Written for RDP Thursday: PRECARIOUS
Today I’ve chosen to write a limerick.
Tag: Tragedy
August Was A Heavy Month
This week at Glyn Wilton’s Mixed Music Bag,
he’s asking us to write about a song in which
the title or a line mentions the current month.
Here’s my featured August artist and his song.
Identical Grief Revisited: A Haibun
Written for dVerse Poets – Fancy
Meeting You At The Pub Today and
Saturday. We are asked to share any
poem of our choosing. I am sharing
a haibun I wrote almost one year ago.
Since then, our feelings remain unchanged,
except now laughter comes a bit more easily.
The Eighth Of December
A tribute to John Lennon who was taken from us on this date in 1980. Many of you have read this; many of you who are new to my site have not. Please indulge me one more time. Roughly four years ago I had the great pleasure and honor of narrating a few of my stories on the BBC Radio program called “Upload”. I also submitted my story, “The Eighth of December”, never expecting to receive an email from the program manager of the radio station asking me if I’d like to read my story and do a live interview. To us here in The States, The BBC is a pretty big deal so I was rather blown away and, despite my nerves, I agreed to the interview. The format of the radio station has since changed and “Upload” was replaced by another show; it’s now impossible to find my interview. All I have is my story; every word is true. This is “The Eighth of December”.
Continue reading “The Eighth Of December”Mad World: An Ovi
Written for Ronovanwrites Ovi Poetry Challenge 40: Tragedy
Ovi Rules: 4-line stanza, 8 syllables or less per line,
first 3 lines rhyme, 4th line must not rhyme.
Additional stanzas keep the same rhyming pattern
but do not rhyme each other.
Homeless living on the street
Children with no food to eat
People crying in defeat
We are stuck in a hopeless mess.
Politicians always lying
Innocents in war are dying
Talk of peace but no one’s trying
It all seems so fucking futile.
Playgrounds teeming with poison drugs
Computer hackers spreading bugs
Protestors being shot with slugs
Has every person gone insane?
No clean water left to drink
Can you smell that awful stink
Our universe is on the brink
The tragedies of a mad world.
NAR©2024
This is Adam Lambert with “Mad Word”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Desperation
Bits and pieces of an old one,
patched together for
The Unicorn Challenge;
this is my 250-word story.
Three years ago my darling Nina, my life-force, my soulmate, was killed in a ghastly accident while riding her bicycle to the library. I’d offered her a lift but she declined; Nina hated my motorcycle, calling it a deathtrap.
I remember the call, the ambulance and police, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room, the surgeon’s voice .… his words that torment me day after day after day. My wife is dead, our all-too-short marriage erased.
I am lost, blindly wandering Gehenna. I shut myself off from everything. Well-meaning friends brought Nina’s bicycle to the studio where she taught ballet. I heard it’s a lovely memorial but I can’t bring myself to go by.
It’s time for me to leave, escape the painful memories and the desperation. Our friends stopped calling long ago and there’s nothing left to do. It’s time for me to go.
I remove my wedding band and place it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
“Will my motorcycle start up?” I wonder “Or has it died, too?” I grab my helmet and walk to the garage. My bike stands in the corner, covered by a tarp now buried under three years of regret and bitterness. I strap on my gloves, open the garage door and climb on my bike.
It is pouring rain; I have no idea where I am going. It doesn’t matter; I’ve stopped caring. Now I need to stop the heartache.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is The Dirty Mac with “Yer Blues”
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.
1917
Lisa is serving as host for today’s dVerse Prosery prompt.
We are to write a piece of up to 144 words and include the line
“But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face”.
This is my response for Lisa’s dVerse Prosery prompt.
We were living in Tennessee with my Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz after my mam and pap were killed in the South Carrollton, Kentucky train wreck of 1917. Just five days before Christmas and our family was torn apart. My mam and Aunt Luella were sisters; mam’s death nearly destroyed Auntie.
Back in January we all had such high hopes for 1917. My cousin Henry, Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz’s firstborn, was set to graduate high school in June, the first one in the family with that distinction. Aunt Luella was so proud of Henry, she couldn’t help smiling thinking of Henry’s bright future.
But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face.
Henry enlisted in the army one month before graduation. He died in the Battle of Cambrai on Thanksgiving Day.
