Got My Six
His name was Jay.
We called him Jay Bird
due to his avian-like
looks and behavior.
Callsigns were
seldom complimentary,
like Maverick or Viper.
Jay Bird was my friend.
Look both ways in life but memories are treasures of the mind.
And mind the ever-present gaps as you connect the dots and wonder why.
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.
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.
If you’re unfamiliar with the 1991 movie, here’s a trailer to tempt you.
Mistress Rochelle has returned to her castle from her annual August quest, and she is enticing us with her own painting of shells in a glass. I kind of did a hard left leaning twisty turn on the prompt (coz TMI) to flesh out my 100-word limited story whilst weaving in some suggestive erotica, playing around, and the results of binge-watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.
My tongue-in-cheek apologies for rubbing-in an R-rated Friday Fictioneers (fantasy) story. If you think you might do better, it’s on! Click on Mistress’s fantabulous watercolour ((winks at Brits and Canucks)) to jump on my bike and wheel on over to Rochelle’s purple pleasure posts to get your ticket to ride.
Genre: Allman Erotic Fiction
Title: Polyamorous Holiday
Word count: 100
***
The lady was an artiste, a trooper. She did it all. When she climbed on behind me, I sang out.
We gotta run to keep from hidin.’ I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’.
Then she sang.
“Not gonna let ‘em catch us, Midnight Riders.”
She grabbed my crotch and yelled in my ear.
“Ten-day vaycay, Babe. Let’s go before I do you here.”
I sang.
I’ve passed the point of caring. I’ve one more silver dollar.
She squeezed hard.
We crashed.
Ten delightfully romantic days in the hospital. Each day we sang.
“Same old bed we both are sharing.”
***
Look both ways during those special summer days.
Mind the gaps unless that’s where your hand lays and stays.
***
I bogarted and messed around with the lyrics to the song. If you don’t recognize it, here goes… I shudda picked a shorter one, but hey, meh likes it.
Mistress Rochelle shuffled her photo deck and dealt us a Roger Bultot metro scene to provoke our creative juices with a New York state of mind. This one mused up too many stories for one day, in this case a pair of Ragin’ Cajuns in the Empire State. If you can gin up a microburst of fewer than 101 words, click on Roger’s pic to sky over to Rochelle’s blog and get the lay of the land. Come play with us. This is fun.
Genre: Fan Fiction
Title: Look Both Ways
Word Count: 100
***
Philippe say, “Look. Two one-way signs pointing opposite ways. That says STOP ALL WAY. We ain’t in N’Orlins no-more, bro. Nothin’ make no sense.”
I replied, “It’s New York, Bubba. See dat church fence, windows barred, that shop covers windows—tagged.”
The lady across the street walked toward us. There was a loud screech of tires—then a scream. Everyone ran.
“Call 911. Dat lady got run over.”
He called. “Shit man. WTF?”
I sez, “She was reading my blog. Walked into the street before she read my postscript.”
“How you know dat, mista Bill?”
“She didn’t look both ways.”
***
Look both ways, even on one-way streets.
Mind the gaps on sidewalks
and don’t read my blog crossing streets
if you’re in a New York State of Mind.
And then there is Billy J…. (it is a long one)
At the car wash
busy with trucks and SUVs
but few cars.
I spy a young HR lady
as she
explains personnel things
to a few male employees
who look confidently confused.
They pay “up to” twelve dollars per hour
there—
so says the help wanted sign.
It’s a hundred degrees Fahrenheit
again today, outside, at the car wash
for not enough dinero to live on.
A customer—tall skinny guy wearing
starched, ironed Wranglers with
a big wide belt holding up a bigger
shiny rodeo belt buckle, in
black cowboy boots
boasting bright diamond earrings,
under a big black felt
unairconditioned cowboy hat with
a long wallet jutting up from
his tight right back pocket
and chained to his belt,
and his big-ass cell phone in the other,
all in his stiff, creased, ironed
cowboy blue jeans while
Mansplaining to his nicely wigged
lady friend—he even told me when
my car was ready (it wasn’t)—she nodded and smiled—
people waiting for their clean and polished rides—
one rest (wash) room for all. With
a mercifully short waiting line,
I see no ‘young’ customers, but
one old man wore his ballooning
starched & ironed loud pink, long-sleeved shirt with
pearl buttons in this noisy, busy business
somewhere in the middle of Texas
where dressing to subculture
ignores realities like sun and heat
except for the guys making top
dollar, one every five minutes,
at the car wash. Plus, a tip from me
in my worn Phish tee and shorts, ball cap
and old gym shoes. My subculture.
