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.
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.
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.
Mid December finds the fabulous Rochelle walking the line toward us with one of Lisa Fox’s hanging out pics to plant seeds of grandiose fiction-ology in our creative minds.
If you wanna hang out with us, just click a pin on Lisa’s photo to swing over to Rochelle’s blog where all the threads and details of writing a story in very few words is explained by the Mistress of Friday Fictioneers.
Genre: Cartoon Humor
Title: Rizzo Makes His Play
Word Count: 100
***
Gonzo the Great stormed into the kitchen where Rizzo the Rat was eating while addressing 1,274 Holiday Cards to his family. “Guess what, Rizzo? Animal called. The Electric Mayhem are coming over to practice tonight.”
Rizzo mugged Gonzo and said, “Is Janice coming? I want to rat out with her if Zoot gets stoned. I mean, hubba, hubba!”
Gonzo looks at the audience, then Rizzo, “You really are a rat. These are our peeps. We don’t do that.”
“Oh, Gonzo. Every successful band needs a love triangle. A little hanky-panky never hurt. Look at Piggy. Are you gunna eat that?”
Look both ways to remember, or to forget, those great characters who formed our humor and musical genius.
Mind the gaps and the steps between the notes.
Gloss: Gonzo and Rizzo are Muppets from the television show of the same name. Rizzo first appeared in episode 418 of The Muppet Show, as one of many rats following Christopher Reeve backstage. He can be seen mugging and reacting to dialogue. He remained a scene-stealing background figure through the final season, occasionally performing with Dr. Teeth and The Electric Mayhem band.
Click the pic of Gonzo and Rizzo to read more stories mused up by Lisa’s hanging line photo.
And, of course, The Electric Mayhem doing Bohemian Rhapsody.
Rochelle, our dear dancing diva with big black boots and broken toes, has punted a Friday Fictioneers photo from Starsinclayjars to us, twice actually. Her intent is for us to score goals by netting our 100-word (or fewer) stories for mid-November. We are to look and see the picture, big or small, and then write a story from our mused inspiration. Thence, to blog post said fibs for all the world to admire and love.
Be bold and click on the boot by the bush for a fast flash over to Mistress Rochelle’s rockin’ blog to kick up some fun with micro fiction. Post your story in one of the squares thingies and jump in on others to tell them what you think, even if you don’t know who they are.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Title: Canned English
Word Count: 100
***
The young Englishman intended to stand against the obstinate, award-winning poet, and sardonic senior citizen.
“You must wear the standard green uniform, Sir, or face the boot.”
Peter glared, “Unsatisfactory. I’ve done this vapid work well-enough for twenty-two years. I want the job. Not uniforms.”
“Sir, the National Agribusiness empowered me to inform you that you are suspended. Agree to our terms, the job is still yours.”
Peter watched a bird and sipped his wine, “You’re a callow, grotesquely inadequate twit. I’d rather live in Marfa bloody Texas than work for you jackasses.”
The young man was beet-red, “Where’s Marfan?”
***
Look both ways and be true to your conscience.
Mind the gaps, especially if your day job is on the proverbial line.
English poet Peter Reading and I were born an ocean apart on the same day, 27 July 1946. He was “one of Britan’s most original and controversial poets: angry, uncompromising, gruesomely ironic, hilarious, and heartbreaking. His scathing and grotesque accounts of lives blighted by greed, meanness, ignorance, and cultural impoverishment” captured this Bokowski-lover’s mind, heart, and imagination.
He was fired for refusing to wear a uniform, lived in Marfa, Texas, for a time, and titled the book about that experience Marfan. Peter died about 11 years ago, but his attitude and poetry live on.
Click on Peter enjoying his wine and giving some twit a look. Photo is the cover portrait (by Peter Edwards) of Reading’s Collected Poems (1970-1984), Blookaxe Books Ltd, Newcastle upon Tyne.
Click this graphic to read more from Sammi’s page.
I found thalassic in Robin Devoe’s Dictionary of the Strange, Curious, & Lovely. I wrote an acrostic insult poem with more rare words from the same book. It’s Monday. I started this Saturday morning. I’m tardy.
***
Tin gods abound worldwide. Practiced prevaricators Hemipygicly half-assed witlessness, Adonized avatars in their own lost and low minds, Lardaceous lickpennies of limicolous living with Acherontic soulless evil demonic spirits, those Snollygosters comfortable within any snobocracy, Slubberdegullions of the lowest order or less, Imbruted by nature without redemption. Cacodemons with sycophants.
***
Look both ways when searching for right.
Mind the gaps for the tin gods because they disguise well.
Liquor goes down easy
and fast
and way, way too smoothly
and too often takes folks
down ruin’s road.
So why do I?
Since it makes me so queasy.
And nobody loves a drunk
not even another drunk,
okay, maybe sometimes, maybe,
but not after they grow up
or get sober
and we or they make
such an unforgivable mess
and land in such an unrecoverable funk.
It’s best to drink beer—
after eating a full meal,
with dessert and coffee
late at night,
one beer or two might be all right
for you if you’re not
Irish or German,
but then—then what?
It’s gastronomically unclear.
Wine, it seems, might be finely biblical,
if it’s tannins
don’t give you headaches,
hives, or hallucinations and
if it’s warm, cheap, and red,
because white wine
tastes like fermented kerosene,
smells it too,
so we pretend it’s good.
My dearly departed friend,
Jack, held to the standard
that all Dutch courage
must be drinkable.
Good ideas are the worst
when you’re in your cups,
those delusional wonders,
which thankfully rarely occur
except in the tank
or the boot of the hearse.
Look both ways to find the source of the lie.
Mind the growing gaps as they turn memories eternally black.
A little Tom T with his famous beer song, may he rest in peace.
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.
Our Literary Journey 