We lost too much that year.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is Stephen Foster’s “My Old Kentucky Home” sung by Paul Robeson
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.
PROMISES
Ever since he was a small boy growing up in Fairfax, Missouri, Will Horton was obsessed with baseball. Every chance he had he’d play ball with his friends and when no one was around, he’d spend hours bouncing a ball off the old shed behind the house.
In 5th grade Will was one of the starting pitchers for his Little League Team, the Badgers. They practiced three or four days a week after school and played a game every Saturday against the rival team – the Coyotes. By the time Will entered 7th grade, he qualified for the traveling team playing both home and away games.
Most nights during baseball season, Will and his dad Tom would hunker down in front of the TV and watch the local major league baseball team, the Kansas City Royals. Will dreamed of one day playing with the Royals in Big K Stadium; he longed to go to a game but tickets weren’t cheap and Kansas City was 100+ miles from Fairfax. “Some day” Will would whisper to himself and fall asleep every night clutching his mitt.
On his 10th birthday Tom surprised Will with two tickets to the Royals game. Will talked nonstop all the way to the game, quoting all the Royals stats. Arriving at the Big K, he swore it was the biggest building in all Missouri. Will was the happiest he’d ever been. The smell of peanuts and hot dogs filled the air and the crowd was anxious for the game to start. Finally the Royals ran onto the field to cheers from the fans. They played a great game and won with a staggering score of 16 to 2. All the way home Will and Tom talked about the game.
That night at bedtime Will made himself the biggest promise ever – to one day be starting pitcher for the Royals against the most famous baseball team in the world: The New York Yankees.
Time went on, Will graduated high school and was recruited by the University of Miami as pitcher for the Miami Hurricanes. In the evenings he delivered pizza, saving what money he could. He was living his dream. One night that dream abruptly turned into a hellish nightmare when Will’s delivery car was sideswiped by a truck and slammed hard into the side of a building. Will lost consciousness and woke up in the hospital; his pitching arm had been amputated just above the elbow.
Will was devastated; his baseball days were over before they even started. Needing to get away from Miami and reminders of the crash, he transferred to a college in Cincinnati which happened to be located across from The Great American Ballpark, home to the Cincinnati Reds. On game nights he’d go up to the school’s rooftop alone to watch the games.
One particularly dismal night about eight months after his accident, Will pushed himself up onto the ledge of the roof and inched his way to the edge. Hugging the stump of his right arm, he stared at the twinkling lights coming from The Great American. Will swayed slightly; there was nothing to hold on to. He looked straight ahead at the stadium, then closed his eyes and slowly lifted his right foot off the ledge. What did he have left in his life?
In the heavy silence of the night, Will was aware of a barely imperceptible click as the door to the roof quietly closed. A soft voice by his side asked “You don’t really want to do that, do you?”
“What’s it to you? You don’t even know me.“
“That’s true” came the reply “but if you jump, who’s gonna go to tomorrow’s game with me?“
Planting his foot back on the ledge, Will glanced out of the corner of his eye. There stood a petite figure wearing a baseball cap. From the back pocket of her jeans she produced two tickets and placed them down on the ledge.
The shadow of a smile crossed Will’s face; this girl had spunk. Offering her hand, Will reached out, grabbed hold and climbed off the ledge.
“Hey, I’m Kate.”
“Will Horton” he replied.
“Well, Will Horton. Do we have a date?”
He paused for just a second. “Yeah. Why not?”
“If you play your cards right, Will Horton, there’s a couple of good games coming up in June and July. Ever hear of a little team called The New York Yankees?”
Will suddenly realized he was still clutching Kate’s hand. It felt really good having someone to hold on to.
NAR © 2023
It’s October – World Series month here in the USA and the games begin in just 10 days. Unfortunately for us here in NY, the Yanks fell short again but if you’re a diehard baseball fan like me, you’ll watch any game that’s on TV. Here’s a great song in honor of America’s Favorite Pastime – “Centerfield” by John Fogerty. Play ball!
I hope you’ll join me today
as we continue our
musical journey
In The Groove.
Hold onto your baseballs!
⚾️
https://rhythmsection.blog/
JULY MORNING
Trigger Warning: The unspeakable events in Israel this week
have left me numb. This is a very bleak tale.
I hope you will bear that in mind
as you read my story today. Thank you.
The church used to be there, across the river.
