Thanks, J Hardy Carroll, for a thought-provoking picture and thanks, Rochelle, for posting it in order to inspire the Friday Fictioneer group to hop to our computers on a Wednesday morning. After chop, chop, chopping my story weighs in at 99-words.

Anna collected fractured glass of all sizes, and shapes. Cerulean blue: perfume bottles. Crimson red: Christmas bobbles. Brown: shattered beer growlers from drunken nights. She scoured gutters beaches dumpsters to find perfect shades.

In her kitchen, Anna fit the glass corner-to-corner, side-by-side creating stained-glass pictures of forests, animals, people, so intricate they looked alive. She sold her artwork at the farmer’s market for pennies and was pleased. Her do-nothing husband was not.

After the fire, her remaining art sold at auction for hundreds. But the one her husband knew would bring the most money had gone missing.

Thanks to Pegman I now know there is a border town, Portal, N.D., much like Blaine, WA, which is very close to our little burg, Bellingham, WA. It was easy to imagine a border scene like this.

Alfred feels all raggedy. The way he always does when Wilma’s with him at the border crossing.
Wilma, who never knows what’s in the trunk – ever.
But somehow the way she moves, the way she smiles suggests there just might be a little something to see.
Dumb as a post, almost cute as a button with Betty Boop lips and Marilyn Monroe hair
Alfred loves Wilma. Can’t help it.

“Ah, Mister, ain’t nothin in there. Me and him got a date. See? Reservations at the Electric Club. And we’re already late.”
Wilma winks.
Alfred cringes.
Border-Patrol-Man sighs. “Open the trunk.”

Alfred taps the button that pops the lid.
Border-Patrol-Man slowly lowers his mirrored glasses. “You crazy son-of-a …”
“Officer!” Wilma coos. “There’s a lady present.”
“Toss em out!”

At the Electric Club, Alfred thanks his lucky stars that the odor of five cartons of rotting bananas overpowered the stench of blood.

Today’s picture was taken by Roger Bultot.Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it. I’m sure this scene will inspire many wonderful stories! My 100-word piece about this gorgeous old cafe follows.

Sarah came to the cafe for the sounds
clatter of spoons
rattle of plates
the jingle of laughter and
jangle of that tiny tarnished bell over the door

Sarah made friends here
broke up with boyfriends here
Went away smelling of over-cooked eggs
and burned bacon
and feeling like she’d just left her home.

Home was a mangled car in the yard
home was the sound of the too-loud TV
Mama’s tears
dogs barking
and a faucet drip, drip, dripping

Home smelled of mold and cigarettes
Home was Daddy lying in
her brother’s empty bed
eyes staring at nothing

Today, What Pegman Saw takes us to Cirque re Navacelles, suggested by JS Brand. A big thank you to K Rawson for posting Pegman each week. Choosing one’s own picture for a 150-word story is such a treat.

Sophie tilted the box. The tiny houses rattled, wood against tile. Mama said, “Gentle.Those were my mother’s and her mother’s. They make wishes . . .”
Hoping Mama would be quiet and leave, for she was allowed to play with the magical set only when Mama was gone, Sophie shouted, “You’ve told me before!”
“Six-year-olds don’t speak that way to their mothers.” Mama raised an eyebrow; shut the door.
Oh, the excitement of watching Mama, enfolded in her lavender cape, disappear into the woods. Sophie had hours to play with the wooden houses while eating all the bauernbrot bread with milk. No one knew these two were tucked deep inside the forest so no one would disturb her play or glutinous behavior. Looking through the tiny isinglass window of the church she whispered,”Wouldn’t it be grand if Mama never came home?”
Four days later, Sophie, hungry and cold, still listened for Mama’s footsteps.

Today’s photo prompt was taken by our fearless leader, Rochelle. Thanks for posting it! I’m sure this poor injured car will inspire many interesting stories.

Dearest Rebecca,

I cannot believe you left me hangin. What about through thick and thin? Sure, I done it. So’d you! Right there beside me, whooping, “Go! Go! Go! One more round!” But, darlin’, at some point we should a stopped. No way in hell that big feller deserved what we done. Takin him out in the field in the middle of the night, tyin him to the fence! Usin that ladder. What was we thinkin?

Well, it’s over now. Cept I got three years; you got nothin. Who knew people’d be so strict about takin elephants out for a joy ride?

(101 words)

An Ode to Hitler

Posted: May 6, 2017 in Uncategorized

Pegman took us to the Yorkshire Dales today. I think seeing The Promise last week drew me back to the dark side of life. I apologize. Anyway, here is my 147-word story from Yorkshire. (Thanks, K. Rawson for providing an inspiring place to write!)

We met at a crossing between life and death.
Both of us treading lightly over a tarnished silver lining.
You lost your wife.
I lost my mother father brothers
and a sister.
But during those endless years, everyone lost someone.
Maybe, compared to other’s grief our’s carried no weight.
Babies died.
Babies were murdered.
Babies – of which we had none.
But the grief we felt was crushingly heavy.
We stumbled, you and I, before falling so deep we had no desire to survive.
Still, anger kept us alive.
We did our work, ate our bread and fought for watery soup.
Slept in rags on splintered boards balanced above skittering mice.
Sixty years later we sit, saying nothing.
There is no need.
Your twisted back and my childless womb say it all in a voice so loud it should shatter glass.
<!– end InLinkz script —


Posted: April 29, 2017 in What Pegman Saw

I’ve never fit in. Never will.
I’m stupid. And ugly. Doubt I’ll ever have a girlfriend.
I feel like I’m just watching the world whizz by. Whizz. Whizz Whizzzzzz.
Everything’s a blur.
Mom says I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Should get out more.
What the hell does she know? She doesn’t fit in anywhere either! She never goes out,
says she’s too fat.
And she dresses all in white. Looks like a gigantic ghost floating around the house. Wish she was a ghost and would disappear.
Dumber than a box of rocks, too.
Look what she done to the twins. Didn’t give them names, just numbers. 19 and 88.
How my supposed to bring someone to the house and introduce them to my whacked-out family?
Plus she made me join the boy scouts and won’t let me wear anything but this creepy brown uniform.
God! Just shoot me now!

(150 words)

Pegman took us to Chicago today where I found this very depressed young man who told me his story. When he was done I thought Puberty is tough. (And no, I didn’t shoot him.)