At the car wash.
Look both ways at the car wash.
Take notes on the sights and write ‘em up: prose or poetry to get you through the day.
Mind the gaps unless you pay the upcharge for a greater job, done by hand, details.
If you’re unfamiliar with the mid-seventies song and movie, here is a youtube trailer version.
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.
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.
***
***
If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show, here is a trailer.
To test out my creative muse, Mistress Rochelle apparently worked out an international picture deal with everybody’s ever-smiling, favorite Canuck, Dale Rogerson. A summer day residential photo of the otherwise Great White North ginned up a fib about two Yanks looking about.
Click on Dale’s photo to open Rochelle’s page to read about how it’s done.
Genre: Travel Fiction
Title: Canada Wry
Word Count: 100
***
So, this is Canada, eh? Where’s all the people?
Inside. It’s too warm. Thirty don’t ya know?
That’s not warm?
Celsius. Eighty-six Fahrenheit. We’re north of North Dakota.
They use metric?
Yes and no. It depends.
What else do I need to know?
Canadians are the politest and friendliest people on Earth. They say “sorry” a lot.
That movie, One Week, made me want to move here even before 2016.
Yes. But Gunless is better. Funnier. We need to get out of here.
Why?
Dale is taking our picture. If we stay, we’ll be all over the internet by noon.
***
Look both ways because everybody has a camera these days.
Mind the gaps but be nice.
Keep your passport current and safe.
This is a trailer from the movie Gunless in case you wanna see what it’s like. I’ve not seen it, but may giver them a try.
Time would stop,
no mellowness
or ripening dead,
no ageing,
green callowness everywhere
on everyone;
sameness would be
one forever season
as it was for me
to never return home again.
Look both ways but remember that life is lived in the eternal present,
planned forward, understood backward,
and we each have a story.
Mind the gaps, and keep a nickel for the exit fee, or you may never return.
***
Sammi’s weekender (as I call it) is a word use and number/count challenge. But I am often called to music and songs by prompts, as in this case. The chorus from the song M.T.A. (or Charlie on the MTA) written in 1949, and recorded and made famous by The Kingston Trio in 1959, (one of my favorites) while unrelated to my poem, is still fun for me. If you buy a ticket today for the (now MTBA) Boston subway (if you go, ride it), it is called a CharlieCard because of this song.
“But did he ever return?
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned (poor old Charlie)
He may ride forever
‘Neath the streets of Boston
He’s the man, who never returned”
(33 words, but not my entry)
Our Friday Fictioneers Mistress Rochelle has spun up her own spinning version photo for us to spin a yarn that cottons to your imagination. But fair warning, some songs stick like wax in your ear.
Click on Rochelle’s picture to wheel on over to her blog for the finger pricking principles of our weekly 100-word (or fewer) stories.
Genre: Musical Fiction
Title: Why Women Kill
Word Count: 100
***
Stop talking in circles.
I’m not. I’m making a point. You interrupted me.
If you don’t know, just say so.
If you see something, say something.
What? That has nothing to do with it.
Spinning Wheel got to go ‘round. Ride a painted pony.
If you don’t stop this shit, I want a divorce.
Drop all your troubles by the river side, on the straight and narrow highway.
Okay, what’s your question again?
Where do you want to go for dinner? What movie do you want to see?
Let the spinning wheel spin.
(Frustrated) Fuck you. I’m out of here.
***
Look both ways on traffic circles and two-way roundabouts.
Mind the gaps when you buy mushrooms at the farmers’ market.
***
A little retro music for those who may not know the song.
Was it something I said?
Many things I’ve done and not done
which brought me much self-inflicted grief;
like transfers or removals from jobs,
I’ve sat smiling at wrong times,
adulted too young, or the drink I tasted
when I got more than a little bit wasted,
‘twas most often my spectacular speech
that others appreciated the least.
I’m gifted this flippantly waggish tongue
emitting my intently presented voice
speaking a cutting language, exposing
my cantankerously lighthearted snarkastic choice.
Look both ways when words fly like the breath of buzzards.
Mind the gaps and if your gunna do it, go all the way.
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