“’It wasn’t that long ago when Ethan was rarely bothered by mosquitos, but this year he’s being eaten alive by them’.”
I wrote that in my diary just a few weeks ago.
Thank you all for joining us today as we say ‘farewell’ to my beloved husband, Ethan …. another innocent victim struck down in the prime of life by the dastardly mosquito. Ethan was attacked last week while bringing out the trash for pick-up in the morning; it was just a quick run to the curb but he didn’t have his EpiPen on him. Who knew just a few moments later he’d be in cardiac arrest from anaphylactic shock?
Ethan was never bothered by mosquitos before and at first it was just an annoying surprise when he started developing a reaction a few months ago. The change in him was sudden and drastic and, as much as I will miss him, I’m so thankful his time of suffering was short.
Doctors can’t say whether this is a genetic trait, if our children Evan, Ella and Emily will develop this horrible allergy. To help our children realize the seriousness of this situation and to protect them, Ethan has left them his award-winning collection of swatters, his supply of EpiPens, his boxes of citronella candles, his stash of DEET and, of course, his journal.
When the allergic reactions started, Ethan began writing down his thoughts; as a poet, he wrote some of his best work over the recent months.He was most evocativein his agony.
In closing I would like to read one of his most poignant poems. It’s called ‘Ode To The Mosquito’. And please .… next time you see a mosquito, ask yourselves ‘What would Ethan do?’“
Ode To The Mosquito
How can such a little thing Be so damn annoying? Flying round my arms and legs It’s bothersome and cloying.
Go away, you vile thing I’ll swat you with a stick. You’re not welcome in my home You nasty little prick!
Who would think that tiny guy Could be such a bloody sucker? When he sticks his fangs in me I scream “You Motherf*#+er!”
You get me every time I’m out; My blood is extra sweet. Come and get me, little twit! Tonight I’m packing DEET!
Yesterday was our anniversary, wed 52 years. No partynecessary.
None of our friends who married around the same time are still together. How sad is that?
People have asked “What’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?” For us it’s pretty simple: respect, communication, honesty, having a sense of humor.
When you combine those ingredients, love happens. You can manage the lows and celebrate the peaks, watch the dawns and the sunsets, walk hand-in-hand through the ordinary and make it extraordinary.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where we are asked to start our piece with a question. Bonus points have been hinted at if we also end our piece with a question. Here is my questionable stream based on a conversation I had with my husband.
“What would you say if I decided to let my hair go natural? You know, go grey?”
“I’d have to ask why you would want to do that. You always take great pride in looking younger than you are. Wouldn’t grey hair make you look older?”
“Well, I’m not sure we can toss a blanket over all women with grey hair and say they look older. There are other factors that come into play. I’ve always had great skin. Won’t I still have great skinif I go grey? How can I just arbitrarily assume I will look older?”
“Ok, I’ll give you that much. You can’t assume you will definitely look older. You’ve told me how much you like the color of your hair. I’m surprised you’re suddenly considering changing it. Where is this coming from?”
“Honestly, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It would be so much easier not having to color my hair and get highlights every couple of months. Besides, when we were at your sister’s house the other day, I was the only woman who still colors her hair.”
“And you were the best looking one at the table!”
“You have to say that; I’m your wife! Your sister’s grey hair looks gorgeous. I know women who’d kill to have her color.”
“But there’s no guarantee you’ll end up with the same color, is there?”
“Well, no …. I suppose not. But my colorist is so talented, I just know she’d do a great job transitioning my hair.”
“Now I’m confused. If you want to stop coloring your hair, what does your colorist have to do with any of this?”
“My colorist will add some grey to my hair …. like getting highlightsonly they’d be grey instead of blonde. She’d gradually add more until my hair is completely grey, then I can naturally let my grey roots grow out.”
“Seem’s like an awful lot of work to me. Why not just stop coloring your hair and let nature take it’s course?”
“That’s a terrible idea! It’ll take forever and look awful growing out!”
“Well, if you’re convinced this is what you want, I’m not going to stop you.”
“I’m not at all convinced this is what I want; that’s why I asked you in the first place.”
“Ok, then my answer to your question is ‘Don’t go gray. I love your hair color the way it is.”
“Well, I’ll have to give that more thought. What do you think about me cutting my hair?”
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo prompt as inspiration. This is my 2nd story of Harvey and Fiona. For another look at the 1st installment, click here.
Harvey and Fiona were as different as a gorilla and a swan but they had an undeniable chemistry and started falling in love. No one was more surprised than Fiona .… except her parents.
There was a major obstacle her parents couldn’t overlook – Harvey was Jewish. Fiona’s very Irish-Catholic father hated Harvey, calling him ‘Christ killer’ and ‘kike’. Her mother was crushed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him, Fina girl!” she warned, crying into her apron. Fiona would not be dissuaded; with a heavy heart she closed the door of her childhood home behind her and never looked back.
Harvey and Fiona were married in city hall, the judge and his clerk their only guests and witnesses. After a weekend honeymoon in Niagara Falls, the couple settled into Harvey’s tiny apartment – a walk-up on the fifth floor with a depressing view of factories and government buildings.
Harvey worked the graveyard shift as a printer at the local newspaper, seven days a week from midnight till 8:00 AM. His fingernails were perpetually stained with black ink. The first morning he came home from work and saw the newly decorated apartment, he yelled furiously at Fiona for spending his money on unnecessary things. Uncaring, he left ink stains on the new bedspread when he sat down to remove his shoes.
Fiona cried silently in the kitchen. Harvey sidled up behind her, kissed a spot below her ear and she leaned into him.
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.
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.
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but it’s a whole different ballgame when you’re on your own.
I’ll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my mother’s recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
That’s it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstone’s Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and I’d be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my mom’s jelly jar .… for old times’ sake, you know?
Written for Jim’s Song Lyric Sunday where the theme this week is all about songs that incorporate whistling
“I didn’t mean to hurt you; I’m just a jealous guy.”
