“Secrets, lies, glimpses at your messages, the way you jump for the phone every time it rings. You’re living a secret life, Kenneth, and it’s destroying us.” June’s lips quivered, her eyelashes were wet with tears. She walked across the living room to stoke the slowly dying fire …. an ironic symbol of their languishing nine year marriage.
Kenneth stood by the window looking down at the street below. As much as he tried to avoid talking about it, he knew one day it would come to this.
June wondered if he was even listening.
“You had another dream last night, Kenneth; the bed was soaked with sweat. Don’t you think I have a right to know?”
Slowly Kenneth turned to face June; he let out a ragged breath. “Yes, darling. It’s time you knew the truth. Come, sit with me.”
They sat together on the couch for a few moments in silence. Finally Kenneth turned to June and took her hand in his.
“I’m leaving, June. I’m going back to the Congo.”
June was stunned; of all the things Kenneth could have said, she never expected that. “And back to the arms of your lover Sunda, no doubt” she spat out bitterly. “How could you, Kenneth!”
“Sunda’s dead, June. The fevers returned with greater intensity and frequency. She didn’t make it.”
“Dead?! Then what other reason could you possibly have for going back?” June asked, bewildered.
“The messages I’ve been getting .… they’re all from my doctor. Twelve years ago Sunda and I nearly died from the plague in the Congo while doing research. We both miraculously survived. Now she’s dead and I also have the fevers. I’m dying. The doctor confirmed my fears.”
“No! It can’t be true! I don’t understand, Kenneth. Why must you return to the Congo? Stay here with me. We’ll find the best doctors and fight this together!” June sobbed.
“Oh, darling June. If only it were that easy. There’s just one cure and it lies in the Cinchona plant hidden deep in the western swamp forests of the Congo. I refuse to expose you to the danger. I leave tonight.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers where our host Rochelle has asked us to use the photo below as inspiration and get creative in 100 words or less, making every word count. Here’s my flash.
Punch – that misogynistic bastard – was out cold, spent from guzzling booze and pounding Judy like a side of beef. She slipped him Valium to keep him zonked and shackled his wrists.
Policeman Jack, Judy’s lover, stood guard outside; Punch would never escape before the tide washed him away.
Judy’s long gone now on a slow boat to a podunk beach town called Atlantic City.
A year went by; nobody asked about Punch or Judy. How quickly they forgot.
When Policeman Jack received a letter from the States, inside was a ticket to Atlantic City. Judy was true to her word.
I met him in the fall, tanned from summer. He was a bronzed god, hair as gold as the sun, eyes like burnished copper glowed. He warmed the chill from out my bones, thawed the late Autumn frost in my heart. I met him in the fall tanned from summer.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. This is my 4th story about Harvey and Fiona; for my previous stories, please click here.
Early each morning on her way to work, Fiona passed the busy bakery in the heart of town. She loved the shamrock-green storefront and the delicious aroma of baked goods, and imagined herself working there.
Maneuvering the heavy pressing machines at her job took its toll on Fiona; she was exhausted and complained of backaches. Harvey barked that shebetter toughen up because no way was she quitting that job. And for the first time, he slapped her.
On Sunday morning Fiona asked Harvey to bring down the mixing bowl from the top shelf in the kitchen so she could make an apple pie. Grousing, but inwardly delighting at the prospect of dessert, Harvey took a long swig of his beer and got the stepladder out of the closet. As he started to climb, Fiona managed to hoist a five pound sack of apples, grimacing at the awful pain in her back, and bashed Harvey as hard as she could on the back of his head. He fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. He would never slap her again.
Fiona tore open the sack of apples, dumped them into the colander on the counter and shoved the empty sack into the trash. She looked at Harvey’s dead body; blood had pooled under his head and she felt sick to her stomach. Fiona vomited in the sink, then washed her face and hands; she lifted the receiver of the wall phone and called the police.
Written for Friday Fictioneers where our gracious host, Rochelle, has asked us to use the photo below as inspiration to get creative in 100 words or less, making every word count. Here’s my flash.
My husband came home from grocery shopping and after putting away the ice cream said to me, “I stopped by the Chatsworth Auction House. Look what I found.”
He handed me a small box; inside were vintage lilac gemstone and silver filigree earrings.
I started to cry … tears come easy … and he asked “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. They’re perfect” I sobbed. “Just like the ones I lost years ago.”
Ten days out from spinal fusion surgery and my lower back still hurts like a bitch on wheels. This is a much more difficult surgery/recovery than I expected; bearing in mind what’s involved …. what has been cut through, ground down, fused together with various types of hardware, and stapled, sutured and bandaged closed …. I should have realized it would not be easy. And my doctor sent me home with Tylenol …. not even extra strength but regular Tylenol. Really?
Getting around the house with a walker, dressing myself and doing basic toilette is not problematic; beyond basic, it’s damn near impossible. What’s not allowed: stomach sleeping, bending or twisting at the waist, lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. And, apparently, pain medication.
