Photo by: Ray Hennessy (@rayhennessy) | Unsplash Photo CommunitPhto by: y
Reading what others were posting on Substack changed my life and helped me to see that there was value beyond me in what I was writing. One year ago, on September 21, I took the plunge. For the first time ever I decided to share my writing. I have learned so much in this past year! StoryStacks, dribbles, drabbles, prompts and reading so many other delicious and contemplative stories have enriched my life and my writing. They have forced me to become a better writer.
I generally don’t self promote. I let my writing speak for itself. But that too must change as I gather pieces of writing around me that I feel are important to me.
In writing everyday I have 365 stories of various lengths. I also have many posts from writing to prompts others have posted as well as many other pieces of writing that are incomplete as of this moment. I am even taking a serious stab at writing a novel.
So it is with great thanks to you, the readers of my work, that I celebrate today. Here are 12 stories from the past year, one for each month. Each story was the most read story in each month of the past year. Please check out the other 365 stories on my Substack.
Enjoy!
Bill
The Beef: A Southern Man vs Sweet Home Alabama Moment
Prompt by: Stories from the Jukebox:The Beef:#4 Lynyrd Skynyrd vs Neil Young
1500 words or less
Photo by: Getty Images (@gettyimages) | Unsplash Photo Community
Seventeen year old Sonny stared down his father with a look that was just short of contempt from across the table. He had just risen from his chair as the angry words spilled forth.
“I will ask once again,” repeated his father. “Did you write this essay or not?” as he threw the duotang bound essay on the kitchen table.
Sonny picked it up and looked at it. “Where did you get this?” he inquired.
“I will answer you once you have answered my question.”
Sonny couldn’t believe this discussion. He mulled over the options and decided to play it honest. “Okay,” he said defiantly. “I wrote it. Every. Last Word.” He watched his father carefully. The tone and demanding voice had given him warning. Once Sonny recovered his balance he knew he had to be careful, for now.
His father, while red in the face and physically looking like he was out of control, stood there considering his next move. “Why?” was all he could ask.
“What do you mean why? We were asked to write one thousand words on a topic we felt strongly about. Those are my words. Those are my thoughts. Where did you get this from?” Sonny asked again although he was sure he knew where.
“From the school,” was the reply.
“And? Who gave it to you?” Sonny inquired softly.
“Your English teacher.” There was a long pause. “He said it was the finest work he had read in a long time.” Sonny gasped. “He asked me if I had read it. Imagine my surprise when he said those words.”
“You read the whole thing?” Sonny was shocked. His father wasn't a reader by any stretch of the imagination. His father’s chosen words also provided insight.
His father continued, his anger rising again. “You have no right to write about our family issues.” he said as his voice increased in intensity.
“I have every right to write about the truth with honesty. I have every right to try to understand what is happening in my world.”
“Your world? This,” his father started pointing to the essay, “is not about your world. It is about our world. Our lives. How could you write such filth?”
“This is about what I see everyday. It is about what anyone who stepped into my shoes would see. But it is also about what the bigger picture says. It is about society and the need to learn ways to cope with such realities.”
His father balked at this as he tried to maintain a calmer focus. The silence was deafening. Tension filled the room as the seconds turned into minutes.
Finally his father spoke. “This is one of those Neil Young - Lynyrd Skynyrd moments.” When Sonny looked slightly confused at this his father continued. “Neil wrote Southern Man because he saw an injustice. Lynyrd Skynyrd wrote Sweet Home Alabama as a response in disagreement.” Sonny nodded seeing the connection. “The thing about this is from each of their points of view they were correct.” Sonny gave a small nod wondering where this was going. “You can relax,” began his father softly. “I am not going to write a rebuttal.”
“You were mad but now you are not.”
Sonny’s father sat down on his chair. The family had specific spots to sit down for meals. He motioned for Sonny to sit. Warily Sonny did, but not at his usual spot.
