Month: February 2021

GUEST POST: TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO

The Sicilian Storyteller

FINDING SOMETHING OR SOMEONE YOU TRULY CONNECT WITH IS A REAL TREAT AND THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I READ THIS DELIGHTFUL POEM BY PAUL GRIFFITHS, MY FRIEND FROM ACROSS THE POND. THE BEAUTY OF PAUL’S WRITING SPEAKS FOR ITSELF BUT THE FACT THAT THE POEM BROUGHT BACK MEMORIES OF PLACES IN MY OWN BACKYARD SUCH AS CONEY ISLAND AND ATLANTIC CITY MADE IT EVEN MORE SPECIAL. I’M SURE YOU’LL ENJOY “TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO” AS MUCH AS I DID. COME ALONG WITH ME ON A LITTLE VACATION. THANKS, PAUL!

New Palace Amusement Arcade

I’ll tell ya I love New Brighton.
Locally known as little San Tropez.
It’s a fantastic little place.
A place to while those hours away.

Just looking out across the Mersey.
Getting lost in life’s constant ebb and flow.
Hoping that my ship will come in.
Wondering where that ship may go.

Sailing off to the far horizon.
Disappearing beneath the setting sun.
Kid starts screaming at his fallen ice cream.
Then he starts screaming at his mum.

Snapped back to reality.
Right back to the here and now.
The ice cream man ducks for cover.
He reads the Mother’s mind somehow.

She grabs the cornet from her sobbing son.
Then she marches to the ice cream van.
For a moment there was a Mexican standoff
Between her and the ice cream man.

The kid got his 99 with raspberry sauce.
At the expense of a few expletives being said.
These New Brighton fish wives speak a strange local dialect
Unbeknown to us Posh folk from Birkenhead.

That’s why I love New Brighton.
There are so many things to see.
This little village is a hidden Pearl of a place
Nestled on the banks of the Great River Mersey.

I love the grand Art Deco design for the tuppenny arcade.
To be hit with that unmistakable smell of doughnuts freshly made.
Ticker tape parade of yellow tickets thousands of them in all
Gets you a paper aeroplane or a multi-coloured little bouncy ball.

New Brighton’s bygone days are over, those crazy golden years
Of grand ballrooms and iron towers, and sepia photos of the pier.
But that was a different time and time always shapes a place.
I guess that’s what makes New Brighton a special little space.

Grab a bag of fish and chips down by the seafront.
Take a healthy slow stroll along the prom.
Nod my head in respect for the Black Pearl.
Can’t believe it’s gone.

But the flotsam and jetsam is a gathering
Right where the Black Pearl used to be.
To be built on the bones of fallen pirates
Rising once again to sail the seven seas.

You see New Brighton is a magical place
Full of music, poetry and art.
I’ve even heard that you can find little fairies
Hiding in the woods somewhere down in Vale Park.

Or grab yourself a deckchair and hit the neo-classical bandstand.
Sit and listen to the little amphitheatre’s almost perfect wall of sound.
Chill and listen to some of the best of the local talent.
Bands come here to play from miles around.

Better still go and hit a pub, relax with a well earned beer.
Keep your eyes peeled for cut throat pirates or buxom buccaneers.
The pubs and taverns are all welcoming, easy come easy go.
.Just be patient with the yokels, some are just a little bit too slow.

But that’s the real beauty of New Brighton.
You slowly feel you’re traveling back in time.
And being a bit of a time traveler myself
I find that very concept in itself is absolutely fine.

So I’m not going abroad this year.
No, I’ll be going to little San Tropez.
Rhyl is so last year.
New Brighton is the future of local holidays.

We all like to escape to somewhere if only but for a day.
New Brighton is only up the road but it could be a million miles away.
I guess we all need a bit of a holiday, and with that being said,
I’ve Booked two weeks in Newbo for August, a mini break from Birkenhead.

PTG © copyright.

ARR, MATEY!

The Sicilian Storyteller

It was a beautiful Saturday morning when my son Tom called.

“Dad, Allie’s gone into early labor! We need you to stay with Molly.” He sounded excited and nervous.

“I’m on my way!” I immediately answered.

As soon as I arrived Tom and Allie left for the hospital.

“Grampy, can we go to the school fair?” Molly asked. “Daddy was gonna take me today.”

“Sure, pumpkin. Let’s go!” I replied – anything to help pass the time.