These days, I just about live in my electric recliner, getting up every hour or so to walk around, followed by icing my back. I tried eating my meals in the kitchen with Bill; it’s good to have a change of scenery and some normal time with him. The chairs, however, are not comfortable just yet so we eat together in the living room where there’s an over-large electric recliner with my name on it.
Making myself comfortable in a recliner is easier than in bed but still more difficult than I would have thought; the vertical 6″ incision is centrally located on the small of my back so I’m aware of every movement. There’s always something that hurts, that’s too big or too small, too hard or too soft, flattened out or all scrunched up, or just out of reach. Finding the perfect cushion has been a crusade; thankfully, Bill holds on to everything! Fortunately, once I fall asleep, I’m out for most of the night. Getting out of the recliner in the morning is slow-going as I’m stiffened-up from sleeping all night. It’s a process.
As far as my blogging goes, I’ll write when the mood strikes. I miss you and our camaraderie but my energy and strength are down. It took me two days just to write this! I apologize for not reading or commenting on your posts and I’m sure I’m not going to …. at least not for a while. I’m just not up to it.
Well, that’s the story, kids; taking life one day at a time.
Be good to yourselves. See you on the flip side. 😎
PS – As much as I’d love to hear from you, please try not to compare your own situation to mine or tell me about your dear Aunt Betty who was never the same after her surgery. I know you mean well but we’re all different and heal differently; downer stories don’t help. It’s human nature but a “get well soon!” would be far better and greatly appreciated. Thanks!
Gemelli pasta. Gemelli is the Italian word for ‘twins’
Resemblance can be a freaky thing. Supposedly everyone has a doppelgänger; someone out there is a duplicate of you with your mother’s eyes, your father’s nose and that annoying mole you’ve always wanted to have removed. We might even have several pairs of clones walking around, each totally unaware of the other’s existence.
It’s been said the longer people have a pet, the more they begin to resemble that pet. Dogs have been matched by strangers to their owners time and time again. The same is true for people; have you ever seen a long-married couple who now look like a set of bookends?
I have many relatives in Italy and Sicily; my family has always said one particular cousin and I have looked like each other since birth. We were born days apart and are called “I Gemelli” … “The Twins”. The first time my cousin Franco and I met, we just stared at each other in fascination. I think Franco and I do bear a strong resemblance however his eyes are blue while mine are green and he’s got a lot more facial hair than I do! LOL! And we have the same Sicilian nose!
My cousin Franco and me
The other day I wrote about my best friend Debby and how alike we are, not just our personalities but our physical appearance as well. One of my WP friends was quite interested in my story and left several comments and questions. I promised I’d write a little bit more about me and Debby … two unrelated women who could pass for sisters, perhaps twins at times.
I can’t explain how these things happen but events at my son’s wedding a few years ago proved the old saying true: fact is stranger than fiction.
There were a lot people at the wedding … family, friends, coworkers. My sister, Rosemarie, was there as was my friend Debby. The time arrived during the wedding reception for a family photo session. The music was playing, people were dancing and milling about. Janet, the wedding photographer, was scrambling around trying to wrangle immediate family members for photos. Craning her neck for a better look into the crowded room, Janet turned to me in surprise and said, “You’ve been holding out on me!”
I had no idea what Janet was talking about and asked her what she meant. She replied, “I know your husband has a twin brother but I had no idea you have a twin sister!”
This conversation went back and forth for a little while … me trying to convince Janet that I didn’t have a twin sister and Janet insisting I did! Of course, Janet was talking about Debby! I laughed and said to her “I really hate to burst your twin bubble but she’s not my sister; she’s my best friend.” When I spotted Rosemarie on the dance floor, I said to Janet, “See the woman in the cream-colored dress? She’s my sister.” I guess I really couldn’t blame Janet; even my new daughter-in-law’s relatives thought the same thing. To make matters more confusing, Debby and I were wearing the same dress (totally unplanned)! Mine was deep purple while hers was dark blue.
It took a lot of convincing for Janet to finally accept the fact that Debby wasn’t my sister and that Rosemarie was. I guess the idea of two sets of twins in the same room was just too exciting for Janet … a missed photo op! I wonder if the same people who matched the pet owners with their dogs would match me and Debby as sisters?
You be the judge.
Me (L) and Debby on Halloween
At the wedding.
Two brunettes with summer tans.
Twins? Maybe, maybe not, but the resemblance is strong….
This ovi poem is based on a horrible rollover accident from 2001 in which my husband and I were involved. The photo above is what was left of my car. I believe in God and I’m sure he was watching over us. It’s been 23 years but I still have dreams of that day.
This is my 3rd story about Harvey and Fiona. For a look back at earlier installments, click here.
While Harvey slept during the day Fiona cleaned, shopped and cooked. She wanted a vacuum cleaner but Harvey said it was too expensive and the noise would keep him awake so she settled for a carpet sweeper. Their only chance to be together was at breakfast and dinner time – and of course for coffee and dessert when Fiona served Harvey his favorite apple pie. Fiona loved baking and it was all worth it to see the way Harvey’s face lit up every time she made another pie.
