Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Win a doodle!

Posted: September 6, 2018 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

My friend MIKE ALLEGRA is offering a chance to win a doodle! This is an offer you can’t refuse. Here’s how to do it https://mikeallegra.com/2018/09/06/win-a-doodle-anyone-guys/ GOOD LUCK!!!

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Having been here many times, I have the advantage of knowing where Ted Strutz took this picture. There’s a great deal of history on this gorgeous island. Here’s a snippet for you to enjoy. I’ve added a link at the end so you can read more about Charles and Cutler. I have no idea if Charles had a wife. But that’s what fiction is for. Right? Thanks, Rochelle, for posting today’s Friday Fictioneer prompt.

“Heavens, Charles. The man shot your pig, not your father nor son.”
“Quiet! The wheels already turn. Just today Captain Pickett proclaimed, ‘We’ll make a Bunker Hill of it.'”
Celia raised an eyebrow.
“Cutler should, must be arrested for destroying British property. My stripes, the creature only ate a potato or two! ”
“The Americans are calling for military action. Do you realize you may be starting a war? Over a pig! Honestly, Charles.”
“In addition! Cutler told me I should have kept his potatoes out of my pig. Atrocious!”
Shaking her head, Celia pulled a ham from the oven.

Information about The Pig War https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pig_War_(1859)

 

Father’s Protection

Posted: July 21, 2018 in Uncategorized

Today Pegman took us to Melbourne, Australia. Scrolling through pictures, I found this hotel? restaurant? on planetware.com and found it quite unsettling. Thanks to Karen Rawson and Josh Hardy for providing us with Pegman fun.

Mother,

The skies have returned to glacier-ice blue. Five years passed before the greasy-black smoke of burning tires dissipated. We lived underground. The land is littered with grenades, bullets, and bones. We collect them, put them in piles for later use. Angelina builds walls from grenades. Now that sunlight sparks off the metallic angles, her structures are quite beautiful. Felicia creates windchimes from bullets and vines. If even one tree remained, we would hang her creations from the branches. Please, don’t worry, these reminders of war are no longer dangerous, Frederick has made it so.

What do I do? Build a place for each of us to live, safely and alone. Only four people remain but constructing homes from the bones of your loved ones takes time. Each is built with care.

Do not return. You would be uncomfortable here. My roof is made from Father’s ribs.

Sincerely, Damien

(150-words)

 

The Drowning

Posted: July 16, 2018 in Uncategorized

Today Pegman took us to Baltimore, Maryland where I found a little green boat I’d love to be in today. It’s hot for inhabitants of the Pacific Northwest and a wee paddle would be fun! Thanks to Karen Rawson and Josh Hardy for another great place to write about.

 

Yep, the last picture I took.

You old fool everyone knows you see things. And that photo’s so fuzzy just about anything could be floating in the water.
Have some soup, Papa.

She rises up at the strangest times. Sometimes beside lovers picnicking in their boats or little boys skipping rocks along the shore.

Geez if I hear this story one more time, I’ll stab my eyes out.
No soup, Papa? How about a biscuit with jam?

Doesn’t scare me. Nope! Not one bit. Fact is, I look forward to seeing her rise above the waves.

If there is a God, please let him sew this old man’s mouth shut.
Tomorrow we’ll go to the Ness and see what we can see. Maybe she’ll be there. Like hell.

You crazy?

You’re asking me that question?

She won’t rise if you’re there. Your baby sister won’t visit anyone she doesn’t like.

 

Not Your Fault

Posted: June 2, 2018 in Uncategorized

I’m cheating this week and posting another FF story. These 100-words have been rolling around in my head for three days and I had to write them down. Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read them.

For years I believed that
if you bothered
to dig deep enough
to look into my soul
and see me
me
for who I truly am
you would love me more

And, if you could decipher
the thoughts mixed into
the words I spoke
out of anger
or in defense
or defiance
you would love me more

But at last I realized
it wasn’t your fault
that our love was
withering like flowers
left too long in the sun

It was mine
for I sheltered my soul
and protected my thoughts
out of  fear
of being loved too much


heylookawriterfellow

She’s the best.

Longtime readers of this blog know that I am crazy about Sarah Josepha Hale.

Sarah was the first female magazine editor in America. She was also one of the greatest magazine editor’s in America, transforming the struggling Godey’s Lady’s Book into the most widely read magazine in 19th century America. She used this magazine as a bully pulpit to promote positive change: charitable giving, healthy living, patriotic causes, college educations for women, and—most famously—a nationalized Day of Thanksgiving.

She also wrote books­­­­­—lots and lots of books—including Northwood, the first novel in the U.S. to condemn slavery (predating Uncle Tom’s Cabin by 25 years). She also wrote the most famous poem of all time: “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

And she did all of this while raising five kids as a widowed, single mother.

Seriously, just how awesome is that?

Sarah’s life and achievements dazzle me; that’s…

View original post 462 more words

Edita’s Gift

Posted: February 24, 2018 in Uncategorized

Pegman took us on a trip to Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic. Thanks! Pegman for getting our collective minds set to create a 150-word story.

As a child, Edita wanted not just a single dollhouse, but an entire village.
Having wealthy parents helped and through the years, Edita collected house after house, painted them in colors that made her happy.
Through time, Edita put trees beside the houses, cherry trees with delicate pink blossoms in spring and maples with fiery red leaves in fall.
She added spruce trees in parks, merry-go-rounds and a river littered with sailboats and swans.
By the time she was twenty, tiny birds floated in the air above her village and fox prowled the forests.
When she was forty, Edita’s parents died, leaving her millions.
She added a school and churches of every denomination, stores, and two hospitals.
Clothing stores popped up after Edita turned seventy and she was becoming tired.
Ten years later, Edita passed away, leaving her village to people arriving from foreign shores
so they could have a home of their own.

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