Mail men: leather bags, caps, big shoes;
they walked onto front porches,
with letters, bills, or draft notices—
seldom junk.
Now she rides fast. Much junk. No letters
or conscription notices.
Forever stamps may be exactly so.
Look both ways and pine for the past.
Amazon may own your soul or make your day.
Mind the gaps as you fondly recall the memory.
(The irony is that the USPS sends us an email each day alerting of the coming snail mail.)
Fifty pounds of bark
I coon hunted once. The County Judge picked me up about dark. I’da never found ‘em at night. The dogs cost more than their pickup trucks. Coon huntin’ is at night. There’s no shooting—no hunting by humans at all. Dogs ride in truck beds and jump out and take off when they park. There’s usually a fire. We smoke and maybe have a nip. The barking begins. Old Larry says, “It sounds like ol’ Blue got one treed.” The dogs come back without a racoon, and everybody heads home ‘bout midnight. That’s it!
Look both ways to those people who see things differently.
Mind the gaps. But leave the dogs and coons alone.
Our own Kansas City, major league Girl, pronounced Rochelle, who is in a league of her own, has sent us up to the nosebleed section of Royals stadium for inspiration. It’s her pic, but it’s still football (not baseball) season, for which KC will be smiling and thanking Lubbock, Texas, for sending them the likes of Patrick M. (Superbowl Champs) for many moons. May the Royals be so blessed.
This game is all about telling a complete story in fewer than 101 words (more and you strike out). Click on the stadium pic to hit a home run over at Rochelle’s blog to get her pitch. There you can be umpired on the balls and strikes of Friday Fictioneers. Let the baseball metaphors fly!
Genre: Baseball History
Title: First Base
Word Count: 100
***
Billy and I bummed on cheap wooden bleachers watching the Rangers. Seven bucks covered everything, including Cowtown to Arlington gas and parking.
“Dad, that lady behind me is blowing on me.”
It was hot. I looked back. A lovely young lady was fanning his neck. She smiled. I mouthed thank you.
He punched his glove, but it would take a homer to get us a ball.
“She’s trying to keep you cool. Some day you’ll appreciate such attention.”
He asked, “Do you think she likes baseball?” I looked again. She winked.
“Yep. She and your mother are both big fans.”
Look both ways when life seems like a dreary competition.
Mind the gaps. At those heights, let the ball come to you.
Lynda Lee Lyberg caught me at the dVerse bar today thinking of a poem about the mavens of music from the days of my time. While I must bow to the discipline of a mere 44 words, I will eventually make a much longer tribute to the quad of this week’s Quadrille. For today—this:
To Carly, Carole, Joni, and Linda
Music, Ladies! Making music was your life.
It’s been seventy years more
since you made your way writing, singing,
and playing for your sake and ours.
With Anticipation I’ll let Tapestry tell me
When Will I Be Loved since I see
Both Sides Now.
Look both ways and try, try, try to see all sides.
Mind the gaps when the beautiful ladies sing.
It’s where the love is.
Note: Maybe some young ‘uns don’t know that Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Linda Ronstadt were literal folk and rock stars for more than sixty years.
Click here to read more 44-word poems with music.
We’re iced-in over (down) here in Texas, which means it is our bi-annual week of winter.
While Rochelle is recovering from strokin’ too hard, she has rattled our senses with an Alicia Jamtaas photo taken on a lovely romantic day. Our gig now is to write fewer than 101 words telling the stories that our muses whisper to us as we look at Alicia’s pic.
If your muse is tugging at your mind and makin’ you wanna play, click Ms. Jamtaas pic to dance on over to Rochelle’s blog page where you’ll get to read all about it.
Genre: Dream-dancing Fiction
Title: There She Was
Word Count: 100
***
It was a hot one. I was minding my business, walkin’ down the street, snappin’ my fingers, shufflin’ my feet, feelin’ the beat.
I saw her sitting there. My heart stopped. We waved. It was love. Music played. We danced. We started callin’ out round the world. Everybody was dancing in the street.
