Words that begin with “R”

Rabble Rouser Ralph regaled the rag-tag group of Rastafarians about his recent riot.

“RIGHT ON!” they roared.

The Reggae rhythm of the Rasta Roots band rallied, rousing their reaction.


Grammar Ghoul “Shapeshifting 13” this week: In exactly 39 words, write a story or poem inspired by and using any form of the following word,“RIOT”

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Life’s a Beach

It’s TBP Online Writer’s Guild time! By now you know the drill, but to review: In 25 minutes, write a story inspired by the following three prompts:

They were seven when they left Abilene
It wasn’t as much fun as I had hoped
Maybe I’ll just stay here for awhile

Afterward, post “as-is,” or set the timer again and edit for another stretch of time (writer’s discretion). Then choose a number between 1 and 50 to select a prompt from the list of 50 held by Sir Kerr for the next week’s prompt. I choose 48.

This week I took the prompts literally, instead of implying, or “writing around” them.  I wrote the story in the prescribed 25 minutes, but liked it well enough to want to edit for about another hour. 

They were seven when they left Abilene; rough riders on their way to old Mexico to rustle cattle and horses.

For young Alfred, the journey was not as much fun as he’d hoped. Years of listening to his uncles tell stories of the adventures and dangers of the Wild West gave Alfred an all-consuming desire to be a rough-rider like them. But this trip—his first—was nothing like his uncles’ fantastic tales.

Instead of fierce battles with brilliantly painted and costumed Indian warriors, all-night drunken card games in a saloon with half-naked women fawning over him, and rowdy midnight raids to purloin a rancher’s livestock, Alfred’s days were filled with long hours of hard riding under a hot sun and nothing but miles and miles of barren prairie sprawled in front of him. The gang never went into any town they came upon, instead making camp on the outskirts, sending only one or two men in for provisions. And they encountered nothing more terrifying than small vermin and rattlers. Indian warriors no longer patrolled these plains. They didn’t even come across so much as a lone homestead with an angry dirt farmer and his buckshot rifle. The fiercest thing Alfred saw was a small scorpion that crawled up a rock next to where he was sitting one afternoon while the gang took a brief break to water their horses in a small stream. He toyed with it with a stick, trying to goad it into stinging, but it scurried off the rock and under the brush.

No, this drive was nothing like he’d heard about the others. All Alfred got for his so-called adventure was constant hunger, thirst, dust in his ears, eyes, nose and mouth, unrelenting heat during the day, freezing cold at night, mildewed clothing from the occasional downpour, a very irritable bowel, a broken finger because he had a horse that spooked easily and constantly fought its bit, absolute exhaustion and utter boredom.

The gang arrived in Corpus Christi after two weeks of non-stop riding and Alfred was relieved they were finally riding into town somewhere. He looked forward to a bath, a bottle of whiskey, a cool bed with clean sheets, and maybe a soft, bare bosom on which to rest his weary head.

As they rode into the town, the buildings gave way to a sight that took Alfred’s breath away. The blue ocean stretching as far as one could see was the most unbelievably wonderful and beautiful thing Alfred ever beheld. The damp salt air blowing up from the water felt like a soothing embrace that even the hot mid-summer sun could not penetrate. He was captivated.

They tied up to the first saloon they came by and took over a couple of tables in the back. The kitchen served up steak, but also fish that was nothing like the trout back home. This fish came in large slabs of pure white flesh so moist and tender, he thought he was eating soft dough with a generous swipe of whipped butter. And the liquor they served had the smell, look and feel of the Texas desert. Sharp, tan and pungent, like the smell of the cactus they said it was made from after a hard rain.

The joint didn’t have beds. The proprietor pointed the gang to the hammocks strung between the strangest looking trees he called palmeras. To his surprise, Alfred slept soundly through the night and well into the next day, never missing the cool bed with the clean sheets and the soft woman.