For all his jokes, frenetic antics and mugging for the camera, John Lennon was a quiet and insecure man, an ardent peace-lover whose young life was filled with much sadness, great depth and many demons. He was brilliant, an extraordinary talent and, all too often, he demonstrated a sharp-tongued mean spirit and jealous streak.
According to George Harrison, his friend John could be a “saint or a total bastard”.
With a sea-faring, mostly AWOL father and a free-spirited mother whose accidental death traumatized him for years, John was raised by his Aunt Mimi and Uncle George. His mother’s memory would later serve as a major creative inspiration.
John Lennon met Cynthia Powell in 1957, when they were students at the Liverpool College of Art. Although Powell was intimidated by Lennon’s attitude and appearance, she heard that he was obsessed with the French actress Brigitte Bardot, so she dyed her hair blonde. Lennon asked her out, but when she said that she was engaged, he shouted, “I didn’t ask you to fuckin’ marry me, did I?” She often accompanied him to Quarrymen gigs and travelled to Hamburg with Paul McCartney’s girlfriend to visit him. Recalling his reaction when he learned that Cynthia was pregnant, Lennon said, “There’s only one thing for it Cyn. We’ll have to get married.” And they did; their son Julian was born a few months later.
Cynthia attributed the start of the marriage breakdown to John’s use of LSD and she felt that he slowly lost interest in her. When the group travelled by train to Wales in 1967, a policeman did not recognize Cynthia and stopped her from boarding. I guess no one .… including John …. bothered to ID her! She later recalled how the incident seemed to symbolize the end of their marriage. After spending a holiday in Greece, Cynthia arrived home to find John sitting on the floor with Yoko Ono in bathrobes; she left the house to stay with friends, feeling shocked and humiliated. A few weeks later, she received notice that Lennon was seeking a divorce on the grounds of adultery while she was away in Greece and he wanted custody of Julian. After negotiations, Lennon capitulated and agreed to let Cynthia divorce him.
John and Yoko were married and they became even more inseparable; to the surprise and consternation of everyone within the Beatles’ organization, Yoko accompanied John to the recording studio …. an undeniable first. She was a quiet but constant presence and John only had eyes for her.
After a couple of years, May Pang entered their lives as their personal assistant. About three years later, Ono confided in Pang that her marriage to Lennon had become strained and she suggested Pang reach out to John as a “sexual distraction” for him. Pang agreed; she and John soon left for Los Angeles, beginning an 18-month period John later called his “lost weekend”. ” Pang encouraged Lennon to develop regular contact with Julian, whom he had not seen for two years, as well as his former bandmates and friends.
Much to Yoko Ono’s chagrin, the “diversion” turned into a relationship. John and May Pang considered buying a house together and he refused to accept Yoko’s telephone calls. He finally agreed to meet Yoko, who claimed she had found a cure for smoking. After the meeting with Yoko, John failed to return home or call Pang. When Pang telephoned the next day, Ono told her that Lennon was unavailable because he was exhausted after a hypnotherapy session. Two days later, Lennon told Pang that his separation from Ono was now over, causing Pang to speculate that Lennon had been brainwashed (!) as a result of his hypnotherapy.
What a convoluted mess among such allegedly forward-thinking people! John and Yoko remained married until his death in 1980; they are the parents of musician Sean Lennon. Yoko Ono never remarried.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, I’m just a jealous guy.”
Those haunting lyrics from John Lennon’s timeless song, “Jealous Guy”, uncover the darker side of his iconic relationship with Yoko Ono. They are words that have rung true to anybody with insecurities and obsessions …. likely why it’s one of Lennon’s most enduring tracks. It’s also my favorite Lennon solo piece.
John Lennon began writing the song in 1968 as “Child of Nature” while with the Beatles during their spiritual retreat in India. The demo of “Child of Nature” featured Lennon’s double-tracked vocal and an acoustic guitar. Early the following year, he revisited the song as “On the Road to Rishikesh” during the Get Backsessions. Eventually, the lyrics were scrapped and replaced by the now well-known “Jealous Guy” lyrics for Imagine.
In “Jealous Guy”, John sings of his envious streak that would often result in tumult between him and Yoko; he admitted that jealousy would regularly dictate how irrational he’d behave either around her or without her. The song was never released as a single during John’s lifetime. It became an international hit in a version by Roxy Music in early 1981, the year after John’s death.
“Jealous Guy” is one of the most commonly recorded Lennon songs, with at least 92 cover versions. In November 1988, the single peaked in the United States at #22 on the Hot Adult Christian chart and reached #80 on the Billboard Hot 100 in conjunction with the release of the documentary film “Imagine: John Lennon”.
This is “Jealous Guy” by John Lennon
Lyrics
… I was dreaming of the past And my heart was beating fast I began to lose control I began to lose control
… I didn’t mean to hurt you I’m sorry that I made you cry Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you I’m just a jealous guy
… I was feeling insecure
… You might not love me anymore
… I was shivering inside I was shivering inside
… I didn’t mean to hurt you I’m sorry that I made you cry Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you I’m just a jealous guy
… I didn’t mean to hurt you I’m sorry that I made you cry Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you I’m just a jealous guy
… I was trying to catch your eyes Thought that you was trying to hide
… I was swallowing my pain I was swallowing my pain
… I didn’t mean to hurt you I’m sorry that I made you cry Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you I’m just a jealous guy I’m just a jealous guy I’m just a jealous guy
Bonus track. This is “Child of Nature” (Esher Demo) by The Beatles. (Esher is the town in England where George Harrison’s home Kinfauns was located and where the demos were recorded.)
Released November 22, 1968 Composer/Lyricist: John Lennon Producer(s): George Harrison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr Studio Personnel: Giles Martin, Mixer
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to be creative in 250 words or less using the photo prompt below. Originally written in 2022 as a 750-word story, this is my revamped submission.
