Music

Friday Fictioneers for November 25th, 2022

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.

PHOTO PROMPT (redux) © Sandra Crook

Genre: Parodic Musical Fiction
Title: Toy’s Lament
Word Count: 100
***

“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.

The original song by the original band.

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.

Friday Fictioneers for September 2nd, 2022

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

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.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #274 (opera)

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.

Sammi’s Weekender #270 (jamboree)

Click this graphic to link to Sammi’s blog page and links to more 86-word works of jamboree.

Tanta Belleza

En la ciudad Mexicana de San Antonio, Texas,
Fiesta: eleven April days and nights of wild jamboree
fiestas where diversity is celebrated with parades galore,
like the Battle of the Flowers with royalty;
titled Queen of the Alamo, the Charro Queen,
King Antonio, or King El Rey Feo in his royal ugliness of medieval rivalry,
there’s a Queen of Soul, and La Reina de la Feria de las Flores,
everywhere you’ll find dancing and music, muchos happy people,
if large crowds are your taza de tequila.

Look at crowds both ways for the fun within the melee.
Mind the gaps for the light-fingered chaps.

A fun time. Take the bus. It is always packed. Click the pic if you want to know more.

Sammi’s Weekender #267 (return)

Click on the graphic to link over to Sammi’s blog page and links to more 31-word wonders.

 

 

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)

Friday Fictioneers for May 27th 2022

Brenda Cox threw in with the ever-mystical mistress of purple, Rochelle our belle, who took time from the pool to deliver this refreshingly cool love shack photo to inspire one hundred words of well mused Friday Fictionary to charm and warm all readers.

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT by © Brenda Cox to outrigger on over to Kansas City’s most swimmingly artistic native, the maven of purple, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ addicting blog.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

Genre: Twisty Memoir
Title: Escape
Word Count: 100

***

I walked up to the bar and told my lady, “I’ll have a piña colada, please.”

She smiled and said,

“If you like piña coladas
And gettin’ caught in the rain
If you’re not into yoga
If you have half a brain
If you like makin’ love at midnight
In the dunes on the cape
Then I’m the love that you’ve looked for
Let’s plan our escape.”

I replied, “I never knew. Meet me tomorrow noon, At a bar called O’Malley’s.”

Me and my old lady been on the run since then, never fallen into the same old dull routine.

***

Look both ways and love the love
of musical tunes and magical lyrics, especially 70s tunes.
Mind the gaps and put a wedge of pineapple with the rum, coconut, coco lopez,
and suck it through a fat straw.

***

Click on the 19-year-old love birds (now [27 May 1966] married 56 years) to read a bunch of other inspired stories.

***

If you’re not familiar with the piña colada song (Escape), here it is with lyrics. Hopefully, this works for everyone. Cheers, y’all.

Friday Fictioneers for May 6th, 2022

Na’ama Yehuda’s lovely flower garden picture posted by the incomparable Rochelle, mistress of pools of water and writers was both inspirational and challenging. A rose by any other name is a tulip, even on Friday Fictioneers, right?

 

Click on the flowers to get more info from Rochelle’s. The PHOTO PROMPT by © Na’ama Yehuda.

Genre: Murderous Fiction
Title: I never promised you a rose tulip garden
Words: 100

We were so much in love, hotly in lust, blindly infatuated—the perfect couple. I decided I could trust him with my biggest secrets. We just clicked.

“Hey Babe, I need to tell you one more thing.”

“Oh, Sweetheart, you can tell me anything. Without trust, there’s no us.”

“I worked as a hooker when I lived in Reno.”

“Okay, Love…that’s over now.”

“I also shot a man there just to watch him die.

“You did what? You’re a murderer? We need to get that mess cleaned up.”

“I’ll be packing tonight. Don’t worry about me leaving. I’m already gone.”

Look both ways to see that no one is perfect, everyone makes mistakes, we can only be who we are. Mind those gaps so you don’t forget that your truth may be none of my business.

***

My story was musically inspired by: (I Never Promised You A) Rose Garden by Lynn Anderson, Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash, and Already Gone (also maybe the line, And there’s some rumors going round, someone’s underground from Witchy Woman) by Eagles (sic).

Click on the flower gun to link up with more marvelous stories by the Friday Fibbers cast.

Friday Fictioneers for April 15th 2022

Once again, the lovely Rochelle, Maven of artistic fact and fiction, and Dale, ingenious photographer to the ethereal and adroit crafter of masterful tales, have conspired to extract mid-April narratives from the noggins and minds of Friday Fictioneer followers.

My song-related reportage maxed out at the 100-word limit and follows Dale’s visual. Click on the chair to write your story if you dare.

Click on the photo to ride on over to Rochelle’s page to read all about it.

Genre: Senior Gonzo Fiction
Title: Concealed Carry
Word Count: 100

***

We limped in. Kris needed his cane. The music sucked, but our old table was available. We sat and waited.

A young man approached.

He said, “You need to leave. We don’t want your kind in here. Now get out.”

I glared at him for a minute. “Two waters, coffee with cream, and menus, please.” His anger was visible as he moved closer. Kris placed his pistol on the table.

“Listen motherfucker, I’m Bobby McGee. We’ve nothing left to lose. You do. Repeat the order, fetch it with a smile or say ‘goodbye.’ We ain’t leaving alive. We’ll await Janis.”

Look both ways but remember the seventies if you can.
Mind the gaps for Glocks and dead grumpy waiters.

Give a Glock Click HERE to find more great stories. And for your happy entertainment, four of the finest good ol’ boys.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 4)

My fourth day NaPo challenge (https://www.napowrimo.net/) is to write a poem in the form of a poetry prompt. I’m not sure that’s an accepted form, but it’s been done. Mathias Svalina posts surrealist prompt-poems on Instagram. I chose not to follow the surreal examples or numbered steps, but I got ‘er done.

Poem That

Everything I see is an unwritten poem, yet to be.
Even non-poets (if there are any) know this truth.
Listen to the music, hear it, feel it, watercolor it
(Julie’s prof said that’s a metaphor for letting go).
But it matters little if you let go or grab on tightly,
as the music is mused into your mind through
any of your human senses, not just the old five.
Recall the (Under) Pressure songs? Do it
like that. Hamlet said a thing is neither good nor bad,
but our thinking makes it so. A penny for your thoughts,
in the form of a poem, a memory, or a dream,
a hope for the future. Own your poem, then share it.

Look both ways for inspiration in life or death,
in the real or surreal, in the odd, the normal,
or in keeping Austin weird.
Mind the gaps, for even there the asinine fight the sensible.