OLWG #296 Maybe Verse of Some Sort

Written for OLWG# 296

Veronica Jones was a good girl attended church every Sunday morning a cheerleader and President of the Honour Society at Lakeside Academy for Girls, and a member of the Ambassador’s Club, too Somehow word got out that she was seen up on Preston Rd. with a boy, Tyler Hanson, Preston Rd. is little more than a dirt track that winds into the woods off Hwy 380 The kids use it You know… In a town this size, well, it didn’t sit well with folks around here the word is that even Faber College might be reconsidering the scholarship; previously proffered
The prompts were: 
      1. got a job, dealing faro
      2. she was a ‘good girl’
      3. in a town this size

OLWG# 294- Gibson Ridge

Written for OLWG# 294

Steve turned up the gravel road that was the way to reach the summit of Gibson Ridge. He was driving his Mom’s car: a four-door 1954 Rambler “Cross Country,” the one with the fixed front fender skirts.

His parents had driven to the coast for the weekend. They had taken Dad’s ’62 Chrysler New Yorker because it was roomier. The morning they left, Dad pulled him aside and cautioned him not to be driving his mother’s car while they were away. He was not covered by auto insurance and, as he was not yet fourteen years old. Steve would not even be able to get his driver’s license for almost another year. Yes, they trusted him to stay at the house with his older sister; they did not trust him to drive without a parent in the car.

“I promise, Dad.” Steve crossed his heart to show his earnestness and wished them gone already. He wanted to take that car and cruise up and down Fletcher Blvd with his friends. Steve longed to wheel into the Beacon Drive-In and have Chrissy Hamilton skate over to take his order. He wanted to order a vanilla shake and share it with her. Instead, he was driving up a gravel road with James, riding shotgun, Larry, and Mike in the back seat. Larry had promised that some upperclassmen were having a bonfire and “kegger” at the overlook on the Ridge. He said that there might be some girls there.

He better be right.

The prompts were: 
      1. wheels on a gravel road
      2. lay your lily hand in mine
      3. bring a gnome costume

OLWG# 292- Gaijin Haibun

Written for OLWG# 292


Jia Li Walked from the Hostess Podium at the front of Aiea Chop Suey to speak with Mr Zau. “Sir, do you remember those sailors who filled the entire restaurant last week?” “The submariners? Of course I remember them. Are they back?” “One of them is back, sir; the big one, the tall one, with the stooped shoulders.” “Ah, yes, he was a tidy eater.” “That’s him. This time he has brought a young woman with him, ang moh. He says that she has never eaten Chinese cuisine. Where would you like me to seat them?”

“Does she know how to use chopsticks, can she manipulate the kuàizi?”


The prompts were: 
    1. drenched with blood and whisky
    2. bolt of lightning
    3. does she know how to use chopsticks
Authors Note: What little Chinese I know, I learned when I lived in Singapore. Although ang moh can be viewed as derogatory in some Asian cultures, It is not viewed that way in SQ. I mean no offense. Thank you for your understanding.

OLWG# 291- The Marriage

Written for OLWG# 291


Her name was Acantha Espinado and I first met her at “Alegría de Vivir.” That’s the lunch counter downtown, on Piedras Blvd., across from the bank. “Alegría de Vivir” translates from the Spanish to “Joy of Living” in English, “Joie de Vivre, in French, “Lebensfreude” in German. It was a good name for a lunch counter, a bakery, or a restaurant. Acantha worked there behind the counter. She would take orders, deliver food, refill coffee cups, and work the register. She seemed to be a hard worker, she smiled easily, and her dark eyes sparkled.

 We married when she was twenty-one years old. I was eighteen. She was a vision of loveliness; I thought I had died and gone to heaven. At night, in our room, she would trail her long, turbulently coiled, dark hair down my torso – ecstasy.

How was I to know?

A whirlwind courtship followed by unplanned, spur-of-the-moment nuptials left me no time to contemplate the gravity of our actions. I never even considered the implications of her name. I had not yet noticed that her favourite burgundy nail polish was little more than a way to conceal her claws. Or that her quick and easy smile was just a distraction, a way to obfuscate her fangs. Or that her thick, tightly corkscrewed hair, was styled to hide her horns. Eventually though, I noticed.

The marriage didn’t last long. I ran away, and now I live here, off the grid. I am in constant fear that Acantha will find me again. I have nowhere to run to next.