I stood at the bedroom window staring at the devastation caused by the previous night’s storm. My wife Dianna is going to be crushed when she sees what happened during the night – Mother Nature at her fiercest. I heard Dianna stirring in bed.
“Mike, it’s so early. What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily.
“We had a pretty bad storm last night. It’s not good, hon. We lost some trees” I replied.
She threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, feet skimming the floor searching for discarded slippers. “Not Red. Please don’t say we lost Red!”
Dianna gasped loudly at the sight before her, then the tears came. She cried for a long time. I held her and let her cry; this was not something carelessly brushed aside or easily forgotten.
Finally her sobs lessened and with a broken heart and a weakened voice she sighed, “Poor Red! How I loved that beautiful old tree. Look at him now, a fallen soldier.”
We sat on the bed side by side; I spoke tenderly. “There’s no shame in mourning the loss of a tree. It’s not silly. It is, after all, a living thing. Does it feel pain when a leaf is plucked or a branch broken? Does it thirstily lap the rain after a dry spell? Does it feel your heartbeat as you rest a weary back against its old, sturdy trunk? How can we presume such things are not possible? No, it’s not silly at all.“
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we’re given a photo and asked to let it inspire us to create something magical in 100 words or less. This is my 100-word inspired creation.
“Ungrateful … bastard … son-of-a-bitch … always telling me what to do … when to do it … waiting on him like a motherless child … picking up after him … cooking three meals a day … seven days a week … cleaning … cleaning … cleaning … and what’s my reward … an unwelcome fuck at 3 AM … pig … I … have … had … enough!”
Carla’s thoughts raced through her head like a locomotive engulfed in flames.
“You gonna cook that pizza or beat it to death?’ he snarled.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are asked to be creative in no more than six sentences using the word “light”. This is my story.
Colette, typically looking away the second I snap a photo! Eyeroll!
We got a late start with spring cleaning in our yard, especially along the side of the house where our attached garage is located; even though the gardeners had cleared a lot of old shrubbery away for some new plants and bushes, it was just not meant to be after we were derailed by the sudden death of my husband’s twin brother on April 2 and me being sidelined since the first week of May by a major sinus infection (the heavy-duty antibiotics have left me “out of commission” and able to eat only extremely light meals or, at times, nothing at all).
In mid-May, we put in a couple of small white azaleas, relocated a baby rhododendron which wasn’t doing well in the far back corner of the yard and planted a bit of Blue Bugle and Lilies of the Valley for lightground cover (along the side of the house, not visible in this pic), but that’s as far as our broken spirits and depleted bodies would allow us go.
When Colette is here with us (Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday or Sunday) and the weather is good, she wants to be outside; hell, even if the weather isn’t good, she wants to be outside – a phenomenon about most children that escapes me as they (well, she definitely) seem to be impervious to heat or cold or rain or snow or wind – all the elements, times when Bill and I would prefer being inside nestled in our recliners with a lightweight blanket.
Speaking of nestled, we discovered that sparrows had made their nest in an old watering can in the corner of Colette’s playhouse; the mama and papa birds are very resourceful, building the new home in a location almost invisible to us, one which I discovered quite by accident when I heard a faint chirping noise coming from the playhouse and …. with my trusty flashlight in hand …. I went to take a peek but was immediately dive-bombed by a wildly protective kamikaze sparrow which, when it sped just inches by my head, had me believing it was a small bat …. terrifying!
Tuesday the temps soared to a scorching 86ºF – a leap from the mild low-70s of just the day before – so it was, according to Colette, the “perfect day for planting!” …. a concept I did not agree with thinking it was too hot and we would be in direct blazing sunlightfor the entire time …. but I did not object (mainly because the child could not be dissuaded and it was far less taxing than yet another round of the Disney edition of Monopoly); armed with our faithful spades, Bill with his macho shovel and pitchfork, we planted another azalea along the side of the house, then Colette and I pulled all the weeds and detritus from the two ancient cement planters on either side of the bench you see in the above photo, replacing all of what was growing in them as haphazardly as Albert Einstein’s hair with two bright pink kalanchoe plants, then stood back to proudly bask in the glory of our gardening prowess.
Of course, manual labor such as that demands a reward and certainly not a monetary one which would be looked upon with disdain and confusion by a 4-year-old whose idea of recompense consists solely of instant gratification in the form of ice cream – the I-don’t-give-a-hoot-how-messy-I-get kind – and after getting Colette situated in her pink fairy chair, pinning up her waist-length hair and snapping on the 15-year-old bib we originally used for our first grandchild, Mckenna, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with fudge-covered vanilla ice cream pops for Colette and Bill and a lemon ice for me; judging by the look on her face and the twinkling, totally satisfied lightin her eyes (photo below), Colette was over the moon with her sweet, sloppy treat and …. you know …. she was right after all about it being the “perfect day for planting!”
Growing up, it was just me and my sister – two girls doing girl things. And while we weren’t always best of friends, it was just the two of us. It wasn’t my fault that my mother went into labor smack in the middle of my sister’s 4th birthday party; after making a hasty departure for the hospital, my mother arrived just in time for me to be born …. on my sister’s birthday …. and she’s never really forgiven me. I mean, she says she has but deep down there’s resentment. But I digress.
Bitterness for being born on her birthday aside, we managed to get along ok. And we both had a bunch of little girlfriends who’d come over the house to play and swim in our pool. There’s a definite advantage to having the only pool on the block – even if it was inflatable and barely three feet deep. We always had lots of friends over but there were never any boys around and, if an interloper did show up, he was quickly shown the way out before he had a chance to dip his you-know-what in our pool!
