Our gracious host, Rochelle, is asking us to get
creative in 100 words or less using the photo
seen below. Welcome to Friday Fictioneers.
This is where the prompt took me.
Tag: Children
RDP Tuesday: achievement
Written for RDP where Martha asks
“What’s one of your greatest achievements?”
Here’s my response. Thanks, Martha!
RDP Wednesday: shuttle
Today at RDP, sgeiol has asked us to share a story,
poem, photo, painting, essay, etc., focusing
on the word ‘shuttle’. Here’s my take.
You’re It!
Written for RDP Monday
Today’s prompt is: Tag
Is Magic Real?
Smiling Girls & Rosy Boys
Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing
Prompt #426 using the word ‘plethora’;
in exactly 67 words, this is my take.
Suspended Animation
This is The Unicorn Challenge where we are
encouraged to write a story in 250 words or
less using the photo below as inspiration.
I used a story of mine from 2019 which I
remembered the minute I saw the image.
Quiet Desperation
Written for OLWG #418.
The prompts appear below.
This is my story.
The Mission
Written for Sue & Gerry’s Weekly Prompts
Weekend Challenge using the prompt word
“hang”. The amazing graphic shown below
is by Kevin @ The Beginning At Last/
No Theme Thursday. This is my flash.
From Tiny Seeds
Written for Shweta’s Saturday Six Word Story
Prompt #133 – ‘kindness’. This is my tiny story.
Unaffected
Written for Shweta’s Saturday Six Word Challenge #129.
The prompt this week is “vision”. Here is my 6 word story.
Boxful Of Memories
Written for Esther’s Writing Prompts #50
where the prompt word is “photographs”.
This is my family’s true story.
Potty Mouth
Written for OLWG #402. The three prompts
for this week are given below. This my story.
Getting To Know Me
Written for Kymber Hawke’s Get To Know You #48
Here are her three question and my three answers.
Another World
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Our host Rochelle
asks us to use the photo below as inspiration
to write creatively in 100 words or less while
making every word count. This is my flash.
Things were easier then, life was different. Kids felt safe in their little bubbles. I’d cycle to my piano lessons, cutting through the empty lot without a shred of fear.
I’d ring the bell for my lesson; if my teacher didn’t answer immediately, I’d wait on the bench. One time I waited so long, I was about to leave when the door flew open and a girl came running out, sobbing, her clothes a disheveled mess. My teacher called out after her.
My only reason for ever feeling fear was the way my piano teacher looked at me that day.
NAR©2024
100 Words
This is “Wash Away Those Years” by Creed
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for Nancy ~ The Sicilian Storyteller, Nancy (The Sicilian Storyteller), The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk, and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
In My Life
Written for Tanka Tuesday Poetry Challenge,
Specific Form 11/19/24. My theme is ‘family’.
I have chosen to write a Shadorma, a Spanish
poetic form that consists of six-line stanzas (sestets)
with a specific syllable count for each line: (3/5/3/3/7/5).
Gashkuduro
Written for Wordle #678; I have incorporated the 12 words
which you see below into my story and featured one of the
amazing images created by Kevin at No Theme Thursday.
Here is my story; heed the warnings within.
ghoulish・night・wind・tricks・spin・wrap
spell・within・dead・crypt・buried・wicked
Family Affair
Written for Song Lyric Sunday. This week Jim Adams
has asked his readers in his post ‘Quality Time’ to write about
a song dealing with parenting or a child/parent relationship.
This theme was my suggestion and here is my reply.
Bisnonna*
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. Here is my story.
The ambience in our house was different today, quietly busy as delivery men and acquaintances paying their respects came and went. My father and mother’s uncles directed the traffic of floral deliveries and positioned the many arrangements throughout the parlor. My mother and her aunts labored in the kitchen like silent worker bees preparing trays of food for the funeral dinner tomorrow.
We children sat meekly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically restrained. Occasionally we would glance toward the elevated casket in the center of the room and quickly look away. At 6:00 we were whisked off to the dining room where we wordlessly ate our evening meal, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil.
There seemed to be a never-ending flow of people, a soft parade of mourners entering our house. Veiled women dabbed their eyes and men removed their hats, heads bowed. This stream flowed seamlessly from 2:00 in the afternoon until 9:30 that evening, many people lingering to reflect while caressing their rosary beads. A priest arrived shortly after 9:30; he spoke softly in our native Sicilian dialect, offering prayers and words of consolation. When he was finished, everyone except my mother’s aunts and uncles departed. My little cousins, some no longer able to stay awake, were carried home and my sister and I were shooed off to our bedroom upstairs.