It was late afternoon by the time Zachariah found Alfred sitting on the beach, his bare toes dug into the sand, staring out over the bay.

“Old Martin says they found us a feller that can take us all the way cross the border undetected. Make it in ‘bout a week or so. Says there’s several ranches not far past, just ripe for the pickin’.”

“Yeah? That so?” Alfred asked.

Zachariah nodded. “We’re lookin’ to head out first light tomorrow.”

cowboy beachAlfred scanned the horizon. A calm, flat sea sent gentle waves up on the beach. Two young women walked slowly along the sand, arm in arm, parasols idly twirling, their occasional laughter carried aloft on the soft breeze.

“You fellers go on ahead without me,” Alfred said. “I think I’ll stay here awhile.”

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And I quote…

I have been tagged.

Unfortunately, I’ve been tagged with something I enjoy: Quotes.

And these three I particularly enjoy :

“Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in a the midst of those things and be calm in your heart.” – unknown

“I’ve been around. Well – alright, I might not have been around, but, I’ve been nearby.” – line from Mary Tyler Moore Show

“Happy Birthday!” – unknown

This is supposed to be a 3 days/3 quotes thing, but I am doing 1 day/3 quotes. And, I’m not going to tag this thing forward, but you are welcome to play along if you wish!

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Bloody Bitten

nailbitingHe bit his nails down to the quick, leaving nothing but a shredded, bloody pulp. The anticipation of receiving his editor’s notes was absolutely killing him.

Grammar Ghouls Shapeshifting 13 prompt: In exactly 26 words, write a post inspired by “nail biter.”


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Woman walks into a bar…

As luck would have it, this week saw Friday the 13th, and this is the 13th week of The Blog Propellant’s On-line Writer’s Guild prompt. This is pure coincidence. Just sayin’. Anyway…tnkerr’s 13th post, to my mind, looks like two prompts in one: He begins with an open-ended story (what We call at TBP a “crowd writing” story), and then lays out his weekly tri-prompt: “…drank up all my money.”/ ” I like heavy metal. ” /  “I’m not one of those other girls.”

Hmmm… do I take the bait? Why, yes. Yes I do. 

I’m starting with the end of tnkerr’s story as a quick lead in. To read the beginning of his open-ended story, go to TBP OLWG #13. Oh, and I choose the number 13. Of course.

girl walks into a bar

…There were three or four other serious drinkers scattered around the place. The juke box was playing a whole lot of Charlie Rich.

I was pretty buzzed and pretty mellow when I felt the cool breeze on my back from someone opening the door, and a scent of citrus perfume wafted in. No one had left so I turned around to see who had come in. I was pretty sure that I recognized her, but when Big Joe Turner suddenly came on the box I was sure. She paused and let her eyes roam the room, become accustomed to the gloom. I knew then, that my life was about to change forever.

“Darling,” she said when she saw me at the bar.

“Citron!” I said. “Been a while, baby girl!”

“You know this tall drink of water?” Smitty asked.

As I patted the empty stool next to me, I introduced Citron. “Smitty, this here’s my kid sister.”

“By 8 minutes!” Citron scolded. She flashed one of those big, toothy smiles of hers. Damn, it was good to see her again.

Smitty looked skeptical. “You two is twins?”

“Well, obviously we ain’t identical,” I quipped. Me and Citron just kept grinning at each other. I gave her a slap on the leg and she punched my arm in reply.

“No. You ain’t,” Smitty agreed. “You’d look downright scary in that pretty blouse.” Smitty continued with a head nod to my sister, “What’cha havin?”

I patted down my pants and shirt pockets, “Sorry sis, I seem to have drank up all my money tonight.”

“No worries,” Citron smiled again and turned to Smitty. “Wine?”

“Uh, sure. Don’t know what we got’s any good, but I’ll check. What’s your color?” Citron took a moment to register what Smitty was asking.