For the first six years of my life, I had very little contact with boys .… except for my cousins and they didn’t count. In elementary school boys were just tolerated; they were looked upon as excess baggage. Of course, that all changed when I hit my teen years and realized boys had potential. I had a couple of crushes early on but nothing earth-shattering. Then, at the ripe old age of 17, I went on a blind date with a guy named Bill and together we learned all about boys and girls, how they were so wondrously different and incredibly well-made for each other. I was stunned by how much I didn’t know about boys.
So, wouldn’t you just know it! God, in his infinite humorous nature, decided to bless me with only boy babies. All those years of playing with my baby girl dolls, changing their diapers fashioned from paper napkins, powdering their petite girlie bottoms, all that didn’t come close to what these boys were packing! It didn’t matter how well I knew Bill’s anatomy; he didn’t wear a diaper and I had never changed one …. at least not a boy’s. Talk about a rude awakening!
Let me just explain something very quickly here. When infant girls are getting their diapers changed, sometimes they pee but it’s a dainty little trickle that gently disappears into the absorbent pad under them. When infant boys are getting their diapers changed, parents put on a hazmat suit because that nozzle has a mind of its own and it is gonna spray wherever it wants.
Oh sure, parents can buy little wee-wee teepees to hold over the wee-wee while their baby boy giggles at them, but most times that thing is flying around like an errant garden hose and the pee goes everywhere. And, of course, that’s where men first learn to pee with no hands – yawning and stretching and placing their hands behind their heads in a very satisfied “look-what-I-can-do” sort of way. Usually in those situations, there will be spillage. I have found, for the most part, the male species is not very discriminating and is quite happy to just “hitsomething“.
Which brings me to the heart of this story.
I love my boys and, in all humility, Bill and I did a good job raising them. BUT, nature will take its course no matter what we do. And let me tell you, there is nothing …. and I mean NOTHING …. like the overwhelming musky, barn-like odor that punches you in the face when you open the door to a boy’s bedroom. For the love of all things holy, what is going on in there? How is it possible for boys …. little or big …. to ravage so many briefs, boxers or tighty-whities in one day, not to mention the now-fossilized face cloths (and sometimes my good hand towels)?
We’re all adults here and you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Well, I finally reached the end of my rope. It became unbearable for me to do my teen sons’ laundry, let alone keep up with it, so I threw down the gauntlet. I led the boys to the laundry room where I proceeded to write on my washing machine with a Sharpie. In all the corresponding receptacles were the words “DETERGENT GOES HERE.” “BLEACH GOES HERE.” “SOFTENER GOES HERE.” I’m sure they didn’t believe me when I said I was done doing their wash. After two weeks of their laundry piling up and them running out of clean clothes and their sheets desperate enough to literally walk off the bed and leap into the washing machine, they finally got the message!
As the old saying goes, boys will be boys, and I never had a problem with what was going on in my sons’ bedrooms …. within reason; if I thought something dangerous was happening, I’d be in there in a flash. I’d just had enough of cleaning up their messes. Now they’re grown men, good men, married with children, and they get to deal with their own kids’ smells, sprays, spills and secretions.
And when I see them lugging a basketful of laundry to their washing machines, I chuckle and know I did them a huge favor.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge (with a timely lead-in from yesterday’s Friday Fictioneers). Here we are challenged to be creative in 250 words or less using the photo below. This is my story.
He walked on the beach with his dog just as he always did. He saw the sign but ignored it, happy to see someone had vandalized it. Damn rules!
He threw the ball but when the dog returned, he had a purse hanging from his mouth. He dropped the purse and ran back to where he found it.
Looking in the purse, the man saw a cell phone. Hers. Last call was to him. Chasing the dog, he saw a body sprawled on the rocks near the water.
And before he got any closer, he knew it was his wife.
A flood of questions hit him like a tsunami. What happened? Why didn’t he get her call? What was she doing here …. not just here on the beach .… here in Cannes?
She was supposed to be in Lyon finalizing the sale of her late mother’s apartment. Her mother died five years ago and for reasons only she could explain but never did, she refused to get rid of the place.
He quickened his pace to the body. The dog kept nudging her head and running around wildly on the deserted beach. The man looked at her phone again; there were numerous calls to someone named Roman. An unfamiliar name.
He heard a voice. “Monsieur! You are not supposed to be here with that dog! There are rules.” The local gendarmerie. Then louder, more urgently – “What have you done, monsieur? Do not move! Ici! Dépêchez-vous!”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fan of the great Mel Brooks. Combine that with my fascination with gladiator movies and my own sense of humor and this is the result. Originally written in 2021, I’ve donesome tweaking and now present to you one of my favorite fun stories. I hope you enjoy ‘Maximus Overdrive’!
Maximus Gluteus caught a glimpse of his reflection on a sheet of polished tin which his wife Labia used as a mirror. He had really let himself go! He was a disgrace, not just to himself but the entire world of gladiators.
Originally known as Maximus Biceptis, he was no longer the god-like hero of the arena. Where was that formidable champion of the amphitheater? Gone were the defined, well-built curves visible through his tunic, the muscles straining against the fabric at the forearms, biceps and chest. His sculpted calves, broad back and wide neck were flaccid, as were other parts of his anatomy which Labia was quick to point out.
Maximus was not only popular with the general public; he was greatly admired by the Roman emperor Sartorius for having won many battles against highly skilled adversaries. The emperor was particularly impressed by his heroics and rewarded Maximus with more palaces and riches than he could have asked for; he went so far as to honor Maximus with his prized solid gold chariot and team of Berber horses.
Besides gladiator matches, there was something else the Romans were famous for – partying! Those wild and crazy worshipers of Bacchus, the god of wine, knew how to have a good time. Maximus and Labia threw lavish Bacchanalia and partied like it was 999; debaucheries of every kind were practiced freely and enjoyed by all. Party-goers would spend uninhibited all-nighters dancing, watching circus performers, feasting on fattening foods and decadent desserts, engaging in unbridled sex and, of course, drinking themselves into a stupor.