“I think what this did was catch me off guard.” He paused in consideration as he gathered his emotions and sent them packing. “I was raised to honour my parents, work hard and trust that everything will work out because that is just what happens.” His father paused in his thoughts. “We live our lives trying to be the best we can but there are times like this… well when I read your paper I wondered if just doing my best was good enough. I wondered if what you wrote about had to be this way.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I never thought….” he left it hanging. It took Sonny a minute to respond.
“One of the things we learned about this year was that many people find ways to deaden the pain they feel in their lives. Some use alcohol. Some use drugs. Some just get lost in their minds retreating from things they don’t understand. Some don’t even know they are feeling this way.” His father looked startled. Sonny held up his hands. “I’m not making any judgments here. Just trying to explain. From what I can see the whole world is this way unless they make themselves aware. Not many do. They just go through their lives accepting what is instead of trying to find other ways to understand in a stronger way. They simply accept fate without looking past to become better, stronger, more involved. I wrote this essay trying to make sense of the world I live in,” he paused to capture his words, “I may have started it as a way to hurt you, but it turned into an indictment on society. I want better.”
“I think that is what frightens me.” replied his father. “You deserve better but that means moving past what I know, think and feel. The unknown frightens me. It is outside my comfort zone.”
“We can move forward together,” Sonny replied with hope.
“I would like that.” The tension dissipated as they both sat there giving thought to what had just happened.
“Lynyrd Skynyrd vs Neil Young?” Sonny started. “That is in itself an interesting observation. Of course Lynyrd Skynyrd was right. They had lived their lives without Neil’s influence until that song came around.” Sonny smiled without acknowledging his father’s earlier comments.
His father laughed. “Are you sure? Egg. Chicken.” Another less serious discussion consumed them for the next while.
Everyone’s A Critic
Prompt by: Gibberish:FFF - Everyone's A Critic
Prompts: Write about a paint gallery, steaming cold, “you’re wrong”, A character who is a culture critic
Photo by: RhondaK Native Florida Folk Artist
Andy looked at the first painting in the paint gallery and said, “That is steaming cold!”
“Steaming cold?” asked the young man next to him.
Andy quickly looked over at the young man and then back at the painting. “It is exquisite in detail. It brings the senses to a boil in its depictions of the sensuality yet the colour choices and the dramatic presentation make it so cool. Hence, steaming cool.”
“Would you mind if I used that as a quote in the article I am writing,” Kris, the young man asked. “I am a culture critic and I think this is a perfect description of the painting.”
“Andy,” said Andy by way of introduction. He shrugged. “Sure, words are free.”
A young girl who was standing on the other side of Kris spoke up. “You’re both wrong on this one. This picture is a picture dump. While it appears that all the caricatures are correct they are simply not related in any way shape or form. The colours are off and not at all reflective of the atmosphere that should be present.”
Kris and Andy looked at each other quickly. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Why is yours so at odds with what we see?” Asked Kris.
She looked him directly in the eye. “This is my picture. I painted it”
Kris did a double take. “In that case may I invite you to lunch so I can ask you some questions about this picture? I am the art critic for The Sun.”
She smiled her best smile. “I would be honoured.” She hooked her hand in his arm and they walked away.
Andy watched them for a minute. “I still think it is an amazing picture,” reflected Andy as he moved on to the next painting on the wall.
A Returning Voice
For the Roseneath Writers Circle Monthly assignment
Photo by: Sandy Millar (@sandym10) | Unsplash Photo Community
As darkness settled over Mesher farm Bert had just finished his chores. He cleaned up best he could in the barn. Vicki had objected to him cleaning up in the house so he washed himself down the best he could in the barn before going to the house for a shower. As he reached the back door Vicki stepped outside.
“Have you seen Carrie?” she asked.
“Not since lunch,” Bert replied. “She’s not in the house?”
“No. She said she was going for a walk down to the stream but that was hours ago. I expected her to be back by now.”
“Don’t worry….” started Bert.
“I’m not worried,” snapped Vicki.
Bert gave her a look as he reached out and hugged her. Vicki quickly evaded his touch as she started towards the path through the woods.
“Wait,” he called out. “Let me get my flashlight.”
When he returned Vicki stood frozen in the farmyard. As Bert approached her he could see that she was holding something.
“What is it?” he asked.