Rumors were that Pastor Roderick had a squaw named Chenoa who kept house for him. People talked; they agreed the relationship seemed …. peculiar. One October night a few curious boys paddled across the river. Hearing shouting, they crept to the vicar’s cabin and peeked in a window.
Roderick was drunk and yelling at Chenoa. The boys were startled when the vicar threw his glass across the room and reached for a birch cane by the hearth. He grabbed Chenoa and ripped the front of her tunic from neck to hem, leaving her standing naked and trembling. He wrestled out of his waistcoat and began whipping Chenoa’s breasts as she sobbed. Purple welts appeared on her chest and bloody droplets trickled down her belly. Roderick licked the blood, then twisted Chenoa around and entered her from behind. When he was done, he pushed her to the floor.
The boys fled and told their parents what they had witnessed. The next morning the sheriff and a posse rowed out and discovered the church and cabin burned to the ground. Roderick was dead, an arrow sticking angrily out of his neck; he had been scalped. There was no sign of Chenoa.
On a sultry July morning the village women went berry picking by the river. They screamed out in horror at the sight before them: a despondent Chenoa had hanged herself from an oak tree. The papoose on her back cradled a sleeping infant.
NAR © 2023
250 Words
If you are unable to view the video, which I understand is a frequent problem, it can be found on YouTube. Sorry for the inconvenience. The song is “July Morning” by Uriah Heep. This is a pic of the version I chose for today’s story:
AND THE BAND PLAYED ON
Promenaders strolled down the sun-streaked boardwalk of Atlantic City, New Jersey; ladies twirled their parasols while gents tipped their straw hats and stroked their handlebar mustaches as they passed each other for it was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, a perfect day with sunshine, blue skies and laughing children!
Margaret Wilson and her boy Sam came from Philadelphia for the fresh sea air, to gaze in awe at the hotels built like fairytale palaces along the seafront and to admire the piers dripping with neon lights, the most famous of which was the Steel Pier, known for its dance bands, water circus and other such attractions; in fact, it was revealed that the renowned composer John Philip Sousa and his band would be performing that very afternoon.
There were barkers selling salt water taffy and cotton candy, minstrel shows, fairgrounds and the famous Diving Horse, specially trained to charge up a 60 foot ramp to a platform atop the Steel Pier where a woman clad in a smattering of sequins leapt onto its back just before it plunged off the pier; horse and rider flew through the air, hitting the water to the applause of delighted throngs waiting below.
But one didn’t have to venture far from the boardwalk to sample less wholesome activities in venues like the Paradise Club where tourists could watch nearly naked women dance to jazz music and, if they wanted something not just risqué but illegal, they could visit the gambling dens and brothels catering to every taste; there was the criminal element, too, with occasional holdups and shoot-outs.
However today was a holiday and the children laughed gleefully as they rode the giant carousel on horses painted pink, yellow, white and green, even the smallest tyke straining to reach the brass ring while their parents strolled in their most fashionable clothes and made small talk; with the start of school the furthest thing from their minds, nothing could spoil a day like today.
Suddenly the cacophony of gun shots rang out and people screamed and scattered as gun-wielding robbers ran from a pawn shop, jumped into a waiting car and took off, bullets flying wildly; a momentary silence overtook the Boardwalk only to be shattered by a piercing wail that rose to the heavens and everyone turned to see Margaret Wilson cradling the body of little Sam, shot in the heart by a stray bullet (in his jacket pocket a folded essay, now stained with innocent blood, entitled “How I Spent My Summer Vacation”); the police arrived, removed mother and child and the band played on.
NAR © 2023
Originally published 2018
Written in response to GirlieOnTheEdge and Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt. The rules: six sentences – no more, no less. Punctuation be damned! The magic word this week is CAROUSEL. 🎠
THE WALK
One day while on vacation in Montauk, we watched as a woman emerged from her hotel room. She told her young son she was going for a walk by the ocean and to stay with the other kids by the pool. We said we’d keep an eye on the boy and she murmured her thanks. The boy watched his mother walk down the beach until she disappeared behind a sand dune.
Some time later, the boy jumped up yelling “Where’s my mom?! I can’t see my mom!” The boy became frantic and ran toward the beach. Families followed, scouring the area with binoculars. Lifeguards, police and the Coast Guard were called and searched until dark when the hunt was postponed until morning. Jeff and Nina Morgan, the hotel owners, comforted the boy and watched him overnight.