“Oh, uh, white. If it says ‘Chardonnay’ on the bottle, even better.” She turned her attention back to me.

“And, what do I owe this pleasure? Where d’hell you’ve been, anyway?” I asked.

“Here and there,” was all she offered.

“Well you look as good as hell, so can’t be all bad news.”

“No, none of it is.” Citron agreed. “Actually, it’s been kind of fantastic.”

Smitty poked his head around the corner from the far end of the bar and called out to us, “Jenny’s got one those big jugs of Chablis she uses in her chicken and pasta sauce.” Smitty pronounced the ‘ch’ and ‘s’ in Chablis. “That do?”

“Sure,” Citron conceded. “Any chance it’s…cold?” She leaned over to me and whispered, “I was going to say ‘chilled,’ but thought I better not.” I laughed, maybe a little too hard.

Smitty called out again. “Nope. You want it on the rocks, then?” We started to giggle, like we did as kids. “Sure, Smit,” I called back. “Rock’s is fine.”

Citron graciously thanked Smitty when he handed her a high-ball filled with ice and wine. Class act, she was. Always had been. Took after our grandma that way.

“C’mon,” I said, standing, “let’s go over here, where we can have us some privacy and you tell me what’s so fantastic about your life you ain’t seen your brother in over five years.”

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Mother William

The Blog Propellant’s Sunday Online Writer’s Guild prompts us to incorporate the following 3 sentences into a post: “She wore a dark and faded blazer,” “This is real life,” and “He peered into the monitor and blinked.” The added challenge today, it being Mother’s Day, is to work in something about dear ol’ mom.


Me ‘n Mom, circa late ’70s

I stared at my laptop’s monitor waiting for inspiration for quite a while before I started the clock for today’s writing prompt. It’s not easy to write about my mother.

Mom died a little over 4 years ago. We were pretty close, so you’d assume her death was hard for me to take. It wasn’t. Witnessing her body disintegrate was worse; the once bright, energetic and witty woman replaced by cancer with a vapid mind and fragile shell of a body in a matter of just a few weeks. But I was not devastated by her death. That surprised me.

There have been moments of angst, of course. Like, the first time I thought, “I’ve got to tell mom about this!” and instantly realizing she wasn’t around to talk to anymore. The most difficult was sorting through her things, for, in life, her belongings were a genuine extension of her being. Clothes in particular. She had quite the wardrobe, especially work clothes. Dismantling the neat rows of blouses, skirts, dresses and suit blazers, all arranged by color, felt like ransacking a sacred temple. Moreover, it felt like I was taking a giant eraser to her entire existence.

I wonder if I will break down in sobs someday, as I did when my father died. Had mom been the first to go, would I have wept uncontrollably for her and been more modest in my grief for my him at his passing? She died so soon after my father, maybe I was still too numb from his loss to take any more to heart. Perhaps. Who knows.

Such is life. The things you think are going to play out a certain way, end up manifesting in an entirely different manner.

I choose the number 7 for next week’s prompt.

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I do not forcefully glitter. Just sayin’

Right. 52 words that express “force” and “coruscant.” OK, so… That is ten! Yea! Well, truth is, if I must write shining prose with those words, I ought to be a damn-sight better writer than I am, yes? (Shoot! that’s only 37 words. How am I supposed to “glitter forcefully” with only 52 words?) 

Grammar Ghouls #52… in only 52 words, and inspired by the words “force” and “coruscant,” compose a post.

Yeah. Write Right.


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TGIF’n Good Day

Today I break the rules. It is May Day, and I’m feeling light, bright and rebellious. Emotionally festooned in ribbons and flowers, I skip and dance about the hyperbole of this bonny spring day, free to be me. Plus, as TBP’s Empress, I, that is, We (since I’m hyperbolizing) reserve the right to respond as We please to TBP’s Grand Duke Kerr’s OLWG #11 (tnkerr started the whole “royal we” thing, not me!)

