, I’d comfortably retire. To what? Sad.

The morning sunrise lacked hope. It was threatening. A foreboding bloody sky in a randomly meaningless universe. I didn’t care. It was time.

I lit what I promised myself was my last cigarette and sat by the window as I’d done hundreds of times before. When I saw the target on the bridge, I pressed the detonator button and watched the explosion. I always hated all the collateral damage. The news would blame the old bridge. Everyone lies. Everyone dies.

***


Look both ways to find happy endings.
Mind the gaps because that’s where the bridges collapse.

 

Click on Tom Hanks in the Bridge of Spies movie to read more stories based on Roger’s photo.

And for the music lovers among us, I present the Eagles singing “Seven Bridges Road.” If it works. I suppose I took the bridges thing a bit too far.

Sammi’s Weekender #284 (rule)

Click this graphic for more words from around the world.

 

Love Matters

You suffer loss
Heart breaks,
My love means
Tears of mourning,
Our common sadness rules
Two lives.


Look both ways.
There is a time to cry and a time to laugh, a time to be sad and a time to dance.
Mind the gaps for the lessons of both sorrow and joy.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub Poetics: The good and the evil

This poem was rendered to meet today’s dVerse challenge offered by Paeansunplugged from Delhi. We are to write about the good and evil in mere mortals, the good in evil and/or the evil in good. For me, at no time is that enigma more profound than in times of war and battle.


Conundrum War

One story I’ve never told,

a confession…

if evil were evil enough,
if good were good enough,
I would simply tap a secret reservoir of courage…
but courage, too, has finite quantities,
yet it offers hope and grace to the repetitive coward.

I can’t fix my mistakes.
Once people are dead, I can’t make them undead…
killing and dying are not my special province.

Am I too good for this war?
Too smart, too compassionate, too everything?
I’m above it. It’s a mistake, maybe.


Look both ways at good and evil or take Hamlet’s advice and think it so.
Mind the gaps between and within our perceptions of what is better and what is truth.

 

Click the soldier for more good and evil poems.

Friday Fictioneers for September 23rd, 2022

For the last full day of global top-half summer, our waving but unwavering maven of history’s mysteries, Rochelle, has boxed-up a deal with Alicia Jamtaas. That duet has flat-out challenged our fictioneer muses to contrive artful `songs or stories of fewer than 101 words. I don’t think titles or postscripts count, lest she DQ’s me.

Click any box, bike, or item in Alicia’s photo and UPS will pick you up and creatively deliver you to Rochelle’s post of purple passions to open the what-ifs and where-how’s of joining the fray.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Genre: Murderous Mystery
Title: Friends in Low Places
Word Count: 100

***

“You didn’t have to shoot him, Bill.”

“His last bad joke. My gun’s in the blue-handled box.”

“Nothing’s priced. What’s up behind the curtain?”

“Porno auditions. You should try out.”

“Focus, Bill. We need that damn gun. This shooting people over jokes needs to stop.”

“It wasn’t the joke. He was an asshole and an organ donor. I made the world a better place with one shot.”

“Oh? HE was now? Okay. We’ll pick up what’s left at the morgue tomorrow. She wants a grand for the box. She must know.”

“Well, crap! Ask her if she’s an organ donor.”


Look both ways to make your world better.
Mind the gaps, especially in murder plots.
“Remember what the dormouse said, feed your head.”

Click on the man with a gun to read more boxes of fun. Was that the punch line?

Sammi’s Weekender #274 (opera)

Click this opera thingy to find links to more operatic writings

For Opera’s Sake

Poets find inspiration in
music
I do,
not opera
or classical,
Whitman did.
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
Charles Bukowski
who wrote,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”

A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
and misogynist
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
music.
Buk’s been saluted by
diversity like
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.

I’ve been
accused
of being mused by
Bukowski
and his oeuvre.


Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.

This is the poem, “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” … done operatically (a bit risqué). My apologies if this youtube does not work for you.

Friday Fictioneers for August 26th 2022

Our unrivaled and swimmingly marvelous maven and Friday Fictioneering mistress, Rochelle, has paired up with Brenda Cox to serve up a stinging photo with food, working women, and a mad mugging man to inspire us to fictionalize 100-word stories mused from the minds and memories of twisted fibbers.

If you want to get jiggy with the ways and where-how’s of this Micro-, flash-fictioning adventure, click on Brenda’s photo for a sit down at Rochelle’s blog to check the menu for rules regarding ingredients.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

 


Genre: Derivative Fiction
Title: Barbecue Stir-Fry with Tomatoes
Word Count: 100

***

Frank sat; arms crossed. “These are all women. Why’d you bring me here?”