Labia, a once-famous gladiatrix, was considered an exotic rarity by all who knew her. Attempting to maintain her impressively athletic yet feminine physique, she exercised frequently in the gymnasium and swam in the warm baths. Maximus, however, had become lazy and spiritless. He encamped himself in the large atria overlooking the Mediterranean, reclining for hours on end in the lavish gardens which had been planted with grape orchards, orange groves and trees bearing olives, figs, almonds, walnuts and chestnuts.
Maximus reveled in the good life, laying on his chaise lounge listening to poetry while the palace harpist played softly. Naked dancing nymphs performed for him, slaves fanned him with exquisite peacock feathers and beautiful servant girls fed him cheese, pheasant, figs dipped in honey, meaty chestnuts and wine. A life of gluttony and pleasure suited Maximus; he was a well-sated man.
Maximus became so fat, Labia refused to have sex with him. Even his concubines were repulsed by him but knew they had to do the deed or risk being executed. It got so bad, the poor girls resorted to pulling straws to see who would share their master’s bed. The ladies, however, had little to fear; most nights Maximus was so drunk he was in no condition to get it on …. even with the sensual songs of Marvin Gayeus playing in the background.
It didn’t take long before Labia began spending more and more time away from the palace. She would go for long walks along the seashore with her beloved greyhounds, Lingus and Limbus. It was during one of those walks that Labia first laid eyes on the newest and most popular gladiator who recently transferred to Rome – Maximus Erectus.
He was quite a sight to behold, especially when exercising naked on the beach. To say that he was well-built was an understatement. Erectus was perfection from head to toe. Tall, blond and powerful, sinewy muscles rippled down his arms and legs and across his Herculean back and chest. He was broad-shouldered with a flat, rock-hard abdomen. His body was bronzed from the sun and glistened with sweat. He was one ripped Roman!
Labia stared transfixed at the spectacle before her; even the dogs sat in quiet attention. Finishing up his exercise routine, Erectus ran toward the sea, jumped into the waves and swam for a long while. When he came out, he spotted Labia standing on the beach watching him. Without any hesitation or embarrassment, he walked directly to her. Smiling broadly, he reached down and patted Lingus and Limbus, laughing as they responded by happily wagging their tails. Labia’s tail had already been wagging.
The two struck up a conversation. All the while they were speaking Labia’s eyes kept drifting down toward Erectus’ magnificent member which seemed to take on a life of its own. When Labia mentioned she, too, enjoyed exercising and swimming, Erectus commented that she looked like she was in terrific shape and invited her to join him on the beach whenever she desired a partner.
Now, there’s no denying Labia had a few years on Erectus, but she was still firm and supple. She decided to join him on the beach the following week; it wasn’t long before the duo became partners in every way.
Labia packed her bags and left Maximus Gluteus for her new lover. Tossing everything into the golden chariot, she clicked her tongue and the team of Berbers trotted off. Labia laughed gaily as she shouted over her shoulder, “So long, fat ass!”
But Maximus Gluteus was too drunk to hear her.
That night Emperor Sartorius had a dream that he would be overthrown. He consulted the wisest philosophers and dream interpreters who all agreed this would indeed be his fate. Fearing torture and a slow death at the hands of his enemies, Sartorius made it known that should such an uprising occur, Maximus Gluteus was to be summoned to execute him; he trusted Maximus would end his life as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Sartorius was indeed overthrown and, per his wishes, Maximus was summoned. However, since Labia had absconded with the golden chariot, Maximus had no choice but to travel by foot to emperor’s palace. Alas, his massive weight slowed him down terribly and Maximus did not arrive in time to save Sartorius from an excruciating death.
Due to that unfortunate event, the expression “Lardum Asina” came about. Today we know it as “Lard Ass”.
From the comedic genius mind of Mel Brooks, this is a clip from the movie “History Of The World, Part I” featuring Bea Arthur and Mel Brooks who wrote, directed and produced the 1981 film.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to get creative in 250 words or less using this photo as inspiration. Here is my story. If you would like to read previous adventures of George and Martha, you may click here and here.
Written in response to The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to be creative in 250 words or less by using the photo you see below. This is my story.
NB. My story is another perspective prompted by C.E. Ayr’s intriguing response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge. Please check out C.E.’s story here and/or here. I hope you enjoy my version and his.
Contrary to popular opinion, sometimes these things really do just happen – at least that’s how it was for me.
My husband was out for the day … the monthly visit with his son from his first marriage. I never fault him this time alone; it’s good for him and it gives me the chance to spend a day in my favorite book store.
One day while on my way home, I paused to watch the swans; from the bridge I saw a man emerge from his boat. As if drawn by my presence, he glanced up at me and waved. I waved back. Then the most unexpected thing happened: he beckoned me. I went down to greet him and that was the beginning of our affair.
Now I live for my husband’s monthly visits with his son.
This month my husband’s son is backpacking with friends and there is no visit. He busies himself with tennis and darts at the pub. Desperate to meet my lover, I bailed on our tennis game, pretending to be sick, and my husband went off alone to find a partner.
The afternoon with my lover was heavenly; half-way home I turned around and returned to the boat.
How could I know my husband had paused on the bridge to watch the swans and saw me leave the boat?
How could my husband know that while he was plotting his jealous revenge, I had returned to the boat and was inside when he torched it?
“Mohammedan-owned Chinese/Tai/Himalayan/Middle Eastern/Indian Restaurant” – well, you certainly don’t see too many of those in Lancaster, Pennsylvania but there it is right in the heart of the downtown dining district. This meeting of culinary minds is definitely intriguing and what an original and humorous name – ‘Tasty Balls’.
That caught my eye and gave me a good laugh as I read about the new exotic fusion restaurant in the newspaper. I wondered if my wife Judith intentionally left the paper on the kitchen table conveniently opened to the dining section for me to see. Judith has many fine attributes; subtlety is not one of them.