So, I will write, but only as I find inspiration in today’s TBP OLWG. I will not time myself because I’m feeling not only the need to write, but write and write and write! I will not keep to one, two or just three prompts, for my fervor must not be contained. I will incorporate as many “prompts” that move me in the preamble. I am WOMAN, hear me roar!

OK. Enough of that. Onward…

top downThe end of a f’n good day, Brian thought. In just one week he breezed through the ridiculously large project thrown at him from out of nowhere on Monday, and by 2:30 pm today, Friday, the director signed off on it and delivered it to their client. Whether anyone gave a damn he got that bad-boy out the door so fast, Brian would never know. Nor did he care. All that mattered to him was that he met the challenge full-on, and made the company look great in the process.

By the time 5:00 pm rolled around, the clouds otherwise forecast as here to stay through the weekend had completely vanished. There was nothing but bright sunshine and blue sky from one horizon to the other. He rolled back the top of his convertible and decided to take the coast highway home. Maybe stop at The Cliffhanger for a couple of beers. They’ll have the playoffs on, and if he left right now, he’d be in time to catch a bit of the game; see how the Sharks were faring. After all, he thought, he had earned a night out. He shot a couple texts to friends Jim and Trevor letting them know his plan, and then called his wife, Odessa.

“Park the kids with Renée and meet me at Cliffhangers.”

“Renée and Janus have that thing this weekend, so…”

“Damn. Forgot that.”

“That’s OK. I promised Meredith this morning she could have Reilly over, anyway, which will probably turn into a sleep-over, so just as well.”

“What’s my bud up to?”

Odessa paused. “Jake’s at Emmett’s.”

“I thought we agreed to discourage Jake spending time with that kid.”

“Yes,” Odessa said, “but it’s been a really long time since they’ve hung out after school, and Jake pleaded with me this afternoon to go to his house. The Science Fair’s coming up next month and the boys have a project they want to do together.”

“That kid’s gonna blow the both of ‘em up. Where are they?”

“I said. At Emmett’s.”

Brian thought about Emmett’s dad. He claimed he was a writer of some sort, some kind of la-di-da researcher with a PhD, but the couple of times they’d met when picking up or dropping their kids off at school or soccer, Brian thought he seemed OK.

“Yeah, well, whatever. So. No Cliffhanger tonight for you?”

Odessa smiled, knowing her husband preferred a night at Cliffhanger with just the guys. “Jim or Trev gonna be there?”

“Dunno. Just sent them a text. Probably. Sharks are playing tonight.”

“Have fun, then.” Odessa said.

“ ‘K. Love ya. Mean it.”

“Me too. Hey, and be quiet when you get home, ‘K? Like I said, we’ll probably have Reilly spending the night. I don’t need her going back to her parents telling them about you getting home after midnight and being loud, waking everyone up.”

“You really don’t like her folks, do you.”

“I really don’t.”

“ ‘K. Promise. Bye.” Brian hung up.

“SAAAHHWWEEET,” he cried out loud. Boy’s night! A giant grin spread across his face. Kids off with their friends, Dessa probably wanting time to herself anyway to dig into one of her perpetual projects…and, if they didn’t get too crazy tonight, he’d probably be able to wrangle nine holes out of Jim and Trevor tomorrow as well. The weekend was really looking up.


rec room“SHHH!!!” Brian scolded Jim and Trevor as they made their way downstairs to Brian’s rec room. “We have to be quiet! My daughter’s got her friend over and I promised Dessa we’d be quiet!”

“SHHH!!!” Trevor mocked his friend, making a goofy face. “Be berwy berwy qwiat. We’re huntin’ wabbits!”

“Just shut the f— up.” Brian scolded again.

He turned on the TV and the disc player as Jim and Trevor helped themselves to beer in the fridge. The three men plopped down on the huge wrap-around sofa, popped open their beers and waited for their favorite porn, “She’s Just Gotta Get Naked When It Rains” to start. Per usual, Brian set the player on the lowest volume and on 3x fast forward.