At dawn the search began again. In the afternoon, the woman’s clothes were found about a mile away, neatly folded and almost completely buried in the sand. Beachgoers and boaters were questioned and a helicopter surveyed the ocean with no luck. The mission was halted. When the police talked to the boy, he tearfully explained that his dad was gone and his mom was very sad. We all had the same dreadful thought: suicide.
The boy told the police his name and address; a few phone calls were made, unanswered questions resolved. The father had abused his wife and son, beating the boy terribly. To save her son, the mother attacked the father, hitting him over the head with a fireplace poker, killing him. The boy said his mother cried for the healing waters of Montauk. He had no relatives and after petitioning the courts, the Morgans were granted custody.
The disappearance of the woman was a ghastly experience for everyone yet most of us returned to the hotel the following summer, I think in part to check on the boy. We learned his name was Tobias but the Morgans called him Toby.
We were delighted to see he was physically thriving under the loving care of his adopted family but the emotional scars were deep. And every day Toby would walk down the beach to where the water meets the sand and stare off at the footprints in the distance.
NAR © 2023
THE BENCH
Grundy sat in his favorite spot: a dilapidated bench on the boardwalk at Coney Island overlooking Brighton Beach. He was celebrating the sixteenth anniversary of his divorce from Barbara, the “Bitch of Brighton” as he called her. And he was getting drunk as he did every night.
His routine never changed. After his shift at McDonald’s, he’d grab a Big Mac, walk across the street to the Liquor Loft, buy a $7.49 bottle of Old Crow Kentucky Bourbon and a pack of Camel cigarettes, then stroll over to his bench and settle in.
Grundy’s Bench … his home away from home. Well, not literally. Thanks to his cousin Marcy and her husband Phil, he had an actual roof over his head. Grundy was real close to Marcy, growing up together and all, and Phil was as nice as they come, humble but with the bearing of a prince. Grundy lived with them and their three kids and all Marcy asked was for Grundy to cook Sunday dinner for the family. Hell, he’d cook dinner every night for those precious people if he wasn’t always shit-faced after work.
“Pretty sweet deal” Grundy thought as he took a swig of his Old Crow. “I’m a freaking loser, an embarrassment, yet they treat me with a love I don’t deserve.” He had his own room, a TV and Marcy did his laundry. He mostly kept to himself, getting home late. He had the day shift, breakfast and lunch included. The pay was lousy and so was the food but it beat a blank.
How the fuck did he end up here? Carl Grundy, a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America, working in some of the finest restaurants in the world … once one of the best chefs in New York … now a burger flipping drunk in Brooklyn.
So what happened? Bourbon happened. He wasn’t much of a drinker – an occasional beer – but one night after a particularly ugly argument with Barbara, he surreptitiously chugged a shot of the restaurant’s finest bourbon. It was ambrosia and he had another. Before long it became a ritual, then a habit and finally an addiction. He got caught, fired and the cycle began. Land a new gig, drink their booze, get sacked. Eventually the only job he could get was at Mickey D’s and Old Crow was all he could afford.
Out of nowhere he recalled the words of some televangelist his mother used to watch: “Your decisions cause your circumstances”. Damn straight! He didn’t even realize he was crying. Well, enough reminiscing for one night.
Grundy gave his beloved bench a pat and stood up to begin his walk to Phil and Marcy’s. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his chest and crumbled to the ground.
“Oh, Lord! I’ve made a fine mess of things” Grundy gasped. “I’m hurting and I want to go home. Mom and Dad are waiting for me.”
He died alone that night, his hands still clutching an empty bottle.
NAR © 2023
It’s that time of year.
Come on over to
In The Groove;
find out what’s the buzz.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
HOW IRONIC
Roger Prince was freezing. He had never been this cold in all his life. In fact, he was cold as a block of ice. Why was Roger Prince so cold? Because he was dead … stone-cold, dead-as-a-doornail D.E.A.D. You see, Roger had a big problem … he could never say “no” … and now because of that he was dead.
Roger Prince was the nicest guy you’d ever meet … the type of guy who’d let you go ahead of him in line. The type of guy who’d help change your flat tire. The type of guy who’d loan you $10. Roger Prince was … well, a prince.