It had been a long and sorrowful day. My great-grandmother, the family matriarch, had died.
NAR©2024
250 Words
*Bisnonna is the Sicilian word for “great-grandmother”.
Author’s Note: I was nine years old when my great-grandmother died. Much of that day is etched in my mind; in particular, I remember being unable to sleep that night knowing there was a dead body in a coffin downstairs in my parlor. Never ever will I forget the cold and waxy feel of my bisnonna’s skin on my lips as I, along with all the other children, lined up to place a kiss on her forehead … not something we did willingly.
This is “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones
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.
Feeling The Burn
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are
encouraged to get creative by writing a story
of no more than 100 words using this photo
as our inspiration. Here is my 100 word story.
It was the summer of ’59 and I was going to spend July and August with my cousins at the shore. I’d been packing since my last day of school, finishing two days before taking off.
The following morning I awoke with fever, sore throat, bumpy tongue and a facial rash. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. The disease was highly contagious. I was prescribed antibiotics and my parents were warned to keep me home.
My summer plans were abruptly cancelled; I was dejected. All I could do was watch my friends playing, my nose pressed up against the window screen.
NAR©2024
100 Words
This is “Fever” by Little Willie John
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.
Suspended Animation
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word,
in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of
no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
© NAR
“Mangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimento” – (“Eat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenico’s face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concetta’s chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concetta’s face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concetta’s mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughter’s mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear “Mai più, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!” – (“Never again, Concetta; obey your father!”)
NAR©2024
This is a Sicilian folksong called “Mi votu e mi rivotu” (“I toss and I turn”)
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.
For My Daughters-In-Law On Mother’s Day
Daughters-in-law are our grandchildren’s mothers.
As such, they carry our fortunes downstream.
Under their guidance, our hopes become others’,
Giving their force to a much larger dream.
How lucky we are to have you for the carer
That nurtures the hearts of our hearts, that they may
Each be a lover, a giver and sharer,
Remaking the world in their image each day.
So do we all, like streams from the mountains,
In time become joined in the souls we have made,
Now mingled forever, eternal companions,
Linked by our love in a bond that won’t fade.
As you in your noontime your work of love do,
We watch from the hillside, grateful for you.
NAR©2024
This is “My Wish For You” by Rascal Flatts
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.
The Floor Lamp
Written for Six Sentence Story
where the prompt word is “present”
When little Summer was just a few days old, her mother Laura started the tradition of sitting with her in the nursery to read stories before bed; in the corner of the nursery was an old floor lamp that used to belong to Laura’s grandparents, Momma and Poppy, and it filled the nursery with a soft, soothing glow.
As a little girl, Laura spent a lot of time with Momma and Poppy and the three of them developed a deep and loving bond so when Momma and Poppy passed away, the one thing Laura asked for was the floor lamp which was in the bedroom of their house where little Laura napped; now, each night Laura would tell baby Summer all about her beloved Momma and Poppy.
This one particular night as Laura and Summer were sitting in the nursery, the glow from the floor lamp caught the baby’s attention and she was captivated by it, something Laura thought was a sweet connection, especially since the lamp originally belonged to Momma and Poppy, Summer’s great-grandparents, but then Laura noticed a pattern developing, a pattern that would repeat two or three times most nights at Summer’s bedtime where the baby would gaze calmly and quietly at the lamp, then slowly begin to coo, gurgle and giggle for a few minutes before becoming animated – smiling, eyes glowing, arms waving, laughing and babbling loudly – then back again to quietness but still very much attracted to and aware of the lamp …. even when the floor lamp was off, Summer was attracted to it.
One afternoon when Summer was around 3 years old, Laura heard her talking and laughing, just like she did when playing with her stuffed animals, and when Laura peeked into Summer’s room expecting to find her little girl on the bed, she was surprised to see her in the big over-stuffed chair where Laura read bedtime stories; the floor lamp was lit and Summer appeared to be having a happy and lively conversation – not with her stuffed animals but with the lamp.
When Laura asked Summer who she was so happily talking to, the little girl was quick to reply “Momma and Poppy, of course; can’t you see them, Mommy?”
Laura caught her breath for a moment but she was not completely shocked for she knew Momma and Poppy’s lamp was special – the very reason Laura wanted it in her own home, but she didn’t realize how special it was; Laura never tried to stop Summer from talking to the lamp for she truly believed the spirits of Momma and Poppy were present and Summer’s conversations with them were real …. and who are we to say they weren’t. 🪽
NAR©2024
This is “Guardian Angels” performed by John McLaughlin, Larry Coryell and Paco De Lucia
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.
