Click on the window to open up into Sammi’s page and other windowisms.
The Side I Never Met
Floating through darkness
I saw a light
in the black universe, one
dot, then
I determined
it was a window.
A woman was there.
She seemed to look but not see,
her blue eyes were calm.
I sensed
honest love, like a mother.
I could see longing—expecting
in her moist eyes.
Then I saw
the window was
a mirror of reality.
She was my reflection,
able to see into my past.
She was the image of the real me.
See both ways when looking through windows or into mirrors,
especially as metaphors of life.
Mind the gaps, the cracks, the wrinkles, and the patina of age.
Everything means something.
Ted Strutz contributed a photo of shoes for this week’s #FF prompt. As she does each week, the wonderful water lady in the purple lane, Rochelle, has challenged us to write a micro-fiction story (≤100 words) and to post the same among the squares of honor.
To join us, click on Ted’s pic and walk right on over to Madam’s blog page to get all laced up on the path to a successful Friday Fictioneers career. The pay ain’t great but the benefits are awesome.
Genre: Norden Fiction
Title: Barefoot Rhapsody
Word Count: 100
***
Her mother said, “It’s time. Get your shoes on. Let’s go so you can sing them to tears.”
Angelina replied, “I’ll sing for America, Mama—mostly for Simon. I sing barefoot.
“What if you step on a nail? Have you had your tetanus shot?”
“Singing barefoot is what I do. It promotes singing, and people love it. So, please; no shoes.
Father, help me.”
Father smiles. “Angel, this is Norway. It’s January. Wear the boots. Before you take the stage, remove your socks and boots. We will be there to hear you make them cry.”
The angel wore the boots.
***
Look both ways and dress appropriately.
Mind the gaps and listen to the lady sing.
***
Singers who also often sang barefoot include Linda Ronstadt, Patti LaBelle, Bjork, Deana Carter, Kelly Clarkson, Joss Stone, Shakira, Jack Johnson, Jason Mraz, Colbie Calliat, Jewel, Krist Novoselic, Carly Simon (often but not always). If this Angelina Jordan video doesn’t make you feel something, put your shoes on and leave.
Click on the lovely Linda to barefoot on over to the links to read more stories prompted by the photo.
For a December first kickoff, Fleur Lind and the sensational Rochelle, Mistress of the Friday Fictioneers Realm, joined forces in a flowerily display of automotive genius.
Click on the pic to taxi over to Madam R’s blog page for instructions on the care and feeding of planted stories of 100 words or fewer.
Title: Advertising Inspiration
Genre: Fire Sky Fiction
Words: 100
***
It was all Christmassy in C-City.
I said, “Hey, Dewey. Let’s tow that old flatbed truck to your boutique and park it outside. You can put your potted plants on it and under the open hood. Maybe even displays or dressed mannequins in or on it. A Santa too, maybe?”
“It is not a boutique, Dad. Kind of, but not really. I don’t know if the city will allow it, but I can ask. It’s a great idea. How did you think of it?”
“When I woke up last Wednesday morning, it just came to me. Pure freakin’ magic. Right?”
***
Look both ways for ideas and plants.
Mind the gaps, steal like an artist, and bend the rules.
Click on Julie’s (Dewey to me) plants to read more aromatic #FF stories.
Photo courtesy of Fire Sky Arts, Colorado City, Texas
It is Yolonda’s birthday. To celebrate with NaPo, I am to write an index poem (me neither). I could use language from any index or invent one. It is kind of an index to parts of her life.
Yo’s Index (chronological)
Arrival in Cisco, 47; Commencement into the World, 64; Abilene Discovery 65; Blissfulness, 66; PA pronouns after laughing in the Chapel, 66; Travels of Ankara, Turkey, 67; War Hymns, Chig-gar-roo-gar-rems, Hullabaloos, Caneck! Caneck! and au revoir Air Force, 68; Hello Number One, 71; Woodville bounce-back, 72; O-1 with you (she’s back), 72; here/there/everywhere, 73; Hello Cowtown, 74; Welcome two to the gene pool, 74; Redneck Mothers, 75; Happy alert Thursday, 76; How much more of this?, 77; She was number three to stroke back Mother’s Day, 78; Goodbye Stranger, 79; Island fever, 80-82; Missed the bus, 83; Rabbit fever, 84; Rancho Swimming, 83-95; Goodbye friends, 86; Ride the Fiesta, 86-92; Shadows of darkness; 90-97; All Hell breaks loose, 96; Heaven sent, 99-01; Hell sent, 02-07; Emerald water/white sand, 12; The three mountains and it’s 50 as we, 15-17; Near Austin City Limits, 18-23.
Look both ways.
It all boils down to a book of life, which requires an index.
Mind the gaps and always remember names and places.
“Okay, but is it a poem?”
