Southern Cultures

Friday Fictioneers for March 31st, 2023

To close out March and its fictionally lionized madness, our mysterious and mischievous Mistress Rochelle of the Wisoff Mermaids had synchronized and choreographed with Amanda Forestwood for us to play with a wonderfully musical picture using our own creative bow.

I sat and fiddled with this gem of a photograph before contriving a roguishly prankish story set in the summertime southern US of A.

Click on Amanda’s picture of a violin in a lawn chair to hear how to tune up your own strings and to play your own personal ballad, <101 word story, tale, or fib at Rochelle’s Purple Place of Passion (her blog).

PHOTO PROMPT © Amanda Forestwood

Genre: Christian Fantasy
Title: Summer Confessions
Word Count: A sinful 100

***

Ain’t no hooch at Preacher Hardingfele and his sexy wife, Lorena’s, Annual Southern Baptist July Fourth backyard barbeque, so I toted me a flask of Brother Jack flavored with lots of Old Pot’s THC lemon extract. I spiked Lorena’s punch, and she knew it.

To spank me, we drug a sunchair behind the garage. I was still fiddlin’ with Lor’s bra strap when her Preacher-man seen us. He got his gun, so I took to run and yelled about biblical forgiveness. I knew of his fornicatin’ Sister Betty Berliew, so I got away.

Every year, Hardingfele’s barbeque is more fun.

***

Look both ways if you’re going to play around with Preacher’s peeps.
But mind the gaps and them convoluted hooks on lovely Lorena’s bra straps.
Name your instrument according to how you play with it.

Click on the famous (or infamous) Lorena Bobbitt,
who keeps her knives sharp,
to link up with the squares and read more
masterful Friday Fictioneer stories.
(If you’re not familiar with this story, read all about it here.)

***

I wanted to give you the American Civil War song, Lorena, by Johnny Cash (or any number of singers and groups), but one is my limit. So, this couple playing their fiddles (violins are the same, but different) is too good to pass up.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #230 (brush)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s Blog and other poems/stories/writings for his prompt.

 

Damn Yankees

Peckerwoods range southern from taproot wormwood sagebrush out west,
to different dialects in deep East Texas’s vast Big Thicket Forest
with snake-filled, gator-infested swamps.

Coon hunters haul coonhounds, like Ol’ Blue,
in pickups circled round night fires.
Dogs tree them coons for the bark and fun of the run.

Where cultural racism thrives as casual and common as an Easter toothache,
in tasteless towns, where hate breeds happiness decayed.

Damn longhaired, white-assed Yankee,
“What cha mean ya never been coon huntin’?
Grab yer wahoo and follow me.”

Look both ways and wonder, why does it have to be this way?
Mind the gaps for gators and snakes.
“Old Blue got one treed, but Scout is a-trackin’ some tail.”