Vicki held up a shoe. “It’s hers,” she said.
Bert called out. “Carrie! Carrie!” as they walked towards the path with nerves pushing their muscles. As they stepped into the woods Bert’s light caught another object.
“What is it?” asked Vicki, quietly with trepidation.
“The other shoe.” replied Ben as he stooped to pick it up. It looked like it had just fallen off her foot. He swung his light around wildly and then kept moving forward on the path.
A number of steps later Bert’s light caught another object in its swath. As he got closer Vicki pushed quickly past him and plucked the ribbon from the branch.
“I’m scared,” stated Vicki in an agitated voice.
“Carrie,” called Ben in a louder voice. “Carrie.” This continued on for the rest of the path. Their voices boomed out Carrie’s name with increasing urgency. Suddenly Bert stopped at the opening of the path near the river. He swung his flashlight around wildly until he spotted something sitting on the tree stump.
“Carrie!” he called out running forward.
“What is it?” questioned a running Vicki.
“”Carrie!” he called out as he picked up the doll that was sitting on the stump. “It looks like she’s been here,” he said. “Carrie,” he called out again as he swung his light along the banks of the creek. Vicki pulled Carrie’s doll from his arms and cradled it with increasing sobs.
“She wouldn't have abandoned this doll!” Vicki exclaimed. “She loves the fact that we made it to look like her!” Vicki sobbed. “She’s gone.”
“Now hush,” replied Bert. “Let’s head back to the house. I will make some phone calls and get a search party going.
While Bert made his phone calls Vicki carried the doll up to Carrie’s room and placed it on her bed. “It will be here for her when she returns,” thought Vicki.
A little while later cars were pulling into the farmyard. With each car, pairs of people were sent out in many directions from the clearing by the stream. By morning all had returned, exhausted with no further signs of Carrie.
Tired beyond exhaustion Bert and Vicki laid down in the rising morning sun to catch a few hours of sleep before resuming their search.
Just as Vicki’s eyes began to close she heard a voice calling from the silence.
“Mama. Mama.” Vicki’s eyes flew open and she raced from the bedroom.
“Mama. Mama” Vicki raced down the hall. She stood in Carrie’s doorway hoping beyond belief that her daughter would be in her bed. She dissolved into tears as she observed the empty room. She walked over and picked up the doll before curling up on the bed. She hugged the doll deeply as she drifted off to sleep.
“Mama, that is too tight,” said Carrie.
Quickly Vicki opened her eyes and screamed.
As Vicki picked herself up off the floor she stared at the doll intently.
“What’s wrong Mama,” asked Carrie.
Vicki stood there mouth agape. “What trickery is this?” she whispered.
“Mama, it’s me. Carrie. You don’t know me?” asked Carrie.
“I know your voice. But you are a doll.” whispered Vicki.
“Mama,” began Carrie.
“Bert!” yelled Carrie at the top of her lungs. “Bert!”
Bert came thundering down the hall in his underwear, grabbing the door frame and sliding into the room. “What’s the emergency?” he asked.
Vicki pointed to the bed where the doll sat. “The doll,” she sputtered. “The doll is talking.”
“Really? What do you mean” Bert asked before he stopped talking and listened carefully.
“How did your voice get inside the doll Carrie?” asked Vicki. The doll sat quietly on the bed. Vicki walked over and picked it up and squeezed the doll. No words were heard.
“When I fell asleep I was hugging the doll. It told me I was hugging it too tight.” She sat the doll down and turned to her husband. “I know what I heard.”
Bert walked over to Vicki and put his arm around her. “I’m sure you thought you did. It is natural that your daughter is missing and all we find is a doll that she once played with. You miss her. I do too.” As they walked through the doorway he turned the light out and closed the door. “Once you get some sleep everything will be ok.”
The next morning Vicki popped her head into the bedroom. She picked up the doll and set it on the bed up against the pillows.
“I sure miss you,” she said quietly.
“But I am here mama,” replied Carrie.
Vicki stared intently as she backed out the room. She walked down the stairs and went outside. Bert was in the barn and would be for a while so she headed down the path to the river.
