Waiting for Bordeaux

Image by djedj from Pixabay
Sammi’s #WWP #198

He had his kitsch. She had her kitsch. Never the twain could meet.
His lawn sported a Greek pavilion around which sprawled a miniature golf course.
Her lawn spawned stone excrescences of fauns, fairies, and a Michelangelo’s David.
One day, his golf ball took out David’s right . . . ear.
He trotted over holding a bottle of Bordeaux and apologized.
Together they looked at each other’s kitsch admiringly.

Love’s Ballad

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Love’s Ballad

Roses he gave her, she took them in her hand
The petals silk warm, still harboring his touch
She knew not where to look, his face was a beacon
A desire of yearning, too bright to stare upon,
So she stared at the roses, their rosy tinge her own.

The years they raced by full of home, hearth, and heaven
Their love knew no bounds and their eyes saw no other
Until the day came when a lone grave boasted roses
One standing alone to see light like a beacon, eclipsed,
And roses ice crusted by death’s wintry dew.

Text: ICYMI

(A doggerel in the voice of a cantankerous correspondent; Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #197 using the word “call” in a prose or poem of exactly 41 words.)

Photo by Torsten Dettlaff from Pexels

I called, you missed it
That’s just the short of it
I won’t pitch a fit
We’ll just call it quits
Before another snit
No love lost, not a bit
Been looking for an exit
ICYMI: in case you missed it.

Photo by Andrew LaBonne from Pexels

The DaDa Vinci Code

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

It was the first meeting of the Dadaist Society of New York’s Upper Downside. Mistrel McGarte chewed her lower lip mechanically. Rrrose IV had yet to show with the coveted clue to the Mona Lisa’s jilted lover’s true descendant: none other than Danette Brown, capitalist author of the DaDa Vinci Code. Mistrel sighed. There was a time for absurdity but not now. The capitalist clock was ticking alongside the urinal in the art gallery. A postman handed her an envelope. Mistrel tore it open. Fine particles of detritus, paint, bone floated free. A note inside read, “DNA here final clue.”

Sanctuary Portal

Kim at dVerse has this weeks “Prosery” challenge of a 144 word-story using a certain line from Yeats’ “The Song of Wandering Aengus” (in italics below). I won’t claim to having done it or the wonderful Whelan painting here justice, but what fun trying! Thanks, Kim. ❤ Check out Mr. Linky for more “proseries.”

Michael Whelan, “Sanctuary” (oil on canvas, 2019)

SANCTUARY PORTAL

“A red-ribboned heart he had given me to wear,” the dying woman breathed. “But I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head.

The priest nodded wisely. The nun did so likewise.

Outside a young girl stopped to hear all that was said.  

“Now I’m unsettled. I miss him so. I lost one world to gain another, both now fading fast.”

A voice came from the portal, a voice that sounded far off.  “It’s not too late, my darling. I’ve been waiting this aeon’s passing. There’s more that lies ahead.”

She sat up, her heart failing. She threw open her arms while passing across the threshold’s steps.

The last they saw was a sunlit orb floating into the light.

The priest nodded wisely. The nun did so likewise.

The girl outside the window felt a fire inside her head.  

Fallen

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo; likewise, dVerse’s Sarah prompts us towards “Poetics,” the watchword this time being fungi.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Fallen

No longer there the Edenic tree
though long I linger near its breathing traces
like a dreamer awakening after a song-vision,
aware only of her pounding heart
as witness to the night’s transactions
when what once was a maiden day eternal
or a thousand years, where golden bridges lighted woods
aflame with love so deep betrayal seemed impossible
until a serpent came with clever tongue
sowing seeds of deception,
sly in its jealous conceptions,
and I, plunging into deadly deceits,
unstrung the heart-cords that made us whole,
left instead with the decaying remnants,
and vernal roots now dotted with fungus.

Poetic Justice

 

Fiction; word count: 100
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POETIC JUSTICE

“Hold on,” said Ben who had just gotten dumped by the barmaid, “I feel a limerick coming on.”
“Is it painful?” asked cheeky Dotty McDonald.
“Just five lines in anapestic.”
“Painful, then. Let’s have it.”

There once was a barmaid who never
Spared a kind word for this feller
While she binged on the prunes
He bought her from Koon’s
He absconded with her toilet paper.

“A revenge poem. I like that,” Dotty hooted. “Is it true?”
“Clever devil. It took some planning,” his buddy John remarked.
“There’s no going back after that,” Ben admitted. “Another romance down the toilet.”

Continue reading “Poetic Justice”

Miraculum ad Fontes

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Pastor Peter was all a’flutter.
There was the baby. There were the parents. There was the baptismal font.
And there was Mick Mooney, to whom he had given bottled water for the font, boasting a malicious grin.
The unopened bottle stood, tragically, on the chancel rail.
Peter prayed, opened the font.
It was filled to the brim.
Afterwards, he confessed his surprise to the happy couple.
“Oh, that was me,” the new mother said. “I just wanted to say a prayer over the font before the service began when I saw it was empty. I didn’t do wrong, did I?”

100 words; fiction
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The Mitchell and May (Pre-)Show

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“You’re looking at the wrong camera.”

“No, you are, May. I’m looking at camera B.”

“Camera A’s on first. Get a grip, Mitchell!”

“Camera B, May. Why are you wearing brown? I told you I was wearing brown today.”

“This? It’s more maroon than brown! Do I have to get you a color wheel? And go easy on the makeup. Good grief! Is that blush, Mitchell?”

So? What’s wrong with a little color?”

“Just feels like you’re auditioning for the Moulin Rouge, that’s all.”

The producer sighed. “More like the Punch and Judy show,” he mumbled in the control booth.

100 words; Fiction
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