The playground of Molly’s school, St. Cecilia’s Elementary for Girls, had been magically transformed into a carnival with food stands, games of chance and a giant inflated pirate ship.

“Look, Grampy! A bouncy ship!” Molly tugged at my sleeve. “Can I go on, please?”

“You bet, honey! Looks like fun!” I gave my granddaughter a boost. I was half in and half out when the ship started bouncing, taking me for a ride I’ll not soon forget!

Well, a bouncy anything is no place for a 60-year-old man and 20 little girls. They were rolling all over me and every time the damn thing came to a stop, I tried getting out but kept losing my balance.

Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, the pirate ship was surrounded by police. One cop with a megaphone shouted “Sir, this is for children only. You’re in serious trouble. Come out now or we’ll come in and drag you out!”

I finally managed to crawl my way out. My clothes were in total disarray, little girls were crying and I heard someone yell “You sick bastard!”

Arr! I made the news that night. My fifteen minutes of fame!

NAR © 2021

GUEST POST: FORBIDDEN LOVE – PART 1: SEPARATED AS ONE

The Sicilian Storyteller

It is a thrill and a delight to post a story written by my 11-year-old granddaughter, Mckenna Richy. A smart, funny, talented and loving young lady, Mckenna can be just about whatever she wants to be in life, excelling in whichever profession she chooses. It’s obvious she’s already a very good writer! I’m extremely proud of her for writing this incredible love story. I hope we get to read Part II very soon!

“Hello.”

Jasper heard a voice. He looked up to see a girl angel about the same age as himself on the other side of the border. “Who are you?” he asked.

“The opposite of you” she responded.

“Yeah, I get that. I mean, where did you come from?” Jasper said.

“I came from my home on the side of the border that I am standing on” the girl replied.

“I’m Jasper” the boy angel said, hoping to make an unusual but true friend.

The girl angel smiled. “I’m Cameron.”

EIGHT YEARS LATER

“Cameron! Could you come here please?” called Cameron’s mother, the Queen of the Angels. Cameron walked down the hall of the palace and approached the throne room where her mother was seated.

“Yes, mother?” she said.

“I would like you to meet someone.” Her mother motioned to a boy angel about the same age as Cameron. “This is Alex. He will be your husband” her mother said.

Cameron was taken aback. “H-husband?” she weakly said. “Uh … can I use the restroom? I had a huge glass of dragon fruit juice!” and with that Cameron ran out of the throne room and flew out the window.

Cameron flew to the edge of the border, the place where she first met the love of her life, Jasper. She sat down near the edge and started crying.

“Cameron?” she heard Jasper say. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m really not, Jasper! I’m sorry” cried Cameron, “but I’m being forced to marry someone else – someone I don’t love!” Cameron continued to cry.

“Is there any way out of it?” Jasper asked, trying to help.

“None that I can see. I’m doomed!” Cameron whined.

“I’m so sorry, Cameron” said Jasper.

Cameron got up and stood on the edge of the border. “What’s to stop me from jumping over?” she quietly asked.

“Huh?” said Jasper. “If you jump to this side there’s no going back!”

“That’s the point” Cameron replied.

“You really want to be with me, don’t you?” Jasper asked.

“Yes, Jasper. I do” Cameron responded.

“I’ll be waiting for you” said Jasper.

Just as Cameron was about to jump, Alex came out of nowhere. “There you are! Everyone has been so worried about you!” he said.

Cameron was surprised to see him. “AHHH! How did you get here?!” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“Your mother sent me to find you. Besides, I would like to get to know my future wife” responded Alex.

“Yeah … no!” snapped Cameron.

“Well, get used to it. In two weeks you’ll be stuck with me forever” said Alex in a sarcastic tone.

“Well, as you can see I’m fine! Can you please leave? I’m trying to talk to someone who actually means something to me!” said Cameron.

“Ooh. He just got roasted” said Jasper quietly.

“Cameron, you’re friends with this monster?” asked Alex.

Cameron got angry. “He’s not a monster! I’m in love with him!” she firmly said and without thinking she pushed Alex away and jumped off the edge of her side of the border. When Cameron opened her eyes, Jasper was standing over her. “Jasper, did I do it?” she asked.

Jasper helped her up. “You did it, Cameron!” he said.

Cameron hugged Jasper without any care that Alex was watching from what used to be her home.

“What did you do to yourself?” asked Alex, as white as a ghost.

