Written for dVerse Prosery: Walcott’s Dark August.
Our host Kim asks us to write a piece of flash fiction
of up to or exactly 144 words, including the line shown
below by Derek Walcott. Here’s where his line took me.
Category: Short Prose
Agrigento
Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s
Creative Challenge #040, using pic #1.
This is where the image took me.
Cosmic Confrontation
MUSINGS
Written for Eugi’s Moonwashed
Weekly Prompt, incorporating
her lines “life in a fairytale world”,
“cotton candy clouds”, “safe harbor
and “reset optional”. Image courtesy
of Mike Jackson @ Only Murders In My
Mind Weekly Writing Prompt. This is my take.
Desperate Times
This is The Unicorn Challenge
where we are encouraged to write
a story in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration.
This is my story.
Ten Dollar Words
A few years ago, I wrote a story I really loved.
I knew I wanted to use it again today but needed
to chop off about 150 words to make it work.
I sure hope it’s as good today as it was then.
This is Friday Fictioneers and here is my story.
One Shot
Written for OLWG #416.
The prompts appear below.
This is my story.
Kissing Lake Ontario
Written for dVerse Prosery Monday:
Prosery In the Words of Lisa Bellamy.
Our host Sanaa asks us to write a 144
word story using the quote shown at
the bottom of the page. This is my prose.
At Morn
Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #401
using the word “quagmire” and Eugi’s Moonwashed
Weekly Prompt with the required word “drizzly”.
In exactly 63 words, this is my story.
A Dangerous Profession: Conclusion
Written for OLWG, FOWC and
Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge.
This is the conclusion to my story.
When Push Comes To Shove: The Continuing Story of Harvey and Fiona
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked
to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo
below as inspiration. This is my 4th story about Harvey
and Fiona; for my previous stories, please click here.
Early each morning on her way to work, Fiona passed the busy bakery in the heart of town. She loved the shamrock-green storefront and the delicious aroma of baked goods, and imagined herself working there.
Maneuvering the heavy pressing machines at her job took its toll on Fiona; she was exhausted and complained of backaches. Harvey barked that she better toughen up because no way was she quitting that job. And for the first time, he slapped her.
On Sunday morning Fiona asked Harvey to bring down the mixing bowl from the top shelf in the kitchen so she could make an apple pie. Grousing, but inwardly delighting at the prospect of dessert, Harvey took a long swig of his beer and got the stepladder out of the closet. As he started to climb, Fiona managed to hoist a five pound sack of apples, grimacing at the awful pain in her back, and bashed Harvey as hard as she could on the back of his head. He fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. He would never slap her again.
Fiona tore open the sack of apples, dumped them into the colander on the counter and shoved the empty sack into the trash. She looked at Harvey’s dead body; blood had pooled under his head and she felt sick to her stomach. Fiona vomited in the sink, then washed her face and hands; she lifted the receiver of the wall phone and called the police.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Push Comes To Shove” by Van Halen.
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Descent Into Madness
Melissa is our host for dVerse Prosery Monday. She has asked us to write a prose story of up to 144 words using the quote “I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye” by Edgar Allan Poe. Here is my prose in exactly 144 words.
It was no secret that Frederick’s father committed suicide, due, in no small part, to his wife’s constant belittling. The note he left read “The vile bitch! I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye”.
Not wanting his mother to be alone, and despite his wife Helene’s protests, Frederick moved his mother into their home. He hoped the two women might provide some companionship for each other but they soon began arguing.
Helene could do nothing right in her mother-in-law’s eyes. The old woman went so far as to flaunt Helene’s inability to have a baby, goading her on by calling her wretched, a desiccated vessel, a disappointing failure.
Now the pain and humiliation had taken its toll and Helene began her descent into madness. One day while Frederick was at work, she bludgeoned his mother to a bloody pulp.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is “Song by Edgar Allan Poe”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Move Over!
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where
we are asked to feature the word “move”. Here’s my stream.
Here it is …. the so-called unofficial start of summer …. and we’re celebrating Memorial Day once again in my neck of the woods – Southern Westchester County in New York. In case you’re not familiar with the area, Manhattan is about a 45-minute drive south – far enough away for us to be in the suburbs but close enough to get into NYC for a show or dinner if we want to. We’re approximately an hour from Jones Beach heading east out to Long Island and 2 hours from the Catskill Mountains up north.
