Click on this graphic to link over to Sammi’s blog and more loquacious 88 word wonders.
Sing It!
With a repertoire
hundreds of songs long, mostly bogarted
from other featherbeds,
(mock, yeah, -ing, yeah)—
as you plagiarize music from lesser songsters,
some people think you’re twenty other birds,
you, my constant yardbird companion,
the most loquacious of creatures
(mock-yeah-ing-yeah-bird-yeah)
mockingbird,
king of harassing selfish bullies,
the loneliest of bellowing bachelors,
master of many colored personalities
tempting ladies who want
to buy me a mockingbird,
“and if that mocking bird don’t sing”
(for a proper mocker, no such thing)
“she gonna buy me a diamond ring.”
“whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa…”
Look both ways in music and life.
Mind the gaps in the birds’ nests in the backyard bushes.
***
Certainly, one of the (if not THE) most famous of married couple duets, Mockingbird sung by Carly Simon and James Taylor. Mockingbird Lyrics & Music were originally by Inez & Charlie Foxx (Added lyrics by James Taylor).
Our mysterious and mischievous Mistress, Rochelle, passionate for the pool (she could swim circles around most of us), has bestowed upon us a Friday the 13th photo by Fleur Lind. We are to be magically inspired and motivated to write a story of fewer than 101 words (unlike Dalmatians or Arabian Nights).
To help enlighten you as you steer your story to the inlinkz squares, click on Fleur’s photo to be driven to Rochelle’s blog where it’s all mapped out for us. It’s fun. Try it. Then join the pack as we read and hopefully comment on as many stories as we like.
Genre: Narrative Poetry
Title: A Verse of Light
Word Count: 100
***
Driving, my twisted mind a malaise of anger
lost in sorrow that love controls,
I think of her and of him.
That Sting song played,
“I’m so happy that I can’t stop crying
… I’m laughing through my tears”
The blood red sky, like love. The clouds cheering,
“Something about the universe and how it’s all connected”
I saw light coming. I heard,
“Everybody’s got to leave the darkness sometime”
As I drove into the light, I felt the pain leaving me.
“I’m so happy that I can’t stop crying
I’m laughing through my tears” And the pain is gone.
***
Look both ways.
At times, let the future heal the past.
Mind the gaps, some pain remains.
Click on the crash to read other (more uplifting) stories.
I have no idea why I like this old Sting song so much.
During the year twenty-twenty-two, the lovely and wonderful Rochelle has tempted and challenged all comers with photographic inspiration. Every week, she boosted me to the writing of a one-hundred-word story. This is my fifty-second story this year: 5,200 words that might have been a brief short story, but each is a micro fictional attempt to swing fanatically for the fences.
This year’s finale provides us with one of Rochelle’s personal pictures from which we are to connect the dots and write a complete story with fewer words than compose the average parrot’s vocabulary: no more than 100.
Join the fun by clicking on the photo for a quick taxi ride over to Rochelle’s blog. There you can find all you need to know to play along. Post your story with the others on the inlinkz app.
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?”
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.
For Thanksgiving Eve this year, Boss Rochelle, our lovely, multi-talented, family oriented, and artistically gifted literary ladyship guide has gone redux to prompt us all with a pic from the awesome Brit, Sandra Crook. Sandra’s photo has many prompting options, but I was mused into a musical mood.
Click on Sandra’s photographic prompt to jump off into Rochelle’s blog page from where you may climb back up with your own story based upon whatever inspiration you received.
“Toy! Hey, Toy. What y’all doin’? Where’s that devil woman yer in lust with?”
Toy sang out, “She gone, Mick. Done left me in Spartanburg. Oh, Lawdy, Ima gunna buy a ticket till it run out of track.”
He pulled his guitar up and sang, “Gonna climb that highest mountain. Gonna jump right off. Ain’t nobody gunna know. That woman, Lawdy. What she done to me. Can’t ya see, Mick?”
I said, “Yer too stoned to climb up there. I’m sorry. We told ya she’s a black-hearted woman, man.”
Toy yelled, “Mean ol’ woman’s with Marshall. Never told me goodbye!”
***
Look both ways in love and lust.
Mind the gaps for tips, trips, and occasional slips.
Click on the Lovers Leap pic to find more stories based upon Sandra’s Photo.
My story is based on the early 70’s southern/country rock song lyrics, Can’t You See, by the Marshall Tucker Band, written by Toy Caldwell. Other allusions: Mick (Jones) from the band Foreigner (Cold as Ice) and Black-Hearted Woman by the Allman Brothers Band.
“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.
Click on this graphic to open up new prose and poetry using some viable form of literature.
Have a Cigar
Okay, boys and girls and everyone:
come close—closer—and listen to this.
The odds against us, you, or me,
being viable, of being born, of living on for years,
make it nearly impossible
to have happened at all. Statistically,
the chances that any of us exist is virtually zero.
Therefore, god or no-god,
each person living is by definition
a feckin’ miracle. Existence is miraculous.
We are, each of us, marvelous.
Let’s start acting like it.
Congratulations! Here. Have a cigar.
Look both ways and take in all that is seen.
Mind the gaps because in the game of existence,
their enormity is incomprehensible.
If you are interested, click here to read all about your chances of being.
And, finally, a bit of music: “Have a Cigar” (Pink Floyd) as covered by Elephant Revival.
To slip nicely from the end of sweet summer sweat and August’s heat into September’s pre-Labor Day weekend; her magnificence, Rochelle of the purple addiction, and Wednesday Wonder Woman, has cast a David Stewart late night photo for all to see and to be mused into a fictional tryst for Friday.
If you wish to try a fib, a lie, or you have a story to aspire, click on David’s photo, and you shall flash over to the blog of our magical mistress to learn all her secrets.
My tale grew from an effect echoed by a favorite musical afterglow. Fans of the band or the song may glean the tune from the nature of some lines I borrowed.
Genre: Musical Fan Fiction
Title: Programed to Read
Word Count: 100
***
Shimmering lights lit the shed.
Don pointed. “There’s the doorway. Step inside. Say, ‘1969.’ Another door opens to a colitas casino.”
I said, “Gambling’s legal. Why the drama?”
“Libraries are underground since books and music became illegal. Dancing to remember is forbidden.”
I did as he said. I heard happy voices. Such a lovely place with music and books. I asked the librarian, “Could I check anything out?”
She lit a candle and replied, “Such a lovely face. Relax. We are all prisoners here programmed to read. You may check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
***
Look both ways.
Saying it will not happen again doesn’t mean it won’t.
Mind the gaps for fears in the middle of the night, just to hear them say,
“Bring your alibis.”
Click on the Eagles “Hotel California” poster to zip to links for more great flash/micro fiction stories.
***
This is not the Eagles, but cred to their song by buskers Sherlock and Rodrigues. My deep apologies if this YouTube fails you, I don’t know how to tell if it’s banned in Boston, London, or Montreal.
Click this opera thingy to find links to more operatic writings
For Opera’s Sake
Poets find inspiration in
music
I do,
not opera
or classical,
Whitman did.
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
Charles Bukowski
who wrote,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”
A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
and misogynist
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
music.
Buk’s been saluted by
diversity like
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.
I’ve been
accused
of being mused by
Bukowski
and his oeuvre.
Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.
This is the poem, “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” … done operatically (a bit risqué). My apologies if this youtube does not work for you.
Our Literary Journey 