But poor Roger Prince … as nice as he was … was also kind of a sap because he just couldn’t say “no”. If there was such a thing as being too nice, that was Roger … that was his Achilles heel, his weak spot, his fatal flaw.
Temporarily unemployed, Roger tried saving money by moving into the upstairs bedroom of old Mrs. Willoughby’s house in the outskirts of town. A housebound widow with no family, Mrs. Willoughby let Roger stay for practically nothing. Having no tv or phone, her expenses were minimal. Roger helped pay for utilities, maintained the house and brought in what little mail was delivered. He also went to the grocery store to buy Mrs. Willoughby’s staples: peanut butter, bread, instant coffee and a few toiletries.
This particular December morning, a heavy snow started around 2:00. When Roger woke up at 8:00, it was still coming down and showed no sign of stopping. Going into the kitchen for his morning coffee, Roger found none … also no bread.
“Roger, dear” came a feeble voice from the parlor. “Can you run into town for coffee and bread? I forgot to ask you last night.”
“Mrs. Willoughby, have you looked outside? There’s three feet of snow out there!” Seeing her confused and distressed look, Roger couldn’t say no. “Don’t worry. I’ll head into town right now.”
Roger mumbled “Why do we live in the middle of nowhere?!”
Wind-swept snow whirled around Roger’s face as he slowly trudged into town. Suddenly he lost his footing and tumbled down a steep hill, his eyes widening as he slammed head first into a tree. How ironic that his final startled word would be “NOOO!!”
Roger Prince died instantly, the falling snow enveloping his body.
And Mrs. Willoughby waited.
NAR © 2017
THAT SUMMER’S DAY
The first summer vacation we had with our two small boys was a week at the Ocean Surf in Montauk NY – the perfect family place with a large swimming pool overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A few rickety wooden steps led to the beach and the pool was right outside the rooms so the kids were always within sight.
Everyone was very friendly except for one Scandinavian-looking family. Their little boy played with the other kids but he would frequently glance over at his parents – loners who drank vodka by day and argued by night.
The week was fabulous and we returned the following summer. The Ocean Surf had not changed and many of the same people were there, even the Scandinavian family but this time the father was absent and the mother looked haggard.
One day the mother emerged from her room carrying a colorful inflatable raft. She told her son she was going for a float in the ocean and to stay with the other kids by the pool. We said we’d keep an eye on the boy and she murmured her thanks.
As the children played the boy would occasionally look toward the ocean where his mother floated, plainly visible in her raft. Some time later the boy jumped up yelling “Hvor er mamma?! Where’s my mom?!” She had disappeared. The boy became frantic and ran toward the beach. Families followed, scouring the ocean with binoculars. Life guards, police and the Coast Guard searched until dark when the quest was postponed until morning. Jeff and Nina Morgan, the hotel owners, consoled the boy and watched him overnight.
At dawn the search began again and the vibrant raft was found washed ashore. Boaters were questioned and a helicopter surveyed the ocean with no luck. The mission was halted. When the police talked to the boy he tearfully explained that his dad was gone and his mom was very sad. We all had the same thought: suicide.
The boy told the police his name and address; a phone call resolved unanswered questions. The father abused his wife and son. Several months ago the father beat the boy terribly. To save her son the mother bashed the father over the head with a fireplace poker, killing him. A quick verdict of innocent was delivered and all charges were dropped. The boy said his mother longed for the healing waters of Montauk. Family court discovered the boy had no living relatives and granted custody to the Morgans.
That was a dreadful experience for everyone yet most of us returned the next summer, I think in part to check on the boy. We were delighted to see he was physically thriving under the loving care of the Morgans but the psychological scars were still there. He played with the other kids but would often wander down to the water’s edge and stare off into the distance.
Over the next couple of years we returned to the Ocean Surf. We learned the boy’s name was Tobias but the Morgans called him Toby. He adjusted well to his new life although he still walked to the ocean every day to watch the sunrise.
Eventually our one small room at the Ocean Surf became too cramped for the four of us and we began staying at a larger place. Our sons are married now with kids of their own. The Morgans finally retired, Toby got married and he and his wife manage the hotel. Yet he still heeds the call to sit on the beach every morning and watch the sunrise over the ocean.
NAR © 2020
The Elephant's Trunk 