Berry Picking
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has once again
challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story
using the prompt word “nail”. This is my story.
When I first saw him I thought I was hallucinating (was this a real person or a fear-induced illusion?) and I knew I had to remain perfectly still and quiet – my very life depended on it.
I had no idea how long I’d been there – certainly long enough for my skin to have turned red, my mouth parched, my lips cracked and I remember being stung and bitten by insects and digging my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from crying out, but I recall now … we were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field … we had been following a stream and unknowingly wandered far from home when I caught sight of a bush hidden deep in a shady area; the plant was heavy with ripe blackberries and I couldn’t resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.
I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams – not the usual giddy, playful squeals of young girls but awful shrieks of terror and I started to run back only to see my three sisters encircled by a group of Indians, hulking and menacing men, blocking the girl’s attempts to flee; they wore breechcloths across their midsection, moccasins and no shirts, their faces painted and their heads shaved except for a center strip of upright long hair and I knew immediately they were the dreaded Mohawk.
They tugged the girl’s long blonde hair, poked them with sticks and tore at their starched white dresses.
I wanted to shout out but was too afraid and I hid while my sweet little sisters were raped and raped and raped.
At 15, I was the eldest and I was supposed to protect them; how could I be such a coward?
NAR©2024
This is Albinoni’s ‘Adagio In G Minor”
Death In The Family
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is asking us to
write a Six Sentence Story using the word “pass”.
This is my six sentence story.
The house is quiet tonight ….eerily quiet …. for all the lights are off and only the glow of candles shines dimly through the curtained windows, performing a ballet of shadows on the walls and ceiling; every so often a door softly opens, barely perceptible murmurings are audible, then the door gently closes as intermittent muted sobbing creeps up from the parlor.
I sit on my bed huddled under a blanket, a tiny flashlight flickering a pale yellow beam on my diary as I jot down my memories of the day; I must be quiet because my mother will be very upset with me if she discovers I’m still awake at this late hour.
My window is open just enough to let in some fresh air and the distinct smell of cigarette smoke wafts up into my room; I peek out to see my mother’s uncles sitting on the back steps silently smoking their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes, their black armbands starkly visible against their plain starched white shirts.
I tip-toe across the length of my bedroom, praying the old wooden floorboards beneath the well-worn rug will not creak and ever so slowly I turn the glass doorknob; the hallway is dark but I can detect a muted light downstairs and I scurry nearer to the staircase railing for a better look as I sit there hugging my knees asking myself if I should creep downstairs and take a peek.
A few hours earlier the ambience of the house was much different, still subdued but active as delivery men came and went and acquaintances passed through the hallway into the parlor to pay their respects while my mother and the other women labored in the kitchen like mute worker bees, preparing trays of food for the constant flow of visitors, and my father, along with my uncles, positioned the many floral arrangements throughout the parlor; we children sat quietly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically subdued, occasionally glancing toward the walnut casket resting atop a platform in the center of the room and quickly look away.
Around 6:00 we were quietly whisked away into the dining room where we silently ate our supper, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil; it had been a long and sorrowful day, the longest day in our young lives, for the family matriarch, my great-grandmother had died.
This is Enrico Caruso singing “Mamma mia, che vo’sapé” (“My mother, what did you know?”)
NAR©2024
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is 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 IVY GARDEN
From our kitchen window I can see my little girl Nell playing with her new best friend Elena. Since moving to Atlanta two months ago, the girls have become inseparable. They are both four years old and about the same height but that’s where the physical similarities end.
Nell is a green-eyed lanky Irish redhead covered in a profusion of freckles while Elena is a slightly plump Spanish beauty with brown doe eyes, smooth tanned skin and lustrous black hair.
As I stand at the kitchen sink I can see the girls frolicking in the yard with Elena’s puppy, Pongo. Their energy is boundless as they dash back and forth from the swings to the trampoline to their bikes. They like to play a funny game where little Pongo is a scary monster chasing them around the yard …. and Pongo is always happy to oblige.
Moving around the kitchen doing my chores, I can hear Elena counting, followed by an excited “ready or not….here I come”, then the hysterical giggles as Nell’s secret (but usual!) hiding place is discovered.
