Humble Sigh
She said, “I write
just for me,
not for any reader.”
All for her own pleasure.
So she said.
So she thought.
But, oh, oh, oh,
the smile she had
and the glint in her eye
over the magazine
that published her story.
Tell me that again my friend,
that part about the writer
without ego or desire
to please or to be pleased.
Look both ways and take the pat on the back.
Mind the gaps for feeling denied.
For the final full week of January, our guide to telling stories based on a picture, Rochelle, has tossed up a J Hardy Carroll pic to inspire us. It took a while but my muse, obviously an older woman, set my mind to an inappropriate tale, but not an uncommon one.
To find the how-to of this story telling challenge, click on the J Hardy photo and you’ll be shuffled over to Rochelle’s blog where the situation is made clear. Can you tell a complete story in one-hundred or fewer words?
Genre: Erotic Fiction
Title: Pinch Me, Maggie
Word Count: 100
***
She, much older, married and Julia’s mother. I loved her and suspected she knew. I never expected this.
At her daughter’s birthday party, she told me to meet her in the old abandon building north of the football field. I was to be there about eleven. I was early.
I asked, “Mrs. Robinson, why?”
She smiled, “I can tell what you want. Call me Maggie May here, but Mrs. Robinson in public. If you tell anyone about us, I’ll make your life miserable. It’s your move, young man.”
My heart pounded. I held her. “May I kiss you, Maggie May?”
***
Look both ways because love is ageless and where you find it.
Mind the gaps between May and September.
And, of course, the story as told by Sir Roderick David Stewart.
They called him Tom—not his real name.
This guy was no head-hanging Tom Dooley.
Tom liked to watch. A voyeur. A peeking peeper.
A people watcher of the lowest and riskiest form.
Yet, old Tom was submissive. Not dangerous. But who knew?
Night was his time—windows framed his fantasies.
One day Tom saw something that made him
stop peeping—almost. “Now I’ve seen everything.
My life is complete. And I need to go to confession,
but not with that priest.” Tom, confided in himself.
Then, late one warm summer night, there was a scream.
Someone else yelled.
Dogs barked.
Tom ran.
He heard a gunshot.
Maybe Tom had seen everything. But he never made it
to confession. He died doing what he loved.
What he needed.
And he died running,
just not fast enough. Peeping Tom was no more.
“And another one gone” and
“Another one bites the dust.”
Look both ways.
Exhibitionists and watchers can work together,
each according to his, her, or their wants and needs.
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.
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.
Why so Happy?
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?”
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.)
Cheap, Quick, and Red
Liquor goes down easy
and fast
and way, way too smoothly
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.
Our Literary Journey 