Bert came into the house for lunch. He noticed that Vicki was not in the kitchen and that lunch was not ready. “That’s unusual," he thought. Bert checked the rest of the house but Vicki was not there. He stepped outside the door and surveyed their vegetable garden.
“I wonder,” he said quietly. He started walking across the field towards the path to the river. He walked carefully along the path until he came to the clearing. He looked towards the stump where Carrie’s doll had sat. His head lowered and he shook it as he walked over to the stump.
“Vicki,” he said as he picked up the Vicki doll. He carefully carried the doll back to the house and climbed the stairs.
“Bert. What’s happened to me,” asked Vicki as Bert reached the top step. He walked towards Carrie’s room, opened the door and walked in.
“Mama!” exclaimed Carrie’s voice. “Now we can be together forever!”
Bert walked over and set Vicki beside Carrie on the bed. “Bert Mesher. What have you done to me?”
There was some thumping from the closet. Bert eyed it carefully before walking over and opening the door. He reached in and picked up the doll that sat on the shelf. Carefully he carried it over to the bed and sat it beside the other dolls.
“Hiya Colin,” said Carrie to her brother. “We are now one big happy family again!”
Vicki’s voice rose to a shriek. “Bert Mesher…..” but Bert was closing the door behind him, shutting out the noise from the sound proof room.
“Alone at last.” he thought to himself looking forward to the quiet days that awaited him. “I think I will get some lunch.”
Window Dating
Photo by:Bruno Cervera - Photography
“How did it go last night?” inquired Dimitri.
“Well,” started his friend Jason, “it was interesting,” he paused, “and a little weird.”
“Weird?” asked Dimitri.
Jason looked him square in the eyes and intoned,”Weird.”
“How is meeting a girl weird?”
“Well,” began Jason with one of his patented breaking a one syllable word into many syllables. “It wasn’t no regular night club.”
“It wasn’t?” asked Dimitri whose attention had shifted from his homework to Jason’s story.
“It wasn’t,” said Jason with a touch of sadness that he thought might fuel his story. “It was the strangest night I have had in a while.”
“Oh?” replied Dimitri hoping the story would begin without a prompt but it looked less likely by the second.
“Well, you paid your money upfront and got all the drinks and food one could ask for.”
“How is that weird?”
“It’s not. It was one of the better things that happened,” Jason replied.
“Really?”
“Um hum.”
“Start at the beginning. Go minute by minute until you are done.”
Jason looked at Dimitri.”I paid my money. They escorted me to a booth with a door. So I am in this tiny room with a door on one end, four walls and on one wall, a window frame with a window. Everything is black except for the lights that shine on your face when you sit close to the window. I sat on the stool looking at the room, thinking "what have I got myself into?”
“Interesting,” interjected Dimitri.
“Suddenly a voice speaks quietly. “The window will open in a minute. When it does you get thirty seconds to look at the face in the window. No words. No sign language. No gestures. Just a look for thirty seconds. The window will close. You have a decision to make. Is this the right person for you? If yes, touch the yes button beside the window. If not, select the no button beside the window. You have thirty seconds to make your decision.
If you make no decision, you will be given another chance at the window. You will get 5 chances. After 5 tries you will be escorted from the building.
If yes, and the other person says yes you will be escorted to the bar where further discussion will take place.
“It sounds a bit bizarre,” said Dimitri. “Time limits and snap decisions? Interesting. So what did you do?”
“The window opened up and I saw a face. It looked interesting. I said yes. She said yes. We both were escorted to a table where we had 15 minutes to talk. We talked. I happen to like her so we are going on a date tomorrow night.”
Dimitri thought about this for a minute. “What happens if you don't hit it off?”
“We would have been escorted from the building and invited back tomorrow night. We would have to pay again.”
Dimitri gave it some thought. “Why would you do this? It seems like a controlled way of meeting a girl.”
Jason looked over at Dimitri. “Not all of us have the gift for picking up girls. This sort of levels the playing field.”
Dimitri smiled. “You are making snap decisions based on looks. It sounds like a challenge.”
“Everyone seems to be doing it,” replied Jason as he returned to his homework.