Today I was prompted to compose a love poem with three required aspects. It must name at least one flower (the Texas state flower is the bluebonnet, and they love them), contain one parenthetical statement, and have some
unusual line (like this)
breaks.
This Love
This love of ours
like bluebonnets flower
in Spring flashing brilliance
of blue, purple, white, red,
and like it knew,
maroon (if you look close)
in April then waning to green
by May. Yet,
This love of ours
thrives with
life—stronger after hard
wet Winter passes. The
flower gone
the plant lives like
our love. Fruitful.
Reliable. Dependable. This love of ours, like no
other’s (spreading, seen, felt)
cannot be trampled or destroyed (though some have tried).
Look both ways, forgive but do not forget,
let love be seen with eyes of envy.
Mind the gaps,
but don’t let them be more than
a seam on a garment, a patch in a road, or a lone weed in a glorious garden.
Photo by me.
Click this button for the NaPo page and more free poems.
My assignment (okay, prompt) for today was to choose a word from a list of 14, then to use that abstract noun to title a poem with short lines containing one or more invented words. I chose calm.
Calm I recall
from long ago
Dad saying
“If you don’t
stop crying
I’ll give you
something
to cry about.”
That worked
as well as
“calm down.”
He never did.
I had plenty
of reasons
to cry.
I should have
laughed.
Mom said
I was being
demonstrative;
she meant emotional
or dramatic
or histrionic,
or noncalm,
or theatratic.
Now I’m calm,
laid back,
easy going.
Boring.
Now it seems
I should inflate
my former
theatricality.
Look both ways in a world flooded with emotions, actors, and lies.
Mind the gaps trying to find the facts.
Play your role.
Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).
Today I was to write a sonnet. While allowed space regarding traditional sonnets, I was to keep with a general theme of “love.” I did not shoot for iambic pentameter, but I did manage ten syllables per line, except for the final two, which are nine and eleven, thus averaging ten. I made no attempt to rhyme.
I don’t think you understood love like me.
When I told Mom that you were a good man
Walking home after making arrangements
She balked. I understood and we agreed.
You had always been a difficult man.
With a world view no wider than the path
Of a tear rolling down my cheek or hers.
Coalminer tough and Irishman drunk.
Your mother died when you were only eight.
You were raised by a strict Scotsman father.
About him and you, you never told me.
He was your only father role model.
Now I wonder about me as a father,
And my wife as my children’s mother.
Look both ways in love and life.
Nobody is perfect and forgiveness is good.
But forgetting is optional.
*Click on the NaPo 2023 button to see the challenge and to read more poems (not all are on prompt).
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.
Click on Charlie Sheen checking his package (autographed) to get tossed over to inlinkz where you may read more wonderous stories inspired by Rochelle.
As we slip into the final third of January in the year twenty twenty-three, the queen of Wednesdays’ Rhapsody and Friday Fictioneering, Rochelle, has joined forces with one of New York’s finest writers, Na’ama Yehuda, to challenge my (and your) muse’s imagination.
They say the average speaking pace is about one-hundred words per minute. So…
Therefore, you can do this today in a New York minute by composing your own story of no more than 100 words, but as few as you like. Hang out here, but then scoot on over to Rochelle’s place, just past the pink laundromat, to clean up on all the how’s and whatnots. Just click on Na’ama’s pic and BAM! You’re there.
Genre: Bohemian Fiction
Title: Sundown Ecstasy
Word Count: 100
***
There was a secret room hidden behind the clothes hanging in her closet. It’s where she went to do things she would never confess—her happy place, an escape from reality. She hid things there: old toys, memories, and sad things. Some day they would find more in her room.
One day, caught in a landslide, she’d had enough of his abuse.
She told them he had washed his clothes, packed, and then left with his gun and girlfriend in his old pick-up truck.
She was happy to know that he was now in a better place. So was she.
***
Look both ways for thunderbolts and lightning—very, very frightening.
Mind the gaps and ask, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”
Click on Freddy’s pic to read more outstanding Friday Fiction.
And if you have not figure it out —- but this is a cute family (The Petersens) with a different vibe.
Click the Script graphic for Sammi’s page and more writings.
So, Tell Me
I want to know you. The real, secret you.
I want to read your mind’s script.
Show me your play list. Who do you love?
What about friends? What’s your deal?
I want to know what you do in private
and tell no one. What was your childhood like?
When did you decide to be you?
Who do you hate? What was
your relationship with your parents?
Do you swear? Ever been sexually molested?
How many sex partners do you have?
Tell me your favorite everything.
I’d ask you what you think of me,
but that’s none of my business.
Look both ways at people.
It’s okay to wonder and to imagine.
But mind the gaps.
Not everything makes sense or is what you expect it to be.
Our Literary Journey 