If this is a dream, may I never awaken. I called to her, “Baby, let’s make it real.”
We did with all the music playing, we were all singin’ and dancin’ and hot , hot, hot. She yelled, “Carlos, I love you. “I said, “my name’s Bill.”
***
Look both ways but love may be sitting up above on yonder windowsill.
Mind the gaps but (flash mob) dance when you can.
AND, A little Smooth guitar from the great Carlos Santana to better tell the whole story.
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).
As we slip into the final third of January in the year twenty twenty-three, the queen of Wednesdays’ Rhapsody and Friday Fictioneering, Rochelle, has joined forces with one of New York’s finest writers, Na’ama Yehuda, to challenge my (and your) muse’s imagination.
They say the average speaking pace is about one-hundred words per minute. So…
Therefore, you can do this today in a New York minute by composing your own story of no more than 100 words, but as few as you like. Hang out here, but then scoot on over to Rochelle’s place, just past the pink laundromat, to clean up on all the how’s and whatnots. Just click on Na’ama’s pic and BAM! You’re there.
Genre: Bohemian Fiction
Title: Sundown Ecstasy
Word Count: 100
***
There was a secret room hidden behind the clothes hanging in her closet. It’s where she went to do things she would never confess—her happy place, an escape from reality. She hid things there: old toys, memories, and sad things. Some day they would find more in her room.
One day, caught in a landslide, she’d had enough of his abuse.
She told them he had washed his clothes, packed, and then left with his gun and girlfriend in his old pick-up truck.
She was happy to know that he was now in a better place. So was she.
***
Look both ways for thunderbolts and lightning—very, very frightening.
Mind the gaps and ask, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”
And if you have not figure it out —- but this is a cute family (The Petersens) with a different vibe.
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.
Genre: Musical Fiction
Title: Anticipation
Word count: 100
I was enjoying the view, sitting in the Little Lemon Coffee Shop, a bistro (ish) phenom in our city library, when I heard three electronic beeps.
The doors opened. Someone said her name. I saw her floating toward me with that hypnotizing, toothy, Cheshire cat smile.
I lifted my sax and played my feelings. We were in heaven. I felt privileged in the presence of musical royalty.
Then I heard three more beeps, and she sang, “Double shot Americano and cinnamon croissant, for Mister Bill.”
I thought, Death is calling me but I’m not leaving this dream before she does.
Look both ways for the music of a lifetime.
Mind the gaps and cap the lies.
We all have our story to tell.
Four magnificent minutes of beautiful music.
Happy Hanukkah everyone.
The eight-day Jewish festival, which began at nightfall yesterday, is also known as the festival of lights, or the Feast of Dedication. It commemorates the recovery of Jerusalem and rededication of the Second Temple at the beginning of the Maccabean revolt.
As a child growing up in a relatively “strict” Roman Catholic family, I recall all the “Christmas” cards we received during December. Mom used them to decorate our home. I recall many of the cards wishing us Happy Holidays and Happy Hanukkah. This was from the late 1940’s through the 1960s.
While I attended a Catholic parochial elementary school, I also recall saying “Happy Hanukkah” and playing with dreidels (or similar toys). A dreidel is a four-sided top bearing Hebrew letters. I ate some Jewish foods (year-round) and drank sweet kosher wine, but I did not learn the full meanings and traditions until years later.
When my children were growing up, they (and we) had Jewish family friends. During the holiday season one Jewish friend went to our children’s public schools and explained the Hanukkah festival. During the eight-day festival, my children spent many evenings at their friend’s home learning about Jewish traditions, eating the special foods, and participating in lighting the nine light menorahs (Chanukiah).
While Hanukkah is a minor Jewish religious holiday, for me it is full of happy (and a few sad) memories, and I ponder the possibilities. One more time, Happy Everything, Everyone.
Look both ways to learn the stories our friends and neighbors have to share.
Mind the gaps because no two are exactly alike.
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.
Our Literary Journey 