Dimitri nodded and looked at his homework. It seemed like a long shot to meet someone who is interesting. You have nothing to go on but their looks initially and then a short conversation. He wondered if this was a fad or if it was taking hold.
The next night Dimitri found himself sitting at the window. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. “What could possibly go wrong,” he thought.
He looked at the window, and when it opened he smiled. Maybe this wasn’t for him. His former girlfriend was sitting on the other side of the window. He was laughing loudly as he hit the door. He paused in the hall to gather himself when the door ahead opened and out stepped his ex.
“Maybe we should see each other again,” she stated.
Dimitri looked away quickly and composed himself. “Let’s take a look at it and see if it is viable.” It was the least that he could do since divine intervention seemed to like the idea.
The Old Cemetery Caretaker
A Continuation Story Stack
The Caretaker’s Cabin: Port Hope, Ontario
6-words
Once well used now practically abandoned.
25-words
Andy was a busy cemetery caretaker. The bodies were showing up with great frequency. He wasn’t too concerned. He got paid extra for each burial.
50-words.
Andy placed his lantern carefully on its place on the wall.
“Another burial completed,” he said with some satisfaction as he sat down at the table. “Another community member no one will miss,” he said to himself. “I wonder who will not be missed for next week.” He smiled broadly.
100-words
“Andy,” uttered a low, concerned voice. “Andy,” it continued. “Andy, it’s your turn to join us.”
“Bloody beetle off won’t you. It’s Halloween you young scallywags.”
“Andy,” it continued,”Andy, we know what you have done.”
At this pronouncement Andy froze in his tracks. He picked up his gun that stood behind the door. “Be off,” he shouted,” before I fill your backsides with buckshot.”
Andy opened the door and peered out into the darkness when a tomato hit him in the face.
As he closed the door and wiped his face he returned to examine his latest jewellery collection.
150-words
“Andy, come quick! We got another one for you!” shouted young Will as he raced across the cemetery.
Andy opened his door and brought out his persuader. “Where is he?” asked Andy.
“Old Mrs Peabody,” replied Will.
“Aye. I should have seen that one coming. Good job reporting in Will.”
Will led Andy to the burial site. Andy stood at the edge of the hole and peered in. “Why Will, what is this? There is no one down there. This is a fresh pit.”
Andy turned to look again when Will hit him with his own persuader.
“There is now you old codger. There are prices to pay for your misdeeds.”
Andy let out a low moan as the fresh dirt was piled on top of him.
“Yes sir,” replied Will carefully. “He ran off into the night. I will be happy to replace him as the new caretaker”
Well Protected
A Barroom Discussion Story #6
Tima Miroshnichenko - Photography
“Who is winning?” inquired George the minute he walked through the doors of the bar and took his seat at the end of the bar next to John.
The regular bartender answered without looking away from the hockey game. “The Leafs.”
John reflected,”one would think with all that fire power they would have a Cup by now.”
“The curse is still alive,” replied George.
“Indub…” stuttered a stunned Joel. “undoubtedly,” he intoned to gales of laughter.
“A slightly better, if similar word,” laughed the bartender.
“I’m working on it,” replied Joel.
“Indubitably,” determined a laughing George as the bartender refilled the customized stein fresh beer.
Joel smiled. “That was called for.”
When the laughter died down John reflected. “Did you know that everyone is wearing hockey helmets today because of Jacques Plante?”
“Who is Jacques Plante?” asked Jeanette , the other bartender.
“Why are you working today?” asked George. “Our regular bartender is here.”
Jeanette gave him a beatific smile. “The boss felt that you guys were keeping this guy,” she said, jerking her thumb at the other bartender, “so busy that there was a need for two of us to hold down the fort.”
“Ah,” reflected Joel.
John continued on with his explanation although no one was listening. “Jacque Plante was the first goaltender to wear a mask in a hockey game. He got tired of having his face stitched up more than his catching glove so he started wearing a mask to protect it.”
“How does that turn into everyone wearing hockey helmets?” asked Jeanette who was multitasking.