Dessa woke when she heard the telltale giggles through the floor boards of their bedroom. The plan was, when they built out the basement under their bedroom, she’d be able to keep an ear on the kids when then were down there with their friends late at night. Not her husband and his buddies. She threw on her robe and went downstairs.

“Shit!” Jim whispered like a teen being caught out by a parent. “Someone’s up!”

“Jus’ d’wife,” Brian slurred.

“Hey guys,” Odessa casually called out as she came down the stairs. “I see the nympho rain goddess is up to her usual tricks.” She leaned over the back of the sofa and gave her husband a quick smooch on the cheek.

“Hey Dess,” the men said, barely acknowledging her presence.

“Never ceases to amaze,” she mused, watching the action on the TV, “that even in super-fast forward, he still takes forever to get to the point.”

“And, in fast forward it never stops being the funniest shit, ever,” Trevor smiled up at her. The scene on the TV changed to an orgy.

“That’s my cue to leave.” Odessa tussled Brian’s hair. He grabbed her hand, gave it a quick kiss, gave it back to her and she went back to bed.


The next day, Brian woke with a hangover that could kill an elephant. He rolled over, “visualizing whirled peas,” as he used to call bed spins in his college days. Suddenly realizing he’d not made it upstairs to bed, he sat up and tried to get his bearings. Jim was on the opposite end of the huge sofa, snoring away. Brian vaguely remembered Trevor saying he was calling a cab.

Stumbling as he made his way upstairs, Brian peered out the front window, relieved to see Trevor’s car in the driveway. He turned to head down the hall to the master bedroom and ran smack into his daughter Meredith and her friend Reilly.

“Oh, my God, Dad! You look like shit!”

“Language, young lady,” Brian admonished just as Odessa barked loudly from the kitchen, “Girls! Pancakes!” The girls swept by Brian, his daughter’s friend giving him a look of exaggerated disgust as she passed. So much for not blowing that scene, Brian thought. He’ll have to pay for it sooner or later. No matter how hard he tried not to, he always managed to let Dessa down.

As he stood in the shower, leaning forward on his hands to help steady his still wobbly legs, Odessa came in with a huge mug of coffee she handed to him through the shower curtain, and announced she was taking the girls to the mall, a movie, and then out for a bite. They wouldn’t be back until after dinner.

“So, you guys are on your own today. Jake’s sulking in his room about what I don’t know. He says he talking to his gaming buddy, ‘Cheshire Cat,’ but won’t open his door. I’m sick of arguing with him about the closed door rule.” Dessa’s tone was an unmistakable mix of fury and impatience. “Please don’t ignore him. Take him out somewhere today, OK? Get him the hell away from the computer.”

“Hmph,” was all Brian was able to say in response.

“And, Jim’s asleep downstairs. I have no idea where Trev ended up.”

“I know,” Brian groaned.

“Yeah, well, you guys had your fun last night. Today’s just another one of those times you’ve won the big lottery, so…get with it.”

Dessa always used the phrase ironically. They’d been seeing each other just a few months when she got pregnant with Jake, and it was how she broke the news to Brian: “Looks like you’ve won the big lottery! Me and a baby!” These days she said it only when she was ticked-off. A minute later Brian heard the door to the garage slam.

He had no idea what to do about his son. The kid was a puzzle to both of them. He knew he’d end up being a dick and getting mad, which seemed the only way to get Jake to respond to anything, and he resented his son for it.

But, first things first. More coffee, get Jim up, and call Trevor to come get his car.

So much for a great weekend.

I count 11 words or phrases in the prompt preamble I used in my story, completely by coincidence of this being the 11th OLWG prompt. Therefore, I choose the number ELEVEN for next week’s prompt.