The yard is fenced in and I’m completely aware of the girls and what they’re doing …. most of the time. Occasionally they’ll wander into a concealed corner of the garden to pick wild flowers for me and Elena’s mom. Even though I can’t see them, I can clearly hear their conspiratorial mumblings as they go from one blossom to the other.
“Buttercups, Daisies and Lillies of the Valley” whispered Elena.
“And some pretty shiny ivy” added Nell. “Mommy likes shiny things.”
All was quiet and I presumed the girls would come dashing into the kitchen and present me with a freshly-picked bouquet; instead Pongo bounded in, yipping and yapping like crazy …. an omen that all is not as it should be. To my relief, there’s no sign of anything unusual in the dining room. The front door is locked and my handbag is still resting on the desk where I left it. To my amazement, on the crisp white tablecloth sat a short blue glass vase brimming with Daisies, Buttercups, Lillies of the Valley and ivy. It was breathtaking.
I stood there admiring the green, white and golden cluster when suddenly I heard woeful whimpering and sobbing nearby. Pongo gave a little tug on the end of the tablecloth and there, huddled closely, were Nell and Elena, their little bodies covered in itchy red rashes. Only then did I realize the vine in the vase with flowers was poison ivy!
“Come with me, my sweet girls. It’s nothing a little calamine lotion won’t fix. Thank you for the flowers …. the most beautiful I’ve ever seen! Won’t daddy be surprised when he comes home tonight!” I said, smiling and chuckling to myself.
And tomorrow we will rid the garden of all the pretty shiny ivy.
NAR©2024
This is Spanky and Our Gang with “Lazy Day”
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is 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.
Chastised
My quadrille for dVerse
using the word ‘imagine’
As a former children’s choir director,
I often rewrote the lyrics
to favorite songs.
My days as a lyricist ended
after being chastised by a pastor
who accused me of
‘lacking imagination’
by using the same melody
and ‘simply changing the words‘.
Imagine that!
NAR©2024
44 Words
A lovely dream …. Just imagine!
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is 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.
LONGYEARBYEN
It’s time once again for The Unicorn Challenge,
and oh, what a challenge it was this time!
Here is my response to the photo prompt below.
Little Arvid was just a wee babe when his parents were tragically killed in a sledding accident. The only family he had was his Uncle Gunnar and Aunt Sigrid, who happily took him in to live with them. They were childless and lovingly raised their nephew.
Gunnar and Sigrid were little people, married for so long, neither one could recollect; their devotion was so rare, it kept them young. In fact they hadn’t aged at all since the day they married!
They lived in a tiny house in the world’s northernmost town of Longyearbyen, just 650 miles from the North Pole.
As Arvid grew, it became obvious that he, too, would be a little person; this was no problem because almost everyone in the town of Longyearbyen was a little person.
When Arvid reached the age of 8, Gunnar and Sigrid knew it was time for “the talk”. With great care they led Arvid into a small privy which was so secluded, Arvid had never seen it before. There was an imposing teal blue safe inside …. how very curious! Arvid was even more surprised when Uncle Gunnar opened the safe’s door to find it led directly outdoors!
The little family hopped on a long sled parked outside and sped down the snowy mountains until they reached the most magical place of all …. The North Pole! Soon, alongside his aunt and uncle, Arvid learned the mystical wonders of life …. helping Santa make toys for good girls and boys.
NAR © 2023
250 Words
Ho! Ho! Ho! This is “Jingle Bell Rock (Daryl’s Version)” by Hall & Oates, pre-restraining order, don’t you know. Yeah, it is! 🎅🏼
THE BIG STING
Open a map of New York, go as far east as possible and you’ll find the town of Montauk – a laid-back fishing village kissing the Atlantic Ocean. I lived there for the first 18 years of my life with my brother and parents before heading off to college.
Winters were harsh and barren, a sharp contrast to the summers teeming with tourists escaping the cramped and sweaty streets of Manhattan in search of the perfect wave, the perfect tan and the perfect lobster roll. Springtime in Montauk is mesmerizing with trees budding, flowers sprouting up through the ground and the delicious smell of the ocean. We’d keep the windows open at night and fall asleep to the sound of the waves.
Our house was off the beaten path, with only two neighbors within walking distance. In the house on the left lived a young couple with rambunctious five year old triplets: Timothy, Thomas and Theodore – ‘The Terrorizing Trio’. Befitting their status as triplets, the boys had identical mountain bikes – one red, one blue, one green – which they rode with wild abandon on the dirt road, through our back yards and down to the beach.