Ruth smiled at Idgie. “They’ve excellent fried green tomatoes. The stir-fry is to die for.”

Frank mumbled, “These look like illegals. I’m calling Sheriff Smoot.”

Ruth nodded to Idgie and touched her neck.

Idgie waved her arm.

Frank felt a sharp sting. “Damnit! A bee. Give me Benadryl.”

Ruth handed him the bottle. Frank drank then collapsed. A small crowd gathered, then Frank was gone.

Idgie hugged Ruth. “Come back tomorrow, Love. We have fresh meat to barbeque.”

Ruth touched Idgie’s cheek. “I’ll always love you, Bee-charmer.”

***


Look both ways when seeking friendship and love.
Mind the gaps and take karma into account when life hands you Towanda’s rules.

This story is derived from, and inspired by, the book and movie, Fried Green Tomatoes.

Click on Idgie and Ruth at the Whistle Stop Café to truck on over and read other deep-fried stories.

If you’re unfamiliar with the 1991 movie, here’s a trailer to tempt you.

Sammi’s Weekender #272 (dazzling)

Click this pic for more dazzling 53-word wonders.

Candled Darkness

She dazzled—
blindingly brilliant.

I was humbled, dim and dull—
overwhelmed by sadness and shame.

Yet, in her glitter and gleam,
She loved my blackened heart,

kept me close, when other
men were blinded by her glare

She smiled.

Au contraire, mon amour.
Darker nights make brighter stars,
the moon shines even more.


Look both ways but listen with an open heart.
Mind the gaps for that’s where stars shine brightest.

Caption me.

Friday Fictioneers for August 5th 2022

Her Majesty, Mistress Rochelle took up with the artful British Lady, Sandra Crook, and her collection of local history castle photographic art to inspire us to fictionalize a bit of Brit history and fantasy. If we surpass Her Ladyship’s 100-word limit, we’re forgiven (fingers-crossed) but sent to the castle dungeons where a Scot vampire Count will teach us to painfully count—one number at a time.

To join with this British invasion simply point to the below photo and click, from whence you’ll magically be transported to the wonderful purple swimmingly world of Rochelle’s blog where you’ll be provided proper guidance and told how to mind your manners.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Genre: Speculative Travel Fiction
Title: Castle Horror Picture Show
Word Count: 100

***

Elizabeth tugged the wheel, “Left side. We meet up there at midnight.”

I asked, “Why join more judgmental, malcontent, freak poets?”

She pointed, “That’s our B&B. It’s a cover coven with vampire poets. Ancestry shows DNA matches.”

“You’re a hedge witch!”

“Be quiet!”

Later, I heard church bells as we walked into the ancient castle ruins.

A male voice, “Mistress Lizzy, is it? Douse them torches. Remove your clothes. Join us for sexy dungeon dancing. William must be bit.”

I felt a prick in my neck. Elizabeth laughed and danced away with a vampire named Charles. We were home free.

***


Look both ways and don’t think love conquers all.
Mind the gaps for mind control nips
and put some garlic powder on your tasty neck.

***

Click on Dr. Frank-N-Furter “if you want something visual that’s not too abysmal” and more hot lit micro-fiction “from Transylvania, ha ha.”

***

If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show, here is a trailer.

Monday’s Rune: This Bad


Hopeless is bad enough,
often said with sarcastic humor.
But helpless is feeling
a deeper truth.

We believe we can,
and maybe
for a time,
we can, and
we do. But we are
being watched.

An inevitable
universal reality
brings truth to
the rarity of existence.

Entropic inevitability,
be it a mayfly, a giant star;
you, or me, degradation
into disorganized chaos
and randomness rules.

As everything changes,
nothing ever changes.


Look both ways into the abyss of eternity.
It is the way, the only way.
Mind the gaps and appreciate the flashes of life.

Monday’s Rune: Hank’s Wine Whine


Bukowski had six cats,
a horrific history,
(eventually) a (2nd) wife, a daughter,
and hated his father,
maybe mother too.
he smoked cigarettes
and drank wine
while writing poems
until the wee hours
while
listening
to classical music.

He drove an old VW bug
and was attractively
unattractive.

Playing the horses
was more than
a gambling vice,
it was an avocation.

You say so what?
I say, you don’t know?


Look both ways when you need a poem to post on a Monday.
Mind the gaps cuz yer on yer own dude.

Henry Charles Bukowski: a “laureate of American lowlife.” Time (magazine).