Written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge 411.
The following quote is suggested as our muse:
“It was not my idea, but it happened.”
This is where my imagination took me.
Tag: Passion
Fever Pitch: A Cinquain
Written for Cinquain Poetry Prompt #27.
Our inspiration word is “blaze”.
This is my mirror cinquain.
The Deep End
Written for OLWG #420.
The prompts appear below.
Image created by Kevin @
The Beginning At Last/
No Theme Thursday.
This is my story.
Gotta Get Through January
Glyn’s new Mixed Music Bag began today.
He’s asking us to write about a song in which
the title or a line mentions the current month.
Here’s my featured January artist and his song.
Remembering 1967
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are
challenged to incorporate the word “platform” into
a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
Flower child, barefoot Woodstock hippie …. no, she was never one of those; she was always the sophisticated cool one with her oh so very low-rise jeans, alluring halter tops, ridiculously high platform shoes and drop dead smile.
At twenty she was chic in a smooth and sensual way that was second nature, never one who had to try too hard; she had IT while embracing her imperfections which made her intoxicatingly irresistible.
Living in the fast lane, she danced all night at clubs, rocked out at concerts and hung out with everyone from judges to junkies even though she never really enjoyed drugs with the exception of the indescribably exquisite quaalude which now, at 75, she smiles and remembers coming on to the sounds of Procol Harum.
Memories of 1967, the Summer of Love …. friends and lovers, never a lack of either; men were drawn to her and women were envious of her but it was impossible not to like her.
She was no alley cat, no “screw-‘em-in-the-disco-bathroom” type; she made the rules to her game: never do anything you don’t want to and stop whenever you feel uncomfortable.
Her life was and still is a passionate one with no useless regrets, inadequate apologies or unbelievable explanations …. only her scars which show a life well lived …. and that’s exactly how she likes it.
NAR©2024
This is “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” by Procol Harum
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.
Fire Dance
Written for Story Starter – Saturday Mix and
Weekend Writing Prompt #356 –
prompt word ‘froward’ – 46 words exactly
In a fit of rage, she smashed her champagne glass on the marble floor and stared defiantly at him.
“I dare you!” she challenged, her breasts heaving.
How he adored this obstinate, froward redhead he’d married. He pulled her to him, hungrily kissing her swollen lips.
NAR©2024
46 Words
This is “Fire Dance” by Rainbow
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.
IF ONLY
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has challenged us
to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “heart”;
this is my six sentence response.
If only I could touch you,
gently caress your face
and look deeply into your eyes.
If only I could sweetly kiss your mouth
softly like a butterfly on a flower petal
and linger there breathing quietly against your lips.
If only I could run my hands slowly down your arms
and entwine my fingers with yours,
feeling your heart beating against my chest.
If only I could lay beside you
as you run your fingers through my hair,
my bare leg splayed across yours.
If only I could give you my heart
but you are a mere fantasy
and that, I fear, will never change.
If only.
NAR©2024
This is The Platters with “Only You”
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.
NIP TUCK
“Attribution, retribution, convolution, resolution! All I am saying is give Reese a chance!”
Sprawled out in the stern of our cabin cruiser, my wife Reese drunkenly belted out her version of John Lennon’s hit song. I was piloting the boat on our return trip from a weekend wedding celebration on Catalina Island; Reese’s sister Margaux had gotten married … again.
Like her sister, Reese had a terrible track record in the marriage department. She was on her third husband – recording industry mogul David Hamlin – when we began our affair. I was a confirmed bachelor living very comfortably in an exclusive penthouse in the city. After her divorce I moved into Reese’s mountain-top estate in Bel-Air, California. I had the dubious distinction of becoming husband number four.
I’m Dr. Jeremy Phillips, plastic surgeon to the rich and famous in Beverly Hills; Reese was one of my patients. As her doctor and lover, I learned her deep dark secrets: her expensive cocaine habit, compulsive shopping on Rodeo Drive, her penchant for Grey Goose and an addiction to plastic surgery. She was beautiful in everyone’s eyes except her own. She wanted me to turn her into a goddess, which I did.
When drunk Reese could be either a sexy vixen or a slutty bitch; tonight was definitely the latter. She struggled into an upright position, slowly got to her feet and staggered toward me, one hand grasping the boat railing and the other a bottle of vodka.
“For fuck’s sake, Jeremy, why do you always have to wear that ridiculous outfit? You look like a stupid overgrown kid playing dress-up!” Reese slurred. She drained the bottle, dropping it on the deck.
“This is proper nautical attire, darling, perfectly appropriate for every occasion” I replied. “But you don’t know the meaning of proper and appropriate. You’re all but falling out of your dress.”
Reese ran her hands up and down her tanned body, laughing as she hiked her dress up around her waist revealing her perfectly sculpted derriere. She wriggled herself between me and the steering wheel and lowered her top; her magnificent breasts shimmered in the moonlight.
“What’s wrong, Captain? Don’t you like the way I look? All the other men do” Reese purred tauntingly. “Margaux’s new husband loves every inch of me. He can’t get enough! You know, Jeremy, you always were a lousy lay. Maybe that’s why you got this big bad boat – to compensate for your tiny dick!” and she laughed again.
“Darling Reese, you’re nothing but a drunken whore. You disgust me!” I snarled and she reached up to slap my face. I grabbed her wrist and she looked up at my enraged face, her eyes wide with uncharacteristic fear. And in that moment she knew.
I shoved her out of the way and she fell, hitting her head with a sickening thud. Putting the boat in neutral I quickly checked on Reese; she was dead, a large jagged crack in her forehead oozing blood. Carefully I adjusted her dress and looked around the boat making sure nothing was out of place.
We were near Marabella Marina but just out of earshot. Heading for the dock I placed a frantic phone call. “Mayday! Mayday! Emergency on board the ‘Nip Tuck’! We need an ambulance at Marabella. My wife is badly injured. Hurry!”
The police asked me a few routine questions but it was obvious Reese’s death was a tragic accident. My wife clearly had too much to drink; she lost her balance and fell. It happened so fast I couldn’t prevent it … even if I wanted to.
NAR © 2020
The Elephant's Trunk 