The prompts were: 

    1. espinado
    2. a burgundy polish hides her claws
    3. the lunch counter, downtown


OLWG# 289- A Fish Shack on the River

Written for OLWG# 289


TN first met Graciana Cortez when he stopped for lunch at a shack on the river that served nothing but freshly caught catfish and the kind of fried cornbread that locals called hush-puppies. For five dollars, you could eat your fill of fish and cornbread. Then choose from a bottomless jug of sweet tea or a bottle of warm beer to quench your thirst.

He sat at a long folding table with about ten other diners. The floor was soft with coarse sawdust, and a mangy yellow dog sat against the wall by the door. Tables sat covered with butcher paper, stapled at the corners to ensure they did not curl. And the server would carry in a large, well-used, and dented stockpot heaped with fried fish; pour it out on the table with the newsprint soaking up the grease. Eating was a free-for-all as everyone reached for the fish as soon as it hit the tabletop. A second server would follow with a similar presentation of the hush-puppies. You were encouraged to eat as much as you wanted but were not permitted to take any away.

He was in Big Thicket country, and the twisted road lay flanked by thick foliage and intertwined vines. The heavy tree canopy perpetuated a glow of gloom and iridescence despite being early afternoon. Graciana dragged a heavy, wheeled, red suitcase. She approached him in the car park after he had eaten his fill in the nameless shack that might vanish tomorrow. It might be burned to the ground when the butane-fueled fire, which super-heated the cooking oil, spread to the paper, or the sawdust, used for decor.

“Hey, Mister,” she began, “My name is Graciana, and I need a ride west. Are you going that way? Could you maybe help me out?”   She was a no-nonsense girl that was clear. She had laid out her case and made her request. Now she waited, watching him with doe eyes that sparkled hopefully. TN could feel himself falling into those eyes where he knew he would be lost forever. He didn’t care, though. He had already decided to take her wherever she wanted to go. He stayed cool and asked, “How far are you going?”

“As far as, well, as far as you are willing to take me,” she said. “I’m going to Cortez. My mother told me that my father was named Cortez and that he was from a place with the same name. I intend to go to all places named Cortez. I want to see if I can find him. I’ve done the research: there are five cities with that name in Pennsylvania, Nevada, Florida, Colorado, and California.” Again she paused and studied TN with her deep eyes – those big beautiful eyes.

TN shrugged his shoulders and resigned. “From here, we should probably go to Colorado first. If we need to, we can go on to Nevada and California. Then, if we still haven’t found him, we could swing east to Pennsylvania and drop down to Florida. What are you going to do if you find him?”

“I’m not sure. Probably introduce myself, and ask if he knew my Mama. If he says yes, I could either hug him or kill him. I don’t know yet.”

TN looked at the diver’s watch he wore on his left wrist. It sounds like we’re going to be busy,” he said. “Probably should get moving.” He reached for her suitcase. She readily released her grip, and they moved across the dirt lot to his old van.


The prompts were: 

    1. gave all my money to the rich
    2. thick foliage and intertwined vines
    3. all the way to Cortez



All she ever wanted was to give
birth. She’d longed for a
child to remind her of
Diego. With his high cheekbones, square jaw,
eyes of the deepest blue, and his
feet splayed ever so slightly. What she
got was a girl. A perfect girl, a girl with coal black
hair and a smile so bright that it
inspired the sun.
Just so. The child was named
Never will this child accept less than fair,
or less than
perfect. She never
quarrels. She chooses debate, and is
regal in her bearing and comport.
Soft, yet
Unassuming and unpretentious, Kim’s
veracity may someday be her undoing, despite
what her mother might think. The product of a
xenogamous love affair. Her mother’s 
yearning to be with someone or something else; Kim was
zapped into being, against all odds.


Yo soy Diego y esta es Frida


My attempt at an englyn penfyr – written for Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest

I first wed the girl – nineteen twenty nine
her hair was dark, loosely curled
she was fairest in the world

she gave me a shove so I pulled her hair,
accidentally fell in love
fit together, hand in glove

married now, at least a couple of times
love we’ll sometimes disavow
me, Frida, her unibrow



RWG Poetry 28.08.22

William had a thing for shoes
Italian shoes, French shoes, bit loafers, drivers, espadrilles (in the summer), daps and the like
Soft supple leather
                dyed black, brown, tan, or oxblood

Hand crafted art

“Nothing like slipping finely crafted footwear on your dogs,” he’d say
When he passed, he left over 1500 pair of slip-on shoes
Fifteen-hundred pair of shoes and one pair of boots

Full-quill pecan coloured ostrich leather boots… hand-lasted in a classic cowboy shape with…
Angled heels and hand-corded elk skin shafts

Five years later they are still selling the shoes in thrift shops around the Southwest

I kept the boots

Gracias for the inspiration, Jane