“I’m glad you asked,” said Joel. Everyone turned and looked at him as he took a mouthful of beer. As he set his mug down he returned the look. “Well I am. Please continue, John.”
“With pleasure,” answered John who continued. “Because Jacques donned a mask others saw ways they could protect themselves from injury so they started wearing helmets, a few at first, to protect their heads from the various things that hit them.”
“Pucks,” said George.
“Sticks,” said Joel.
“The ice,” said Jeanette. By now it looked like everyone was getting int on the action.
“The goal posts, the boards,” added the bartender.
Joel looked thoughtful. “Another Canadian first,” he reflected.
“I’ll drink to that,” replied George, raising his mug and then stopping. “Or I will once I get a refill.”
“Coming right up,” replied the bartender as noise erupted when the Leafs had scored a goal.
“Indubitably,” said Joel under his breath with a smile.
Night Eyes
Prompt by Gibberish: FFF - In The Dark
photo by: Erik Karits - Photography
The group huddled together under the canopy of trees on a dark summer night.
“Why are we out here?” questioned Marvin. Normally he would be spending his time in front of the xbox rather than outside on a dark night where mosquitoes would attack him mercilessly, or so he said.
The camp counselor was trying to sound upbeat. “We are out here to undertake a night walk.”
“A night walk?” repeated Barbara. “I forgot my flashlight.”
The counselor chuckled. “We don’t need a flashlight,” he said as Barbara groaned.
“Then how are we going to walk in the dark?” asked Mikey. Won’t we bump into something?”
“Boo! Hahahaha,” said the camp comedian Peter.
“The whole purpose of a night walk is for you to learn about your night eyes.”
“Night eyes? Wait, we have different eyes at night?” questioned Jenny.
“ I bet the counselor is glad he only has 6 people out here tonight,” thought Jimmy.
The counselor answered,” Night eyes is about how your eyes adapt to different environments. Right now we have been out in the dark for 15 minutes. No bright light is anywhere to be seen. You should be able to start making out shadows when you look at things. Soon you will learn to see the difference in the darkness, how some things are darker than others and how the natural light helps you make some of those distinctions.
“Cool,” the group muttered.
“I think I see a ghost,” said Peter, his voice rising in faux scariness.
“You need to trust your eyes and your senses,” continued the counselor, ignoring Peter. “It is better if you keep your talking to a minimum as it distracts you. You should also try to walk quietly.”
“Walk quietly?” asked Barbara. “How do you walk quietly?”
“No stomping or sliding. Lift your feet carefully. If you do this you may see some things in nature before they slip away into the darkness.”
“Like ghosts,” suggested Peter.
“Like raccoons,” replied Mikey. “There is one over there,” he said pointing off to his left. We all turned and looked where he was pointing..
“I think I see one,” said Jenny.
“I think I see something,” muttered Marvin as he looked at Barbara’s face.
“Broo ha ha ha,” suddenly said Peter, causing the girls to jump.
“Not funny Peter,” stated Jimmy firmly.
JImmy walked down the road quietly ahead of the group. Peter joined him. Jimmy was quite surprised at how much he could actually see in the dark. Using his senses he spotted the skunk and planned a way to avoid it as it was determined to cross his path. He did not tell Peter about the skunk until the last minute.
“Bro, could have warned me sooner,” he said as he rushed away from the skunk.
Jimmy smiled.
Fifteen years later JImmy was out at a bush party with his friends. When he stood up his girlfriend asked,
‘Going for a walk?”
He nodded and stepped away from the campfire.
He had gone on night walks regularly ever since he had learned about night eyes at camp all those years ago. He was fascinated by the way he was able to see objects and discover another world after dark. The walk helped ease his stress. Walking in the dark didn’t bother him as he was aware that most animals, while curious, often avoided people.
As he walked along the logging road on this night JImmy spotted two tiny lights off in the distance. At first he thought it might be another bush party he was stumbling across. He quickly dismissed that notion when the lights appeared to grow larger as they moved towards him. He considered them to be fireflies for a minute until they continued to grow and move at faster speeds. Jimmy looked at them with some curiosity and maybe a bit of mild concern. They were moving pretty fast for both night time and on a dirt road.
