Friday Fictioneers for January 13th, 2023

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind

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.

 

Sammie’s Weekender #293 (preposterous)

Click here for more preposterous writings linked at Sammi’s blog page.

 

 


Dear Danny,

Here’s the thing, man.

It probably seems pathetically preposterous
to a person such as your profoundly proud self,
but at least pretend to listen.

Don’t worry.

I understand.

You cannot validate me.
You are not me, nor I you.
You’re right about that part.
but I’m more you than you’d think,
in a darkly nonspecific way.

See how silly and sad that is?

You despise me for breathing
——- and for being right.


Look both ways as you try to understand people.
All the same, yet different.
Mind the gaps to help keep communication civil.

 

Friday Fictioneers for December 30th, 2022

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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.

Carly Simon lost both sisters, Jo and Lucy, to cancer in the same week this past October. Click on them to read more 100-word marvels.

 

Four magnificent minutes of beautiful music.

Sammie’s Weekender #291 (acrimony)

Click this graphic for Sammi’s blog page and more acrimonious writing,

Maniacal Mordancy

How does it happen?
Love never dies.
It changes,
and perhaps it fades and dwindles
away. That’s life.

But when it is replaced
by acrimony,
what happened?

Was it greed, lies, cheating,
unfaithfulness, or disloyalty?

Did it happen suddenly
or was it a gradual cancerous growth?
When does letting go
cease to be an option?


Look both ways to see the mystery of human nature.
Mind the gaps for secrets and hidden bones of historical scandal.

 

Who sent out these wedding invitations?

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 November 11th, 2022

Yesterday was Election Day, or ED day (snicker), depending on your POV. Tomorrow (Thursday, 10 November) is the USMC birthday, and Friday is Veterans Day.

Our lovely and world-class author, artist, and story-teller-mom, Rochelle, has, yet again, teamed up with the Magical Mistress of Montreal, the fabulous photographer, gifted story-maker in her own right, and social butterfly, Dale Rogerson, to delve deep into our creative minds for flashes of micro fiction miracles.

After seeing Dale’s pic, you only need a monochrome click to be transferred to the bright purple world of Her Nibs blog to clear the dark fog from your mind and create your own story with fewer than 100 words, beginning, middle, and end. If you’ve read this far, what are you waiting for? Click on Dale’s photo for the codes of color.

Dale’s photo has her brand and copyright.

Genre: Gonzo Medical Journalism
Title: Thunderstruck
Word Count: 100

***

 

I wasn’t dreaming. I could see only faint monochrome outlines. Where was I? Was I dead? While conscious and lucid, I felt neither pain nor pleasure. I was weightless, but grounded.

She turned and smiled at me. I recognized her face. She said, “You’re back. I’ve missed you. Shall we dance?” We danced. When we kissed, I was thunderstruck.

I felt the jolt lift me. Then I heard her voice.

“Stop defib. No more shocking him. We have a heartbeat. He’s alive.”

A male voice said, “I thought he was gone for sure. Good job everyone. Welcome back, Mister Bill.”

***


Look both ways and decide your own reality.
Mind the gaps for shots and shocks.
We’ll be glad to see you again.

Click on the OR pick to read more wonderful stories inspired by Dale’s intriguing photo.

 

A twisted, and super-popular, little take on an AC/DC rocker covered by the hillbilly bluegrassers, Steve’n’Seagulls. (Turn the volume up loud and fasten your seatbelt.)

Monday’s Rune: Ardent Courage


 

Cheap, Quick, and Red

Liquor goes down easy
and fast
and way, way too easy
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.

Sammi’s Weekender #284 (rule)

Click this graphic for more words from around the world.

 

Love Matters

You suffer loss
Heart breaks,
My love means
Tears of mourning,
Our common sadness rules
Two lives.


Look both ways.
There is a time to cry and a time to laugh, a time to be sad and a time to dance.
Mind the gaps for the lessons of both sorrow and joy.

Monday’s Rune: Weekends


 

Saturday Morning Doctor

Monday or Tuesday is
the time to be sick.
Those same days are best
for having hospital
admitted surgeries.

Weekend emergency rooms can
get crowded and are often
staffed for far fewer sick people
but what are you gunna do?

Friday night I knew. Damn!
Saturday morning I was
off to an urgent care clinic,
a relatively new ubiquitous
phenomenon in the health care business,
because I was not sick enough
for an ER, and no routine
doctor care would be available
until Monday, if then.

The nice, large, waiting room had maybe
five people, not all patients,
queued up as walk-ins,
first come, first served, maybe.

“Have a seat, Mister Bill. Someone
will be with you in about three hours.”
Urgent? Right.

I read, wrote, and people watched.
Moms with kids had long waits too.
A lady using a walker was whining
and moaning, kind of lost.

But she was soon packed off to an ER by EMS.

It was a classic civilian version
of hurry up and wait. Yet,
I confess to enjoying the sights,
people watching, and the quiet reading time.

Three hours later
I was off to pick up a script.


Look both ways on weekends for doctors at the beach.
Mind the gaps when you clean-catch into the cup.

My favorite doctor song.

 

Monday’s Rune: For Sale or Trade


No Quid Pro Quo

I have nothing at all to sell.
Or to trade.
I walk alone because
we must.

It’s just me
with my own thoughts,
maybe music or a book,
as I deal with some pain.
A good thing,
claim my many doctors.
Not the pain—the dealing with it.

I like the thought of it—alone time,
but it’s not. Not really.

The Universe, also not for sale,
is with me. Always with us.
I call it being alone
because it makes me feel good,
but I know

I am never totally on my own,
without a piece of eternity
talking some quid pro quo.


Look both ways when dealing, feeling, or logrolling.
Mind the gaps between your steps and use the poles lest you fall and break your nose.

 

An oldie and a goodie from Mr. Poe.