Friday Fictioneers 1/27/17 – The Date

This week’s Friday Fictioneers 100-Word challenge was hard for me. I just couldn’t get “connected” with those antique cars. But finally, thanks to Orville and Julie-Bell, I managed to come up with something. If you’d like to join the fun follow the link and get the details.

My story is below Al’s photo prompt.

THE DATE

 

“Orville! Stop pretending we’re out of gas, and get me home!”

“But – ”

“Stop. Aunt Pearl always said never trust any man who drives a crank-up machine with no top.”

“Oh, Julie-Bell … Honey,” Orville cooed, wrapping his arms around her. “Just one little kiss.”

Julie squirmed, blushed, fluttered her eyelids. “Well …”

“That’s my girl.”

Just as Orville’s lips settled firmly in place, the sky burst open, and drenched the lovers.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Julie wailed.

Orville hopped out and went to crank the motor. “Well, at least I can skip the cold shower when I get home.”

 

 

~~~

SOCS Writing Challenge – 8/13/16: Cash

I‘m experimenting with a new challenge this week. Actually, I was supposed to write this piece yesterday, since the challenge is titled “Stream of Consciousness Saturday.” But I just didn’t have enough time. The hostess is Linda G. Hill, and if you’d like to start participating in the challenge, just follow the link to her site.

I like stream-of-consciousness writing exercises. I use them often with my creative writing students in the college classes I teach. And many times, those exercises allow us to discover aspects of our creativity that we didn’t know were there. When we just start writing without planning and let our creativity take us wherever it will, without stopping to reason or even edit, we can come up with some surprising things.

This time around, I think I’ve come up with something rather silly, but — what can I say — I just started with a question out of nowhere and followed up with another line and another until I had what you see below. Maybe it will at least give you a chuckle.

 

DOWN MEMORY LANE – OR NOT

“Cash! Darn it, man! What took you so long?”

“I couldn’t find my gun.”

“What the heck you need a gun for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? What do you plan to do with a gun?”

Cash looked at his friend Kent. They’d gone through high school together as best friends. And even after Cash had gone to Brazil to work, they’d kept in touch – well – until his accident. After that, he’d lost touch with most of his acquaintances, due to the amnesia.

Now, ten years later, most of his memory was coming back – slowly – and he had manged to get a job at the computer company where Kent worked. Kent had invited him to go out with him tonight – since it was Friday and no work tomorrow – but he was wondering now if his friend might be having some issues with forgetfulness himself. He looked at him closely. “You all right, Kent? I think maybe you’ve been working too hard.”

“Heck no. I’m fine. Lookin’ forward to tonight.”

“But I notice you don’t have a gun – and you’re not exactly dressed for hunting are you?”

Kent scratched his head. “What’s with this gun business? You afraid someone might try to hold us up or something?”

“No. But hunting requires some kind of weapon, doesn’t it? Bow and arrow or knife or a gun? And I figured since you said we’d be hunting chicks, the gun would be the most appropriate.”

Kent’s eyes bugged out. “What?!”

“Well, chickens are going to be pretty hard to take down with a bow and arrow, and, frankly, the knife sounded like it would get pretty gory, so the gun seemed the best choice.”

“Buddy … are you telling me you came tonight planning on shooting at a bunch of chickens?”

Now it was Cash’s turn to look astounded. “But that’s what you said we’d be doing. I remember distinctly. You said, ‘Hey Cash, wanna go out with me tonight? We’ll hunt us up some chicks.’

Kent just stood there – mouth open, but silent. No words came to his rescue. He’d have to figure out a way to explain to Cash that, evidently, his memory was still a long way from back to normal. Colloquial terminology needed to be the topic of discussion at his next therapy session.

 

 

~~~

A Little More Cinquain

I just seem to be in the mood for Cinquain this week. And I guess maybe I’m in the mood for love as well. So it seemed only fitting that I use one to talk about the other.

HEART W. GOLD ARROW
LOVE CINQUAIN # 1

I wait:
Anticipate.
A smile … a breath … a sigh.
At last his arms enfold me close;
We kiss.

LOVE CINQUAIN # 2

Blind date.
Some butterflies.
But still excitement builds.
We meet; we talk; we laugh; we know:
We fit.

LOVE CINQUAIN # 3

Tears fall.
Hard to believe:
I thought we had it all,
But now I find I loved alone.
He’s gone.

LOVE CINQUAIN # 4

Today
I walk the aisle
And give to my best friend
My hand and heart for all my life;
“I do.”

♥  ♥  ♥

“`

Tall Guy

a poem (and a true story) by Sandra Conner

I know a guy who’s very tall,TAPE MEASURE - LONG
Stands six feet, seven inches.
He finds his height a great delight,
An asset in the clinches.

He’s very smart, and that’s a help.
It compensates the strain
Of all the time it takes for blood
To move from heart to brain.

In public he stands proud and straight;
He literally has a ball
When people lean waaaay back and say,
“My goodness, you are tall!”

Height has its setbacks, though. Take clothes:
They must be special bought.
And going in and out of doors,
He must take special thought.

And then there’s dating; it’s a trial:
He’s anxious, Heaven knows,
To hold his partner cheek to cheek,
Not middle chest to nose.

But, still, he sees his height as Heaven’s
Gift — a special gene.
Believes all men wish to be tall,
And with envy they are green.

So happily he struts about,
Looking for that perfect mate.
His only foe the hometown priest,
Who stands at six foot, eight.

An Old Maid: Poem by Lila Colloton

(This poem is the work of a very dear friend of mine, Lila Colloton, who, at the age of 80, is still an active poet and a journalist for an area newspaper.  Her poems have been published in several different venues, including her book Rhyme, Rhythm, and Reason. What makes this particular poem especially delightful, in my opinion, is that she wrote it at the tender age of 16.)

AN OLD MAID

by Lila Colloton

Being an old maid would be fun I guess:
No diapers to wash or children to dress;
You may go shopping whenever you can;
Don’t have to sit home and wait for your man.
Yes, being an old maid would be fun I suppose:
Just one person’s dishes and your very own clothes.

But just stop to think before you continue:
Don’t you feel sort of funny within you?
Kind of an empty feeling I bet.
Just suppose Mom and Dad hadn’t met.
Where would you be?
Nobody knows:
Probably just part of the breeze that blows.

So stop debating before it’s too late;
When he calls up, don’t break that date!

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 1932 Lila Colloton