OLWG · writing

OLWG# 270- Gibson

Written for OLWG# 270



Then Gwen lifted the coupe glass that held her cocktail and peered at me over the rim.

Her charcoal grey eyes smiled.

I could smell the gin as she stirred her drink with the onion skewer.

She sipped, her eyes closed, as she savoured the flavour.

Long thin fingers, tipped with long red nails, lifted and twirled the skewer. Liquid streamed at first, and then slowly dripped from the end.

Slowly, sensuously she teased the first of three pearl onions free, using her lips and teeth.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. a long ago Sunday
  2. it don’t mean much
  3. charcoal eyes

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 269- Posse

Written for OLWG# 269



They were a crew, had been since grade four
Independent thinkers
Unconventional, Nonconformists
Librarians, Artists and Bohemians
 

Suzy was a heretic
Billy was a Boy Scout
Rosy was a feminist; Janet, a boi
 

Danny was a sculptor and painter who dabbled in impasto
Thom wrote screenplays and short stories about shit that amused him
Linda – a photographer and philosopher
Oscar – street artist, tagger, & muralist, with an inherent love of spray paints
 

Janelle was a busker with an angelic voice
Jim was Janelle’s twin
He could play any instrument known to man
 

Audre had interests that tended to the dark
Witchcraft, Spells, Numerology, Astrology, Alchemy, Kabbalah, Tarot, Charms, & the like            
Renounced by her mother on account of what she thought.  Because of what she’d done
 

An unlikely group of confidants and chums
Best of friends, despite their differences, and
nothing’s ever going to change that
 

Just ask them


This week’s prompts were:

  1. heretics and Boy Scouts
  2. nothing’s ever gonna change
  3. what she’d done

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 268- TNK

Written for OLWG# 268



“You ever read anything written by TNK…?”

“I don’t … so. Why?”

“… hard. … his stories … voyeuristic vignettes … meaningless … cobbled together … form some kind of a fragmented narrative … no beginning – no end. Stuffed with bursts of…”

“What … ?”

“… and hard to follow… keyboard’s been drinking. Editing … gratuitous … ”

“At least … oblique, hard … babble, unfinished.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. oh, that’s old school
  2. his writing is fragmented
  3. knock me a kiss

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 267- Billy

Written for OLWG# 267



Billy told you in Basic Training that he was the black sheep of his family
It would have been more accurate, had he said “rainbow” sheep, but
You wouldn’t have been able to understand

In Afghanistan you promised Billy that when you both got home you’d introduce him to your sister or your cousin
Billy didn’t want to meet your sister; he wanted to hook up with you
You still didn’t understand

You loved Billy like a brother – in your way;
He loved you too, but you broke his heart
I don’t think you will ever understand, but it’s OK

It’s OK


This week’s prompts were:

  1. free from your promises
  2. black sheep
  3. Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 266- Nighttime in the Prison Yard

Written for OLWG# 266



Twilight in the desert can be disconcerting
the overhead blue deepens as the evening sky blackens
the crescent moon holds water on the horizon
or perhaps – it’s
a Cheshire cat’s smile


It was on such an evening that…

The scent of dissent hovered in the air and
exploded when Deuce, Snapper, and Viking
exchanged words in the yard
Viking got his nose broke
no big deal

No big deal, till Tony P is bumped and
Snapper, shanked
we lost Deuce when the choppers arrived
no one seemed to worry
no one seemed to care


This week’s prompts were:

  1. an old tin cup
  2. three to get ready
  3. a moon holding water

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 265- Maja

Written for OLWG# 265



I was wet and cold when I spotted an illuminated sign that I hoped might signal some respite from the weather. “Maja” was spelt out in round, red coloured individual bulbs. I pulled my coat a little tighter and picked up my pace.

 

I had no idea what a Maja was, but as I came closer, I saw neon beer signs in the front windows, and I thanked the Lord for small favours. A bar was just what I needed.

 

I pushed in on the heavy oak front door and stepped from the rain into the welcoming gloom of the anonymous speakeasy. The Big Bopper was belting out Chantilly Lace from the box. I stood still and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light before taking off my wet jacket and weaving my way to the bar, watched over by a painfully skinny girl wearing tight jeans and a pink tank top. Straight shoulder-length blond hair fell from beneath a well-worn straw cowboy hat. She nodded her head to acknowledge my presence. I sat near the end and waited as she laughed with a beer-bellied patron, proud of his belt buckle.

 

Silently, a red-headed, lollipop-shaped girl slid next to me at the bar and put her hand on my shoulder.

 

“Buy me a drink?” She whispered in my ear, “just a Cuba Libre, nothing expensive.”

 

It was about that time that the barkeep showed up, “Get lost, Sam,” she said to the redhead, who frowned and skulked back into the shadows. I watched her fade away, then returned my attention to the bartender. She was watching me, waiting for me to speak.

 

“Shot and a beer,” I ordered. She slid away.

 

The redhead re-materialized next to my elbow while the bartender was gone. Glancing furtively down the bar, watching for the nurse, she startled me when she asked again, “Did you order that drink?”

 

I spun my head quickly and startled her, “Piss off, Sam.” I growled in a pseudo impersonation of my bartender, who returned with my order just seconds later with my drink.

 

“You gotta watch Samantha,” she instructed. “She’s a bad apple.”