He listened carefully. There was no sound coming from the lights. He was trying to make out what they were but nothing came to his mind. He stood still as one stopped inches from his face. He wondered about it when suddenly it backed up and started making movements that looked suspiciously like letters. A P was formed through sweeping movements. An E. Next was a T. Jimmy’s mind had raced ahead. Another E. An R. The lights then rushed off down the road.
“Peter,” said Jimmy with a gust of exasperation. “He really needs to let it go.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe he needs a replay of the skunk incident,” he reflected as he started to plan out how to get his hands on a skunk.
Thoughts Of A Critic
Photo by: picjumbo.com
His writing was built on elongated words and depth filled phrases that coloured the mind in tasty flavours. Thoughts bounced around deliciously decorating seas and skies with sumptuous, scintillating, sonic, booms. His characters flounced with curious caution across dedicated landscapes that filled the world with orgasmic meaning. His well intoned concepts plumbed the depths of one's thoughts thrusting and bewitching the reader's mind to challenge the concept of their own moral turpitude. Insidiously one must consider the costs of deliberate and thoughtful lives.
His only flaw was that he failed in his knowledge of how to apply a comma appropriately.
Waiting On Inspiration
Photo by: cottonbro studio
‘The porous fabric of the night allowed the mist to flow freely all the while preventing sight from occurring more than a few inches away.’
“Blah, blah, blah,” he uttered in contempt. “Word filler.”
Kieran ripped the piece of paper from the typewriter, balled it up and heaved a mighty shot towards the basket. It bounced off the rim before setting through the hoop. “Ooh, a two pointer,” he exclaimed.
And so it went all night. He would type some words, look at it with disgust, rip the paper out, toss it at the garbage can and then start over. After a while all he had for his efforts was word exhaustion. The idea was there. He just couldn’t get it right.
After 5 hours he put his head down on the desk in front of the typewriter. The coolness of the desk had begun to soothe his skull when he picked up another piece of paper and put it into the typewriter.
‘The darkened mist floated aimlessly, blocking the view of the oncoming traffic.’
Kieran smiled. “Now that was something I can work with. It needs more work but it is closer to what I want,” he reflected as ideas dripped from the mist onto the page.
The Arched Copse
“I wonder where it goes?” asked Susan.
“It can’t be far,” replied her cousin Henry “When we came along the field there was no backside to it from that angle.”
“It’s pretty dark in there,” reflected Susan.
Henry stuck his head right in front of the opening in the trees. “Can’t see anything. It is pitch black.” He stepped to the side and eyed it suspiciously.
“It’s smaller than I thought.”
“Lunch,” called Susan’s mom. They turned and headed across the field towards Susan’s house.
A pair of dark eyes tracked their movements before stepping out of the copse.
Requiem For A Friend: A Story Stack
6 words
Her laughter warmed up a room
25 words
People had a tendency to underestimate Judy’s ability to see things clearly. Somehow she always managed to get to the point of the matter quickly.
50 words
The stories flowed like endless laughter as we sat at Judy’s wake, remembering the good times. The very essence of her being floated around us. We all felt the warmth and great joy she brought to our lives. All we missed was her booming laugh to say everything was alright.
100 words
Those who attended her wake did so with great passion. These were not the last goodbyes but a hello to the deep memories that we would carry with us for the rest of our lives. These memories would comfort us and remind us to build stronger and more resilient lives. Judy saw that, as one, we could live the lives we choose. She would often underplay her strengths by saying she was just a person. To her friends she was that friend: the one everyone wanted to talk to. Our memories of her would encourage us to flourish without her.
150
As the preacher said, Judy was an old soul living in a young body. Her humanity was deeply felt by everyone she met. She exuded that personal warmth that built deep abiding friendships. Judy’s friends turned to her to discuss deeply personal issues. She always gave timely, practical advice that was reflective of the person she was talking to. She always connected with what they needed at that point in their lives, never overstepping in her caring for her friends. These friends were devoted to Judy and helped her immensely during her times of need, raising her spirits time and time again to ease her suffering. Even in her illness, Judy’s friends reflected the depth of caring she exuded towards them. Her friendship would be sorely missed. Her friends would return time and again to things she said. All is not lost if you know where to look for it.