We’re in a nice spot and we’ve loved living here for 45+ years but we often bring up the topic of making a move. And why would we do that if it’s so nice here? Two big reasons: stupid-high property taxes and ever-increasing congestion.
Our little village was exactly that when we moved here; now the population has exploded and every family member old enough to drive has a car. We live on a very quiet cul de sac and never think about the congestion in town until we actually have to go to town. What used to be a 5 minute drive to the supermarket or post office is now triple that (or more) because of the number of cars, trucks and school buses on the move .… and let’s not even start talking about road work! There’s construction everywhere we look and some of it takes years to accomplish. By then, it’s time to start repairs again! Move it!
So, if we did decide to leave New York, the big question is …. where would we move to? I have no idea! It seems like everyone complains about the same problems of high taxes and too much congestion no matter where they live. Besides, the physical act of clearing out the house, packing up, moving and relocating at this stage of our lives is daunting; I can barely manage packing for vacation!
Things to think about, for sure. For now, I think I’ll move out onto the deck, sit in my lounge chair, drink my iced tea and listen to the birds. Bill will light the grill around 2PM; now that you know where I live, c’mon over!
It’s time to roll out some Nat King Cole and “Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer”!
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Blessed
Written for dVerse Poetics – May 7, 2024 –
Pilgrimage, Wandering and Walkabout
Did you ever find yourself in a situation that was so intense, everything around you ceased to exist? It’s an extraordinary feeling, one that’s difficult to explain without using every adverb and adjective and superlative in the English language.
The date was October 5, 1995 – a most inauspicious day – and yet I remember every detail of the events of that evening almost 30 years ago. At the time I was quite active in my church as a choir member, leader of song, and director of the children’s choir. Our adult choir was one of the best in the county and we were selected by Cardinal O’Connor of New York to sing for His Holiness Pope John Paul II during his visit to St. Joseph’s Seminary in Yonkers, New York. When the Cardinal requests someone’s services, it is an honor and should be treated as such.
For those of you old enough to remember Pope John Paul II, he was universally beloved and is now Saint John Paul II after his beatification on May 1, 2011. He possessed a spirituality that is rare among men, a divine nature of love, peace, kindness and forgiveness.
On that October day in ‘95, in the evening after vespers, it was arranged for John Paul II to have a walkabout around the grounds of the seminary. It was then that I had the greatest honor of my life .… to meet His Holiness and to receive his blessing. The moment I placed my hand in his and looked into his most serene and forgiving blue eyes, I knew I was in the presence of a divine being. There is no other way to describe how I felt other than to say it was rapturous; I had never felt that way before or since.
I have led a charmed life when it comes to meeting famous people …. just a matter of being in the right place at the right time …. but there is nothing that will ever surpass this encounter.
Time and events have a way of changing our perspective and I am no longer a member of the Catholic Church; however, my break from Catholicism has not and never will change the events of October 5, 1995 nor how I felt that day. It is something that will remain with me until my final days on earth.
NAR©2024
This is Kenny Chesney with “Song For The Saints”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Never The Same
Our host Björn at dVerse Poets has asked us to write
no more than 144 words, incorporating the highlighted line
from Tomas Tranströmer’s poem “After Someone’s Death.”
The night of my husband’s funeral was the loneliest point in my life. After everyone went home, I was totally alone in the house I shared with Ned for 12 years. I don’t ever remember the house being so cold and quiet. Moonlight engulfed our bedroom yet emptiness was all around. I sat on Ned’s side of the bed and ran my hands over his pillow. It was shockingly cold and my mind drifted back to this morning in Arlington. Row upon row of neat marble headstones, Ned’s fallen brothers in arms, all the names swallowed up by the cold. Hugging his pillow tightly, I cried for the first time in three days. There was a gaping hole in my heart, in my life, and I knew I would never be the same. I don’t ever remember the house being so cold and quiet.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is “Brothers In Arms” by Dire Straits
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
The Elephant's Trunk 