We met soon after I graduated college. I took a year off to backpack my way through Asia and the Middle East. Money was tight so I had to be frugal while traveling; that’s how I learned to find really good food at cheap prices.
One day while trekking through Shanghai, I stopped at a noodle and dumpling place. I was drawn to the sound of feminine laughter coming from the next table. There were two pretty blondes who looked to be around my age; I asked if I could join them and they agreed. Judith and Eunice were cousins from England on holiday. I hit it off quite well with Judith and we agreed to meet the next night for dinner. After that night we knew we wanted to be together and the rest, as they say, is history.
As I continued reading the article, I learned this new restaurant was operated by the same people who managed a nearby tea house called ‘The Barefoot Magpie’ – another place I’d never heard of. How can this be? I’ve lived in Lancaster all my life and thought I knew every place there was to eat. Obviously I haven’t been getting out enough lately.
What’s this? ‘Tasty Balls’ serves only one item: dumplings. What made it so special was the staggering number of varieties of dumplings on the menu. Now I knew without a doubt that Judith left this article here for me to stumble upon; she knows I am the world’s biggest sucker for dumplings!
Well now, let’s see what else the article says: “Extravagantly yet handsomely decorated … moderately priced … perfectly prepared dumplings … culinary delight.” My stomach rumbled and my mouth watered as I read a description of just a tiny sampling of dumplings offered at ‘Tasty Balls’:
Jiaozi – A Chinese dumpling consisting of delicately sautéed ground meat and chopped vegetables wrapped into a thinly rolled dough-ball which is then fried to a golden brown or gently steamed.
Xiaolongbao – A Taiwanese delicacy, this steamed dumpling has meat and broth inside. The small, succulent orb is meant to be eaten whole; one bite and the fortunate diner’s mouth is filled with liquid ambrosia.
Momos – A staple from Tibet and Nepal, these delectable pouches are filled with yak, beef or chicken and have become an obsession with the patrons at ‘Tasty Balls’.
Shish Barak – Middle Eastern ravioli-like envelopes filled with seasoned lamb, onion and pine nuts, these piquant squares are boiled, baked or fried and served in a warm yogurt sauce with melted mint butter and a garnish of chopped cashew nuts.
Muthia – This Indian delight consists of chickpea flour, turmeric, chili powder, curry powder and salt bonded together with oil. Once shaped, these fritters can either be fried or steamed, depending on personal preference.
Luqaimat – Originally from Saudi Arabia, this luscious dessert translates into “small bites”. Found in many Middle Eastern countries, this is a treat of fried dough sweetened with date syrup and garnished with sesame seeds. With a scoop of pistachio ice cream, this is a delightful end to an unforgettable meal.
I suddenly realized the newspaper was wet; either I was salivating over the scrumptious description of dumplings or I was crying tears of joy that this heaven-sent restaurant was now located in little old Lancaster. Oh, what joy, what rapture!
Judith came into the kitchen, took one look at my face and asked “What in the world has come over you?”
Holding up the soggy newspaper I exclaimed “This – as if you didn’t know, you little minx! Tempting me with an article about delectable dumplings. Well, it worked. It’s ‘Tasty Balls’ tonight!”
“Oh, I don’t think so, luv” Judith laughed. “That’s Eunice’s. She must have left it behind when she returned to the UK after her visit. That paper is from Lancaster, England!
Written for Quadrille Monday dVerse Poets Pub; De Jackson is asking us to create a 44-word poem using the word “Friday”. My poem is a Dectina Refrain: 1st line is 1 syllable, 2nd line is 2 syllables 3rd line is 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone sentence.
Our Friday night dinner we wait all week to sit on the couch and eat sexy pizza with cheese like hot melted love, gooey and deliciously good, and we drink tall glasses of red wine. Our Friday night dinner we wait all week
Written for The Unicorn Challenge, where we are asked to write something creative in 250 words or less byusing the photo below for inspiration. This is my story.
The moment we stepped out of our car, the temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees and a cold wind whipped my black-stockinged legs. We cringed at the frigid slap in the face and huddled deeper into our jackets as we climbed the steps to the church.
We found the seats reserved for us …. second pew directly off the center aisle. I clutched my husband’s hand and felt his body quiver as he raggedly exhaled, desperately trying not to cry. The tears would come, but on his terms.
The pews on both sides of the church were filled with people celebrating a life and mourning a loss. Everything leading to this moment had been a maelstrom of emotions; there are very few things that shake us to our core like a sudden death.
A man appeared at our pew; I recognized him as the manager of the funeral home. He spoke softly to my husband and together they started to walk to the back of the church. I looked up at my husband’s face and he gave me a sad smile.
There was a heavy silence in the church, mourners sitting side-by-side lost in a fog of grief. Had someone played us the cruelest joke?
As one, the pallbearers heaved the casket onto their shoulders and the organ began to play. That’s when I saw my husband walking behind his brother’s coffin, our widowed sister-in-law on his arm, and there were tears.
After the wake, a few of us went back to our sister-in-law’s house. A question tap-danced in my brain: now that my husband’s brother was dead, was his widow still our sister-in-law or will she eventually be erased from the familial slate, ties severed, connections lost?
The room which they call ‘the office’ was a confusion of books, photo albums and memorabilia piled high like Babel.
Flipping through yellowed snapshots, we spotted her, the widow, in every image …. halcyon days when we all spoke the language of youth and happiness …. and my question was answered.
Battery Park. The glittering lights of tall ships parading up the Hudson River. New York at its brightest. The Big Apple – excitement and energy down to its core.
So how the hell did I end up in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, hopelessly in love with my Amish husband Abel, married for four years with three kids and twins on the way?
Good old revenge. I wouldn’t play ball with my boss so instead of being assigned to photograph the tall ships in New York Harbor, I was banished for a month to cover the “Plain People’s” Summer County Fair.