Cameron was confused. “What do you mean?” She looked at herself. She had wings and horns almost identical to Jasper’s and her blond hair had become as black as coal. “Looks like crossing over has some benefits” Cameron said with a grin.

Alex ran back to the castle, probably to tell Cameron’s mother that her daughter was now a demon. But Cameron couldn’t care less. She and Jasper were finally united. Cameron didn’t care what she looked like or what side of the world she was on.

And neither did Jasper.

MFR © 2021

BEWARE THE MALOCCHIO

The Sicilian Storyteller

Rule number one: When you meet your Italian girlfriend’s parents for the first time, which is usually for supper, don’t show up empty-handed. No matter how many times you hear “It’s-a no necessary for you to bring-a anything-a; just the pleasure of-a you company is enough-a”, you bring something.

Believe me, I learned that the hard way. Cara’s mamma insisted I not bring anything; her papa even said they would be insulted if I brought something. In his head, my bringing something meant they weren’t able to provide whatever was needed for a respectable meal.

I wasn’t raised that way. My southern belle of a mother brought her famous peach cobbler to every luncheon she attended. The thought of showing up without so much as a bunch of wildflowers was a cardinal sin.

So when I asked again for what must have been the fifteenth time what I could bring and was told “bring-a nothing”, I brought nothing.

Well, from the moment I arrived at Cara’s house all I got was the ‘malocchio’; as a joke Cara bought me a big red evil eye to hang from my rearview mirror. I didn’t think it was very funny.

When I asked Cara why she didn’t warn me, she said “Everybody knows ‘nothing’ means ‘something’!”

Cara and I have been married six years now. We have three beautiful kids and a nice house. Still, her parents refer to me as that “cheap sum-a-na-bitch-a” who brought nothing.

Go figure!

NAR © 2021

SWEPT AWAY

The Sicilian Storyteller

The afternoon was damp and raw, sleet stinging my eyes. I huddled deeper into my parka, pulling the hood tighter over my head. As I waited at the busy Brooklyn intersection for the ‘walk’ signal, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman in the distance. It was just a brief sighting but she bore an uncanny resemblance to my late fiancé Maggie.

The woman’s clothes were nondescript – dark jeans, a silver puffer jacket and a knit scarf – but it was her black and silver sneakers and the all-too-familiar shock of flaming red hair blowing wildly in the wind that gave me pause. She ran up the front steps of a condo – the same apartment we shared for three years before Maggie died.

My mind raced back to the day of Maggie’s death. We were vacationing by Lake Michigan with our friends Jeff and Rachel. Looking for a bit of adventure we decided to go jet skiing, something new for all of us and rather dangerous considering the lake’s infamous rip tides, caves and groottoes. Feeling overly confident, we took off like the daredevils we were. We all fell off several times, laughing, but kept on going. It was an exhilarating experience.

Maggie was a gorgeous creature. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she rode the waves, her exquisite breasts barely contained in a tiny white bikini while crimson tresses whipped around her face like the tail of a dragon. She and Jeff were natural athletes and it was difficult for me and Rachel to keep up.

Rounding a bend in the lake, we were thrown off our skis by a large wave. I lost my bearings in the current and when my head finally emerged from the water, I spotted my jet ski and swam to it. Rachel wasn’t too far away, clinging to her craft, but Maggie and Jeff were nowhere in sight. Mounting our water bikes we began our search, frantically calling out their names as we scoured the area. Unable to locate them, we headed for shore and alerted the authorities. Maggie and Jeff’s jet skis were found but there was no trace of them. After two days the search was called off. Rachel and I had no choice but to accept they had been swept away.

After the accident I returned to New York but didn’t have the heart to stay in the condo where Maggie and I lived. I drove to our beach house in Amagansett, leaving the apartment untouched; I hoped one day to return when I summoned the courage.

Now I found myself back in Brooklyn staring at my old condo and seeing ghosts.

An overwhelming force drew me closer. Slowly I entered the building and climbed the stairs to my apartment. Approaching the door I could hear faint music, laughter and the sound of familiar voices. A man and a woman were inside, unaware of my presence. I stood outside the door for what seemed a lifetime. My heart pounding, I raised my fist to knock on the door, then stepped back. Resolutely and silently I walked away.

NAR © 2021

Reposted for Sadje’s picture prompt on What do you see #164 December 12, 2022