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I want to be R.Sativus when I grow up

aprilImitation is the one of the sincerest forms of flattery, so they say. I look forward to R. Sativus‘ Character Sketch series of posts, because I want to be able to describe people the way April sees them: honestly, with a touch of irony and a whole lot of empathy. She works in a perfect place for people watching and the woman doesn’t miss a single detail about the people who walk by her place of employment. But without her objectivity and canny ability to feel their joy, sadness, anger and contentment, it would all come off as snarky commentary.

I am at one of my favorite neighborhood places. “Favorite,” because they have secure WiFi and are not Starbucks, or its like.  Inspired by the collection of characters here tonight, I am going to try my hand at “being April” and sketch the characters I see.

As I approach the establishment, I see an older gentleman sitting at one of the outdoor tables. His eyes are absent, as though he’s lost in thought. His body shudders a bit, and then he stands up, uneasy on his feet. He has a backpack and is wearing exceptionally over-sized dirty pants and an equally dirty over-sized sweatshirt. But, his hair is clean, cut short, and he is shaven. As he passes me, the smell of old urine is unmistakable. He’s left a beer on the table, poured in a glass, 2/3rds full. He’s a curious sight for this place. As I walk in the door, I wonder who he is.

I arrive a half an hour after Happy Hour, so most people are settling up their bills and heading out. I wait a couple of minutes for the coveted table under the kind-of bay window to be cleared. As I take my seat, a tall-ish, plump, but definitely busty woman walks in like she owns the place. Cherry-bomb red, business-tailored, form-fitting dress, capped by a bright, shiny made-up face and genuine smile, with straight, thin, blonde tresses that hang flat-as-a-board below her shoulders. Her left forearm extends upwards, her car keys in her hand and a blatant display of “see I own a super-expensive designer bag” looped over her arm as she takes enormous strides in flesh-toned pointy-toed stilettos dotted with silver studs riveted down the entire back of her shoes. Her destination is revealed when a table bursts into cheers. “There’s the birthday girl!” She’s further greeted with a glass of champagne and a bouquet of bright yellow flowers.

Not long after that, her polar-opposite walks in: Short, skinny, hunch-over a bit, cropped brown hair almost entirely covered by a backwards NFL ball cap and a pair of Oakely sunglasses hanging down from her ears under her chin. A black down vest, crew neck t-shirt, saggy-butt b-boy jeans. She slides into an open table, tells the waitress she meeting someone, and immediately starts texting.

Her friend comes in a few minutes later, rushed and a little frantic. Her head is completely shaved, save the jet-black pompadour Mohawk, black button down shirt, tight rolled up jeans and black motorcycle boots. She orders whiskey-sours for both of them. Jameson. The smaller woman corrects. “Chardonnay for me. Thanks.” They spend the rest of the time I’m here in serious, animated conversation. When they leave, they grab hands and kiss, giving one another the biggest, sweetest smiles I’ve seen lovers give each other in a long time.

I come to this place often enough to know who is the barfly. But he is not here tonight. An older man, always drunk, very drunk, but never obnoxious. He typically sits at the bar close to the door, too zoned-out on whatever drink anyone is buying for him to be able to focus. I wonder why he isn’t here tonight?

A trio comes in: A middle-aged balding man in jeans and a t-shirt, and a couple of women, one younger than the other, dressed as casually as he. They sit at the table next to me. The women sit across from one another. I furtively glance at the woman opposite me. A long blonde bob, simple navy blue sweater layered with a pink t-shirt, and jeans. Fashionable, but sensible lace-up walking athletic shoes. It’s not until she stops smiling broadly and lets her face drop that I notice she’s a good deal older than I guessed. She and the young woman, who I do not get a good look at, start chatting. He settles in with his phone, disinterested with their conversation. A waitress, who’ve I’ve never seen before, comes by and the three of them explode with “Oh My God!” and “You’re still here?!” The man jokes, “Oh, well, there goes my already bad day!” and laughs. The young waitress ignores his comment. It occurs to me she probably works in the kitchen. The women order salads and he orders a burger. All order glasses of wine. The woman devour their salads in a matter of 2 or maybe 3 minutes, hunched over the table, totally focused on shoving food in their mouths. The man sits back, eats slowly, and cannot finish his burger. The young woman picks at the remains on his plate.