What I thought was going to be a nightmare was a delicious surprise. When the handsome, lusty Abel Jansen and I locked eyes, it was “Goed gevoel”– a “good feeling” from head to toe and all parts in between.
Being accepted into the Amish community, let alone marrying, is difficult but we had a few things going for us. I was a city girl, not afraid of getting my hands dirty. We were mature. Most Amish were married before age 20; Abel and I were both 26.
But the clincher was the serendipity attached to my name …. Menno Jakob.
The most revered men among the Amish were Menno Simons and Jakob Ammann. The elders were convinced I was descended from them when I was actually an Italian Jew from Canarsie! Who was I to argue?
Abel was my tall ship and I was his splash of Manhattan sparkle. Nothing else mattered.
Ruth looked up from her book and stared at her husband Fred as he fiddled with his iPod; at one time, he knew every little detail about that thing but now the device totally confused him and in frustration Fred cursed as he threw the iPod across the room yelling “Damn thing’s busted!”
Ruth sighed and retrieved the iPod, placing it on the table between their recliners and glanced sadly at Fred who sat in his chair looking straight ahead; Ruth asked herself “Where is my husband of 55 years?” because for her it was like he was gone, replaced by this ‘nowhere man’.
In an attempt to help Fred settle down, Ruth calmly suggested they look at the iPod together after dinner to figure out what was wrong but that only seemed to anger Fred even more and he shouted back at Ruth that he was not a child and she shouldn’t patronize him; when Ruth apologized and told Fred she was going into the kitchen to make dinner, he snapped at her saying it didn’t matter because he wasn’t hungry anyway.
In the kitchen Ruth wept silently; it was like this ever since Fred’s diagnosis of early onset dementia and now they squabbled over everything, especially things he used to do without so much as a second thought, like paying the bills, but these days he got lost walking to the bank on the corner.
Fred used to be very handy but now he couldn’t even set his alarm clock and when Ruth offered to sort out his meds for him, he lashed out saying he could do it himself but he mixed up the dosage and had a terrible reaction leaving him feeling hopeless and helpless.
Fred came into the kitchen and, without being told, went straight to the spot where Ruth stored her cutting boards and knives and started helping her prepare the salad, perfectly chopping vegetables and chatting amiably about a movie his friend Jack thought they might enjoy; the old Fred was back .… at least for the moment.
Yesterday, as I was driving up into the gated parking lot of a medical facility, I was faced with a dilemma: from my position in the driver’s seat, I was unable to reach the OPEN BUTTON. I stretched as far as I could, with no luck. Finally, I opened my door just a bit, reached out and successfully pushed the button. I closed my door, drove through the now open gate and went in search of a parking spot.
I found a spot quickly and, since we were early, my husband and I stayed in the car for a few minutes chatting. When I reached for my purse, my heart sank and I felt sick to my stomach. My purse wasn’t where I always keep it …. tucked into the space between my seat and the driver’s door. I’m sure you see where this is going. Yes, when I opened my car door to push the button which opens the security gate, I didn’t realize my purse had fallen out of the car!
Thank goodness I immediately figured out what happened and Bill took the short walk to the parking lot entrance to make sure my purse was still there. It was gone and when he returned empty handed, I almost pushed the panic button. Just like most women, my life is in my purse. It’s not big but inside was my cell phone, my wallet with my ID, driver’s license, insurance cards, credit cards and cash. My car key, a pen, lip gloss and Advil are also inside the purse. Not a lot of things but very important things. In fact, some are vital.
I tried to stay calm as Bill went into the lobby of the building to check with the security guard at the front desk. Against all odds, he had my purse in a box beneath his desk; nothing was missing. Bill had to sign for it and when he brought my purse back to me in the parking lot, I thought I would cry with relief.
All this transpired in the course of 10 minutes. Incredible good fortune which could have gone south just as easily and I was reminded of the classic line by Blanche DuBois from “Streetcar Named Desire” about the kindness of strangers. Whoever the person was who found my purse and turned it in to the front desk, I thank them with my whole being. They saved my life today and if that sounds like a ridiculous exaggeration, just think about what it would be like piecing everything together and then try not to push the panic button.
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.
I guessed that something was wrong as soon as I saw the look of shocked disbelief on my husband David’s face.
“Babe, what’s wrong?”
With tears in his eyes David whispered “I lost my wedding ring!”
It was our last night in Cape Cod. After dinner we went for a walk on the beach. There was a lot of seaweed in the ocean from a storm a few days before. We walked along the shore, teasing each other with clumps of seaweed; that’s when the ring must have slipped off his finger. But exactly where we had no idea. We crawled around searching but it was dark and we couldn’t see anything. David was devastated.
“Hon, I know your wedding ring means the world to you but we can always replace it.”
“I know, Jess, but it just won’t be the same.”
Dejected, we returned to our room and went to bed. After hours of trying to get to sleep, I grabbed my laptop and Googled “Will a ring wash ashore after falling in the ocean?”
Almost immediately there was a *ding* on my laptop … a response from “TheRingFinders.com”. It read: “We can help find any lost metallic object on the beach or in the water. Enter your zip code and we’ll get back to you ASAP .”
I entered the zip code for Cape Cod and 10 minutes later I heard from Rick at “RingFinders”. After explaining our situation, Rick said he’d be at our B&B at 7:00 AM to start his search. Thank God for the Internet!
True to his word, Rick was already on the beach at 7:00. We ate breakfast on the veranda, never taking our eyes off Rick as he searched everywhere with no luck. It was almost checkout time when he trudged up to the B&B.
“No luck, folks. You’re gonna get socked in traffic if you don’t leave now. I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m not giving up. I’ll keep in touch with you either way.”
Disheartened, we checked out and loaded up the car. Taking one last look at Rick, we waved goodbye when we realized he wasn’t waving goodbye … he was waving in excitement. He ran up the beach with his arm in the air, hand clenched in a fist.
“I found it, folks! I found your ring” he shouted.
