Human Condition

Monday’s Rune: 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 in another room more medical miracle role players
wave from behind large windows.

No TV doctor medicine-show drama. Okay, maybe a little,
but two days later I am home and ready to rock.
Ya gotta love medical science.

Look both ways and ask lots of questions.
Mind the gaps for diagnoses and prognoses.

Monday’s Rune: Not looking so good.

 

They called him Tom—not his real name.
This guy was no head-hanging Tom Dooley.
Tom liked to watch. A voyeur. A peeking peeper.
A people watcher of the lowest and riskiest form.
Yet, old Tom was submissive. Not dangerous. But who knew?

Night was his time—windows framed his fantasies.

One day Tom saw something that made him
stop peeping—almost. “Now I’ve seen everything.
My life is complete. And I need to go to confession,
but not with that priest.” Tom, confided in himself.

Then, late one warm summer night, there was a scream.
Someone else yelled.
Dogs barked.
Tom ran.
He heard a gunshot.

Maybe Tom had seen everything. But he never made it
to confession. He died doing what he loved.
What he needed.
And he died running,
just not fast enough. Peeping Tom was no more.
“And another one gone” and
“Another one bites the dust.”

Look both ways.
Exhibitionists and watchers can work together,
each according to his, her, or their wants and needs.

 

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.

Monday’s Rune: The final week

Why so Happy?

As Hanukkah ends
Kwanzaa begins, and it is boxing day in Canada.
Because yesterday over two billion enlightened
of the eight billion humans alive
decide a religious thing and dispute
coffee cups and well wishes,
which must be specifically selfish.

It’s also the climaxing week of
collegiate football bowls
so schools can decide who to fire
or to obscenely overpay with locked down
contracts having nothing to do
with anything educational (or successful)
except that we are better than you—
more near neurotic selfishness. Yay,
we’re number one (so what?).

But it is serious business
for calendars. The end of another
elliptical orbital trip around the
minor star we call Sun,
and another 365 days bite the dust.

In the meantime, libraries close,
school music programs falter
or are cancelled to reduce cost,
and art blows in the wind.
Happy holidays. Congratulations,
it’s a wonderful life, Mister Potter.

Look both ways except this week.
For twenty-twenty-two, it’s over.
Mind the gaps for “what have we done?”

Now that is art.

Sammie’s Weekender #291 (acrimony)

Click this graphic for Sammi’s blog page and more acrimonious writing,

Maniacal Mordancy

How does it happen?
Love never dies.
It changes,
and perhaps it fades and dwindles
away. That’s life.

But when it is replaced
by acrimony,
what happened?

Was it greed, lies, cheating,
unfaithfulness, or disloyalty?

Did it happen suddenly
or was it a gradual cancerous growth?
When does letting go
cease to be an option?

Look both ways to see the mystery of human nature.
Mind the gaps for secrets and hidden bones of historical scandal.

 

Who sent out these wedding invitations?

Friday Fictioneers for December 23, 2022

To welcome official northern hemisphere Winter and to punctuate the solstice, Mistress of Fictioneering, Rochelle, has teamed up with the wonderful winter scene photographer, Dale Rogerson, to inspire us to create, write, and to post stories of fewer than 101 words.

While a click on Dale’s pic gets you a sleigh ride over to Rochelle’s blog where all the fun begins, I can tell you that this is a challenging writing experience. So is going to the page of squares (inlinkz) where reading and commenting begets us the same. Do that by clicking on the below photo of Jackie O and her bane paparazzo, Ron G.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Ambivalent Vanity
Word Count: 100

***

“Ron, that’s her private property across the creek. You’re obsessed with this woman. No wonder everyone hates all paparazzi.”

While looking through his telephoto viewfinder, “People love my photos and rags pay us big bucks, Billy-boy. Celebs want it both ways — fame and fortune with pictures but hate me for taking them. Hand me my waders.”

I stayed back while he walked toward the house.

Ron came running back to the crack of gun shots. He fell into the freezing water. Then he got up, and we ran to the car. He laughed and said, “Ain’t this job fun, Billy-boy?”

***

Look both ways for a paparazzo hiding behind a bush.
These days, everyone has a camera.
Mind the gaps or just surrender to the inevitable cha-ching of notoriety.

The facts: Ron Galella, the freelance photographer who relentlessly pursued Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis until a judge barred him from taking her picture, who pestered Marlon Brando until Brando broke his jaw and detached five teeth, and who for better or worse helped define today’s boundary-challenged culture of celebrity, died on Saturday, April 30, 2022, at his home in Montville, N.J. He was 91.

Click on the photo of Jackie Onassis and photographer Ron Galella to read more excellent stories inspired by Dale’s photo. (1971 in NYC. Photo by Ron Galella/Ron Galella Collection via Getty Images)

Sammi’s Weekender #289 (engrave)

Click for Sammi’s blog and more 23-word magic.

A Lone Memory

Her face
an engraved
memory,
the cold winter night,
her aroma,
her taste,
her soft skin,
he felt
sixteen,
still in love,
again.

Look both ways, but today’s memories were conceived long ago.
Mind the gaps to be filled with feelings of love and pleasure.

A Lone Memory

Sammi’s Weekender #288 (momentous)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s page.

Bygones

He didn’t marvel at that momentous moment.
After many years, she had become sanctimonious.
It wasn’t the stupendous vision he hoped for. It was horrendous, not tremendous,
seeing her now as portentous.

Look both ways but the past was then, this is now.
Find and mind the gaps for hidden reasons for change.

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 #287 (revenge)

Click on the revenge graphic to link up with more wordsmithing posted on Sammi’s page.

Family History

Darling Dixie was a bit of a Trixie
Hubby Alexander, a known philanderer
Dixie and Al shared five bambini
More spread within the village
by Al’s wandering weenie angered Dixie.

A passionate protestant, Dixie had revenge,
a small-town version of a hidden tryst or two.

Her secret safe, Al and Dixie raised the fine lad she had.
No wiser for history,
then
came genetic testing to put an end to family mystery.

Look both ways because every saint has a past.
Mind the gaps, but regarding Ancestry, go ahead and ask.