Party On
A Hundred Word Story
Prompt by Erica Drayton
Photo by: https://www.pexels.com/@pixabay/
Wayne sniffed the air.
“I smell popcorn,” he said with a touch of glee in his voice.
“And butter,” gushed Garth. “Lots and lots of butter.”
“Over there!” Wayne yelled. He glided over with efficiency.
Stopping five feet away he surveyed the sleeping body by the tree.
Furtively Wayne inched closer until he grabbed the paper bag. It made a noise loud enough to wake the body up.”
“Scat,” yelled the body as Wayne rose quickly past the outstretched hand.
Wayne flew twenty yards when he heard Garth yell “Party on,” as their enemies flapped their wings to give chase.
T’was Something On A Mid Day Warmth
Photo by: Patrick Hendry (@worldsbetweenlines) | Unsplash Photo Community
The fog gently filtered through the growing morning dawn, developing a sensation of wonder as images began to appear. Clear images began to reappear, Clearer images began to reappear. Hungadunga 342, Capital 293, Coffee no cream. Sugar on Sausage.
And so it was decided that the morning walk was postponed for lack of participants as the 100 or so people gathered here today to witness this lovely couple begin a state of dishonest, illusionary thoughts that wander coercively amongst the grains of sand circling the sun.
Despite the burden of eating a chainstore hamburger, the immediate concerns of the throng was “what if I get cancer from the sun,” thereby ignoring the thousands or so different ways they could inflict deep agony on their soul.
“If only,” was the chosen refrain but having the behind sight that most people possess as he wandered starkly amongst the thorns, reveling in the deepest sympathy they bestowed on his insistent mind. He covered the footprints in front of him thinking it is always good to take care of the past.
“Are you seeing this?” said the blind frog as he flipped roasted shoes on the bbq, testing them gingerly for their rawness amid the howls of disclosure. “If I have had discourse during my lifetime, I’ve not loved to fulfill it.”
“Such seriousness is not accounted for in any bylaws involving flinging mud pies at unsuspecting crows,” said the Stooge. “Take 3 Nyuck Yucks and call me when the tiger passes Jupiter.”
“Oh the wicked,” was once said as John reflected on his parochial upbringing while fields darkened with purpose, seeing what was heard and hearing what was thought.
Hungadunga 319.
“Can genuflecting really cure warts?” asked the little girl who really wanted curls instead of her pet turtle.
“Of course it can,” reflected the President. “If you say it often enough it has to be true.”
The idea of eating crow didn't seem like such a bad thing after all. The forks prepared as the sky filled with hummingbirds observing what was once wild and locked up.
The complacency of the judgment did not irk him as much as the idea of the smirks on their faces did. It would be a warm bitter day before he would grant them the satisfaction of acknowledging that all their shoes were identical.
The disappointment came in waves as the sacred boot realized everyone agreed there was nothing more important in the morning than soldiers in a cup.
The sanctity of the campfire was shattered as disparaging tales of ill gotten gains and servile platitudes reflected his growing desire to find a new home for his teddy bear.
Hungadunga. Hungadunga. Left 32, right 36. Poke the bear in the eye and decide he is wrong to tell you anything because it is none of your business.
Or so he says with great indignant self assuredness.
Go left forty feet and if you find Cotton Candy you’ll be a better man than you deserve to be.
It could be memoirs from a mangy lover but are they memoirs? I mean really, one would have to think up drivel just to entertain the robin so the sneak thief could place the baby raccoons back in the giraffe’s ear?
The mind shattering silence rode him like a sack of nude nails, lifting and displacing his inner soles until the ghosts of the Titanic realized there was a living crumpet that needed to be chased.
Oh the Humanity.
With God as my witness I thought…
Hungadunga 46 over the top.
The mind was not empty but for the wanting of a cup of sugar.
And in the end
What you read
Is yours
Alone
Thank you for this gift on your anniversary!
Congratulations! Here's to the next 365 stories!