Fiona suggested a few times that it would be nice if Harvey worked during the day so they could be like a normal couple and spend more time together but her words fell on deaf ears.
She also longed for a baby. Each time she thought she was pregnant it turned out to be a false alarm. Fiona saw a doctor who wasn’t very sympathetic; he shrugged his shoulders, gave her ambiguous explanations and performed a couple of routine tests. He told her it was just one of those things; not all couples could get pregnant. When Fiona finally got up the nerve to mention to Harvey what the doctor told her, he laughed and said it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t get pregnant; “Just ask that sweet little Frenchie I knocked up during the war” was his mean-spirited reply.
Fiona felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. When she cried that she needed something other than chores to fill her lonely days, Harvey yelled to “go get a job and start earnin’ ya keep around here! Who needs another mouth to feed anyways?” Fiona was reeling; how could he say such hurtful things? Heartbroken, she eventually gave up on having a baby and found a job as a presser in a shirt factory. The work was exhausting and she still had to clean the apartment and cook for Harvey … and bake.
What happened to the guy she married? Harvey was constantly annoyed about something or other and drank more now than usual. He got mean when he drank and Fiona bore the brunt of his anger. When he demanded sex every night before going to work, she kept her mouth shut but she was silently screaming. This was no way to exist, like a piece of property and not a person. She’d lie awake at night remembering her mother’s warning words: “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can’t you see he’s no good for you? I don’t trust him, Fina girl!” The only thing in her God-forsaken life that she truly enjoyed was baking and she did it all for Harvey.
Fiona would fantasize about how lovely it would be to have her own little bake shop; she’d make lots of delicious cakes and pies for her large following of loyal customers – not just for her selfish husband. She knew she could do it if she only had the chance.
To be continued. For a look back at earlier installments, click here.
Eileen gathered some boxes from the attic and began to pack up her late husband’s belongings; Ned always told Eileen he wanted his things donated to the men’s shelter.
Now the drawer was empty except for a folder; inside Eileen found Ned’s sketches of their lake. Leafing through them, Eileen was outraged to see drawings of her sister Denise in the lake dated 2023 – the last time she visited. Ned and Denise had a fling years ago but Ned ended it – or so he said.
Eileen put the sketches back into the folder. Time for a little chat with Denise.
The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making Gregory feel very alone.
It’s hard to imagine life without her. When the hell did everything start to unravel?
Now he sat alone in the shell of their apartment, baseball game on the tv playing for no one, nursing his second scotch. This place used to be alive with people enjoying one of their famous parties. When he closed his eyes he could hear their friends’ lively discussions and the sound of her spirited laugh.
Everyone said they were the perfect couple. Theirs was a comfortable, easy marriage – dinner at Gallagher’s, cycling along Riverside Drive, steamy showers after Saturday morning sex. They were in sync in their choices of movies, paint colors and the biggest decision of all .… neither one wanted kids.
He sat there, head in hands while a thousand thoughts went through his mind. When did he begin having second thoughts? Was it when her sister asked them to be godparents for her first baby? Was it watching the kids in the playground across the street? All he could remember was the night he whispered in her ear that he wanted to have a baby.
She was blindsided. What? No! He was just named partner at Central Casting. She was food editor for Country Living magazine. Life was perfect. They had an agreement, dammit!
Would she just consider thinking about it? No! How could he spring this on her now?
Days, weeks went by. She remained adamant, distant. Then one day he came home after work and she was gone.
Here he sat alone with his scotch, ballgame long over, thumb rubbing his wedding band while he stared at divorce papers.
It couldn’t have happened to a more perfect couple.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where the prompt word is ‘paper’, which can be used as a noun, verb or adjective … or all three which will qualify for bonus points. Here is my 3-way stream.
On my nightstand I like to keep a pen and pad of paper where I can jot down ideas for stories, things I have to get done around the house, items I need from the store, etc.
During a recent trip to the grocery store I noticed that it’s impossible to find milk in glass bottles. There’s every type of juice or flavored iced coffee available in bottles but milk only comes in those waxy paperedcardboard-like containers or plastic jugs. We’re serious about producing less garbage and using less plastic products so I decided to start getting our milk home delivered. Remember that service? Well, it’s back! All I had to do was place an order for delivery with one of the participating companies; my order was delivered in a metal milk box that is mine to keep for as long as I use the service. When it’s time to schedule my next order, all I have to do is place the empty bottles in the milk box and they’ll be replaced by full bottles of cold, fresh milk!
My husband likes to read the daily newspaper, even though he’s really only interested in the sports pages and the crossword puzzle. The headlines give him agita. That works out well because he uses the remaining sections to paper the floor under and around the cat’s litter box to catch any ‘spillage’ or litter that gets kicked out. Now that’s a proper use for the newspaper, especially the front page that’s always plastered with the arrogant face of one lying politician or another! A very fitting use indeed.
“’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!
The Elephant's Trunk 