We ran to meet him and he grinned as he placed a wet, sandy ring in David’s hand.
Thering was under 11 inches of water and seaweed!
Overjoyed, David hugged Rick and we asked how much we owed him.
“This is a free service we provide but we gladly accept donations” Rick explained. “Its very rewarding to see the joy on people’s faces when they’re reunited with their precious lost items.”
I don’t remember how much we gave Rick … that’s not important. What I do remember is David glancing at his ring all the way home and smiling.
What an experience and certainly an incredible act of kindness. Thanks, Rick!
Authors Note: Every word of this story is true. David is my son and Jess is my daughter-in-law. Theringfinders.com is a real organization and Rick, a stranger to David and Jess, did them a service they will remember for the rest of their lives. Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction!
Rochelle, our gracious host at Friday Fictioneers, has challenged us to write a story of 100 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Photo Copyright Alicia Jamtaas
Too many arguments, too many years of spiteful words. She’d had enough.
He walked into their bedroom where she was packing. “How can you do this, like it was nothing?”
“Like it was nothing? Do you really think this is easy, like tossing out yesterday’s leftovers?”
“Twenty-three years, Beth. You can’t throw that away.”
“Would you just let it be, Sam, and go to work.”
“I’ll see you when I get home, Beth.”
“Oblivious” she murmured.
Of course she was gone when he returned. Nothing left but remains of the day.
“Don’t look at me, Helen. Last year’s lessons with Vanessa nearly put me over the edge.”
“Well, I can’t do it! Ever since Marcia Morelli snatched that promotion for Real Estate Agent of the Year away from me, I’m spending all my time at work playing catch up.”
“That’s not my problem, Helen. Anyway, I signed on to coach Brandon’s baseball team this season, remember?”
“Oh, cry me a river, Bob! You’re the one who took an early retirement; your schedule is much more flexible than mine.”
“That’s right, I retired so I could do things I enjoy like playing golf and going fishing. It’s important to stay mobile after retirement so we don’t become dust in the wind.”
“Well, if you can’t do it and I can’t do it, why don’t we get Vanessa to teach Danielle how to drive?”
“Are you out of your mind, woman! Vanessa’s been driving less than a year. She can’t take Danielle out driving! Can you imagine the mayhem when those two hit the streets?”
“At least I’m making suggestions, Bob. All you’re doing is justifying why you can’t do it.”
“Oh, Helen, save your breath and don’t look at me with such contempt. I’m right and you know it. I won’t idly sit by and watch both our daughters driving without an adult in the car. It’s out of the question.”
“You won’t? Oh, that’s wonderful, Bob! I knew you’d come around!”
“Now hold on there, Helen. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“Why, sure you did, Bob. You said you wouldn’t sit idly by while the girls are driving around without an adult in the car.”
“But I didn’t mean…..”
“Look at it this way, Bob. Danielle is used to being driven everywhere she goes. If you don’t teach her how to drive, you’ll just have to drive here wherever she wants to go. I’d say this is a win/win situation.”
“And how do you figure that, Helen?”
“Simple! By giving Danielle driving lessons, you’ll be doing your part to keep our insurance rates down, you’ll be able to coach Brandon’s baseball team and still have time to do the things you enjoy and you won’t turn into dust in the wind. And all it takes is just one daily one-hour driving lesson! You’re a genius, Bob!”
“I am? Yeah, I guess I am. Hey! Wait just a gosh darn minute, Helen!”
Hard to imagine life without her. When the hell did everything start to unravel?
He sat alone in the shell of their apartment nursing his second Dewars. Once upon a time this place was alive with people enjoying one of their famous dinner parties. He could hear the sound of her spirited laugh when someone told a dirty joke.
They were the perfect couple, the envy of all their friends. Theirs was an easy, comfortable marriage. They were in sync in their choices of restaurants, paint colors and the biggest decision of all .… neither one wanted kids.
After receiving the diagnosis “ULCER”, Brian’s wife Ali had been lovingly, carefully packing his lunches. He checked the contents of his bento box: plain broiled cod, boiled cauliflower and coconut milk. “This must be her White Period”, he thought, wistfully.
Sensitiveand embarrassed coworkers averted their eyes as they passed Brian’s cubicle on their way to lunch. Gone were the cheerful calls “C’mon, Brian! We’re going to Smokin’ Joe’s Hot Wings for lunch!” or “Salsa and nachos in the hospitality room, guys!” Oh, the humanity!
Brian’s computer pinged. It was an email from Ali: “Hi, hon. Hope you’re having a great day. Did you find the Maalox I put in your backpack? We’re having something special for dinner tonight …. poached chicken, brown rice and garbanzo beans …. hope you’re hungry! Love ya, babe! xo”
“Ah, Ali’s Beige Period.” Brian stared blankly at the computer screen. “I wonder how many beige foods there are …. oatmeal, boiled potatoes, matzoh….”
Depressed, fatigued and hungry, Brian put his head in his hands; a solitary tear fell through his fingers onto his khakis. Slowly the wet spot morphed into the shape of a slice of pizza. “What the …. ?!” Incredulous, Brian blinked and wiped his eyes. “What’s happening to me?!” Images of devilish, cramp-inducing, bowel-seizing delicacies danced ‘round his head …. jalapeño poppers, tacos, barbecued ribs.
The dreaded hunger hallucinations!Sweating, Brian texted Ali. “Babe. Last minute meeting with the deputy mayor. Sorry, I’m gonna miss dinner. Love ya!”
Brian lied.
Grabbing the bottle of Maalox and a Smokin‘ Joe’s menu from his desk drawer, Brian bolted from his cubicle, giddy as a school girl at her first dance.
“Outta my way, boys, outta my way!!”
Brian knew he was taking a big chance but he just didn’t care. He was starving, dammit! And out he ran, laughing and joyfully shouting, “Jalapeño-effing-poppers, baby!!”
The Elephant's Trunk 