Our neighbor on the right was the usually phlegmatic Doctor MacGregor – never-married, retired history professor-turned-nature-enthusiast. He was particularly particular about the upkeep of his yard and the glorious profusion of flowers attracting all varieties of birds and insects. His pride and joy was a tall redwood apiary which housed eight honeycomb trays. Inside reigned the queen, surrounded by her working and droning subjects. Mac, our secret nickname for the professor, would don his protective gear every day and inspect the hives and the honey production, all the while puttering and muttering, making sure everything was as it should be.
And it always was …. except for THAT day when mom happened to be outside hanging the laundry; she looked up at the sky and saw a huge black swarm rapidly approaching. Mom ran into the house and yelled for us to “close all the windows and doors”; we watched anxiously as thousands of buzzing bees hovered over our house, took a sharp turn and headed straight for town. After the bees took off, we were shocked to hear the usually mild-mannered Mac angrily shouting and cursing; we ran over to see what had gotten him all riled up.
Trevor, the triplet’s father, raced over from the other direction to see what all the commotion was about. We all arrived at the professor’s yard at the same time to discover a disheveled and blustering Mac wandering around the remnants of his beloved apiary. Splintered pieces lay in a heap on the ground, the redwood gouged and marred with clearly visible traces of blue, red and green paint. Trevor groaned audibly and raced out of Mac’s yard toward his own house, yelling out the triplet’s names as he ran. It was obvious they had crashed their bikes into the apiary and were probably hiding from the inevitable fallout.
As we silently helped Mac clean up the mess, we became aware of screaming and shouting off in the distance; it was coming from the village as horrified townsfolk ran for cover from the angrily stinging horde of bees.
It took a long time for the residents of normally tranquil Montauk to settle down after that day; the only one who benefited from the bee attack was the town G.P., who was kept busy tending sting after sting after sting.
As for Timothy, Thomas and Theodore …. they were found hiding behind their garage crying and covered from head to toe in bee stings. The boys were in a lot of discomfort (not to mention trouble). Trevor felt sorry for his sons and he was not unsympathetic but the triplets needed to be punished for the damage to Mac’s apiary. They were grounded for three weeks – one week for each boy – and their scraped bicycles were temporarily locked away in the shed.
As for Professor MacGregor …. he’s taken up birdwatching.
NAR © 2023
Join me today
for the third installment of
I’m With The Banned.
It’s a good one today!
https://rhythmsection.blog/
IT’S A JUNGLE OUT THERE
Today Sadje is asking us “What do you see?”
Here’s my take on this photo prompt.
“Hold it right there, Bitsy. Where are you going with Sissy’s lion?”
“I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”
“Ok, but it might make you feel better if you do.”
“Nuthin’s gonna make it better.”
“Nothing, eh? Well, that sounds like a mighty big problem.”
“It is, Grammy.”
“You know, big problems become small ones when you share them with someone.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure! Why don’t you share your problem with me?”
“Mr. Lion’s ear came off.”
“I see. And you’re afraid Sissy will find out, right?”
“Right.”
“Can I take a look at Mr. Lion?”
“No. I don’t want you to.”
“Not even if I can fix his ear? Remember when I fixed your bunny’s tail?”
“I’m just gonna hide Mr. Lion.”
“Ok, that’s a good idea, Bitsy …. until Sissy comes home from school.”
“Sissy’s gonna be real sad.”
“I think you’re right about that, Bitsy.”
“Can you really fix him, Grammy?”
“Well, I won’t know until I take a look.”
“Ok, here.”
“Hmm. You know, I think I have this color thread in my sewing box.”
“You do?”
“I think so but I have a big problem, Bitsy. I have trouble seeing the eye of the needle to get it threaded. Can you help me?”
“I can do that!”
“Great! Mr. Lion will be good as new.”
“And Sissy won’t ever know!”
“Now just a minute, Bitsy. You still have to tell Sissy.”
“But why, Grammy?”
“Because you were playing with Sissy’s lion behind her back. That’s sneaky and not a good way to behave. You understand, Bitsy? It’s important.”
“I guess.”
“Ok. Let’s work on this together.”
“Grammy, can we have ice cream?”
“We sure can …. just as soon as Sissy gets home.”
NAR © 2023
What do you see # 212- 13 November, 2023
This is “It’s A Jungle Out There” by Randy Newman:
Please stop by
The Rhythm Section
today as we celebrate
Birthday Thursdays.
There will be ice cream!
🍨
https://rhythmsection.blog/
The Elephant's Trunk 