As they get up to leave, a gaggle of six elderly women walk in. The young woman knows two of the elderly women and they happily greet one another. Another woman in the gaggle carries a vase of Calla Lillies. I hear the word, “birthday.” Another! All of the elderly woman are smartly dressed and coiffed. None of them move with any ease. How is it, I wonder to myself, that as we age, walking becomes so awkward? The woman with the lilies moves through her crowd of friends with a sudden burst of mobility, holding the vase of flowers high over her head. “Let’s go back to the back,” she directs. The rest follow as fast as their aged legs will allow.

A guy walks in and plops onto an open bar stool, followed by his girlfriend. He’s in a beige wool short-billed cap, khaki Carhartt jacket, a black leather “man purse” strapped across his body, clean hair cut, sporting one of those “oops, I forgot to shave since last weekend” beards, and wearing a khaki Utlikilt that perfectly matches his hat and his coat. He does one of those chin-up nods to the barkeep and orders a stout. It’s the first time I’ve seen any man in a Utilikilt so fashionably coordinated. I can’t help but blatantly stare at him.

His tiny pixie, nondescript mouse of a Tomboy girlfriend takes the stool next to him. He smiles a gigantic grin and wraps a long arm around her waist, giving the side of her leg a squeeze. She responds in the most aloof manner a person can, avoiding his gaze. “Beer?” he asks her. “Yeah,” she says, offering nothing more. He orders her a Fat Tire.

As I continue to stare at the guy in the Utilikilt, I wonder who of my nephews ended up with my dad’s black kilt.

Posted in creative nonfiction, Point of View, Short Story Tableaus | Tagged , | 2 Comments

This isn’t a story, it’s a play (scene II)

TBP’s Writer’s Guild #10 prompt: Well, there you are then; Come here child; It is sometimes vital to be misunderstood

For the first scene of This isn’t a story, it’s a play, click here

B: Well, there you are then.
A: What do you mean?
B: I mean, I made a castle on a rock next to the Hudson River, and you saw a rocket and blue flames.
A: Plumes.
B: Anyway. There you are.


A: Let’s ask the kid. Hey! Kid! Come here!

(a child enters)

A: Come here.

(the child walks over to A & B)

A: (Holding up the strange sculpture) What do you see?

(the child shrugs)

B: It’s OK, you can say. Tell me! I want to know your opinion.
C: You made this?
B: Yes.
C: (shrugs again) I dunno. I looks kinda like, maybe, a…a… an arrow with a (gesturing with a finger)… a… thing…
B: Never mind. That’s OK.
A: See, even the kid doesn’t get it.
B: Art is only as you see it. You don’t have to get it.
A: Yeah, but that’s the thing, right? If I don’t get it, I don’t know what I’m looking at!
B: That’s not the point.
A: Did you mean this to be abstract, like modern art?
B: No. I mean, I didn’t mean it to be all that literal either. I was working with candy wrappers and other crap. You don’t build castles from candy wrappers and other crap.
A: I’m not trying to be a critic; I just want to know what you were thinking! I care about you. I care about what you do and what you think.
B: Love doesn’t mean having to be understood all the time.
A: Now you’re pouting.
C: Can I be excused?
A&B (talking over each other): Yes, yes…go play/finish your homework… (C exits)

(A&B sit in silence)

A: Ya know, the more I look at it, I see the castle. I get it.
B: (sighs loudly) Yeah, OK.
A: But, you see how I thought it was a rocket?
(B drops her head in her hands)


Wrote this pretty fast, like in 20 min, and edited for another 10 or so. Formatting for the blog? I never count that time


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