Family

Friday Fictioneers for February 24th, 2023

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!

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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.

Friday Fictioneers for January 20th, 2023

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda

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.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #294 (script)

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.

Sammie’s Weekender #293 (preposterous)

Click here for more preposterous writings linked at Sammi’s blog page.

 

 

Dear Danny,

Here’s the thing, man.

It probably seems pathetically preposterous
to a person such as your profoundly proud self,
but at least pretend to listen.

Don’t worry.

I understand.

You cannot validate me.
You are not me, nor I you.
You’re right about that part.
but I’m more you than you’d think,
in a darkly nonspecific way.

See how silly and sad that is?

You despise me for breathing
——- and for being right.

Look both ways as you try to understand people.
All the same, yet different.
Mind the gaps to help keep communication civil.

 

Monday’s Rune: Hanukkah or Chanukah?

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.

 

Monday’s Rune: Halloween

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.

Friday Fictioneers for October 28th, 2022

“You may see this again,” our dear and fabulous mistress, Rochelle, forewarned me. For the final October Friday Fictioneers photo prompt, which corresponds with Halloween weekend. She has cast a photographic spell of what I’ve referred to as “Uncle Billy’s Phish Camp.”

Click on the photo to be trailered over to Rochelle’s purple blog camp and stake your claim after gettin’ all learnt up on how-to and the wherefores of pitching your own flash or micro story.

Click this pic to be taken captive at Rochelle’s blog page.

 

Genre: Pastiche Fiction
Title: Hippie Hollow Hill
Word Count: 100

***

 

When I drove up, I noticed what looked like a homeless campsite, population two. It had a Texas style Phish Donuts flag, a teardrop camper, guitar, and some random wires.

As I walked toward the site, I noticed Julie setting up an easel and blank canvas.

She sang, “Come here, Dad, sit and have a cigar.”

“This is band-tastic, baby girl. We love y’all, most sincere. Where’s Billy?”

“Hell, he’s talkin’ to the pink monster. This is the life, Dad — music, art, sunshine, and a knockout view. We’re so happy we cannot count. We call it riding the gravy train.”

***

Look both ways and try it all.
It’s your life. Live it any damn way you please.
But mind the gaps and tent stakes.
Consequences follow everything.

 

Gloss: pastiche is a work of art (literature, in this case) that imitates the work of other artists. Unlike parody, pastiche pays homage to the work it imitates, rather than mocking it. In this case, the Pink Floyd (Roger Waters) song “Have a Cigar,” (click for lyrics) which, ironically, is a parody of a record company executive. Billy and Julie are my children, and the prompt photo is of Billy’s campsite located on Julie’s West-Texas ranch.

Click on this pic of my characters, Billy and Julie, to link up with other stories based upon the prompt photo.

 

The man and his guitar playing and singing by the lake.

And finally, the pastiche song as covered by the band, Elephant Revival. If the YouTube does not work, try this hyperlink.

Sammi’s Weekender #282 (opposite)

Click on Sammi’s graphic to link up with her page for more 44-word poetry or prose.

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.

 

Monday’s Rune: The Value of Time

 

When Dad’s a Dick

I returned to your place of business, like I said I would.
A clown-man there told two jokes. At first,
I glared at him to the silent end. The other
I interrupted so I could give you my coffee order.
I allowed him to finish. I again stared
before telling him his joke was unfunny and that his
comedic skills were woefully lacking behind his
overflowing obnoxiousness. Was he your father?

You would not take my money. He paid.
I sat quietly, typed my poem, drank the
Americano and chewed the muffin.
Now I wish I hadn’t. You
did not look at me or say another word. Then,
you left.

Sorry. Henceforth, the city library
has much more to offer and
better silence, too. No jokes.
Is Divinely Beautiful your real name?
Tell your father that my low opinion
of him has declined and my vote
is not for sale.

No apology necessary.

Look both ways but think on your feet.
Mind the gaps of silence when the wind passes.

Expect the unexpected, they say. How?

 

Monday’s Rune: On Labor Day 2022

Let Me Clarify

They were not smart or rich. Some might write. Few to none finished school. In many ways they were all slaves.

The children, the men, and the women were trying to survive, to make it through the night.

No great athletes, not a genius among them. The company was the enemy. The boss.

I think of them on Labor Day. About my dad, the filthy coal miner, who swore I’d never work in the mines.

He was right.

When the mines shut down, he was lucky to find any job. He was a plumber’s helper. He mowed lawns and dug sewer ditches. Finally, as a nurse’s aide for the same pay I got as a teenage knucklehead, for my summer job, as a gardener’s assistant, he worked until it was finished.

Mom was a cleaner of footwear in a shoe factory. She had to take two early morning buses and often walked home. Her hands were always dirty and stained from cleaning factory shoes. Sucky work.

I never did piece work, nor had black lung, but at a young age I knew all about both.

Labor Day! I love it, but the more I think about it, and the more I learn about the labor movement, the more pissed off I get.

Wars and soldiers did not build this country. The rich damn sure didn’t. Cowboys (not the jerks in Dallas) and labor did. Workers built America.

Damn it!

“No gods, no masters.”

Look both ways and try to understand.
All workers and all labor around the world are brothers and sisters.
Mind the gaps and may we treat them well. Welcome to America.