 

“Ah, that’s OK,” I replied as I dropped a couple of bills on the bar. Then I held out a twenty, “Take five from this for yourself and give Sam Cuba Libres until this runs out.” I pointed to the money on the bar and added, “Keep mine coming ‘till that runs out.”

 

She smiled, spun around, and went to work.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. mended, broken
  2. I’m not here to meet nice people
  3. I’ve been good

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 264- Fan

Written for OLWG# 264



Sally raised her arms up high, clenched her fists, jumped up and down and yelled at the band, “I love you, Ace!!” Then, she grabbed the hem of her tight fitting tee shirt and raised it up under her chin. Catching the eye of the front man, she screamed, “Play something we can sing along with. Play something we can dance to!”

Ace Stewart smiled at Sally, and nodded his head. He looked at the neck of his guitar and began with the opening riff of the hit song Memories From My Paranoid Mind. Sally went crazy, she jumped up and down, pulled her shirt over her head and threw it on the stage. It lay crumpled at the guitar player’s feet. When he got to the bridge, Ace leaned over and picked up Sally’s shirt. He draped it over the headstock of his Gibson, shuffled to the front of the stage, and offered it back to Sally, who blushed and reddened from the top of her head to her waist.

Ace was smitten, “You might need this to get home safely.”

Sally reached up, took the proffered garment and smiled gratefully at the guitar player. “Thank you,” she mouthed. She looked at the stage and put her hand over her face. Her warm flush deepened, noticeably.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. through a hole in the wall
  2. play something we can sing to
  3. addicted to greed

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 263- Tragic Verse of a Sort

I took some liberties with the “smoke prompt” but it kinda works

Written for OLWG# 263



Mary Beth and the boys drove home as fast as they could when Daniel called with the news. The fire crews had the road closed at the bottom of the hill and wouldn’t let them through for what seemed like forever. When they finally got to pass…

They got to the house alright, but it was already engulfed in fire.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. engulfed in smoke
  2. sea of tears
  3. holy, holy, holy

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 262- The poet’s daughters

Written for OLWG# 262



Long ago, but not too far away from here, in the town of Galway, on the west coast there lived an unskilled poet known as Tadhg MacCadáin who had three daughters. In addition to his writing, Tadhg was a defender with a local Hurling club and proudly wore his togs of purple and gold.

 

I’m not here to talk about him, though, I want to praise his daughters: Calliope, and her sisters Thalia, and Erato. Each of them, grew up to be poets in their own right.

 

Let’s begin with Calliope the eldest sister. Don’t cross her, that girl has a temper. Calliope was a singer and a writer of verse. She wrote epic poetry and had an angelic voice. As a teenager, she entered a singing contest, not exactly like, but kinda like, The Ted Mack Original Amateur Hour. I hope you all remember that show. It aired in the US during the late ’40s and early ’50s. It was the one that catapulted Pat Boone and his famous white bucks to stardom. Anyway, she won by defeating the nine Pierides Sisters who she went ‘toe to toe with’ in the finals. It was no easy feat to win the Amateur Hour against the Pierides. They were accomplished, in their own right, and rumour is that they were a bit slutty, too. That always helped them glean votes in the competitions they entered, and they had gotten their start entertaining the troops on the battlefields of Troy they were pretty battle-hardened but not as good as Calliope MacCadáin, who won the competition fair and square. The other girls were not gracious losers and complained to Ted about how they had been robbed of the title that should have been theirs.

 

Calliope got tired of listening to their whining and complaining. Without warning, she turned them into a parliament of magpies. I told you she had a temper.

 

But, I also told you that she was a poet. She specialized in epics. She collaborated with Homer to produce Iliad and the Odyssey. In fact, Homer was quoted in the Athens Gazette shortly after publication that he would never have attempted such tasks without Calliope as a co-writer, and he would not have been able to complete them on his own. Calliope also contributed as a ghostwriter in the works of both Virgil and Dante. She received no credit for those works and, of course, no compensation for her tribulations. Those guys were misogynistic bastards.

 

Calliope had a younger sister, the middle sister named Thalia who wrote comedy and poems of rural, tranquil scenes. She is rumoured to have worked, in her later years, as a writer on the now legendary Rowan and Martin show, Laugh-In. She wrote memorable jokes and skits for the likes of Ruth Buzzi, Arti Johnson, Henry Gibson, Lily Tomlin and Alan Sues. Although she put in countless hours, she received no credit for her toils and products at that time of her career. In her memoirs, Thalia proffers the theory that this was because of her advanced age, grey hair, age spots, and crepe-paper skin. Actors and actresses were vain and self-centred in those days. Thalia faded into the shadows when standing in the presence of women like Goldie Hawn. She didn’t hold a grudge, though, the work paid up all her bills.

 

Like her sister, she contributed to the works of better known earlier authors as well. Her influence features in Hesiod’s Theogony, and all the works of Apollodorus and Diodorus Siculus, (it is most conspicuous in Bibliothēkē historica on which she collaborated in her early years). She and Diodorus lived together in a “walk-up” flat in downtown Agyrium. It was one of those cold-water flats and did not meet the comfort requirements of Thalia so she and Siculus broke up after only a short time.

 

After leaving Diodorus Siculus, Thalia took up with a guy named Apollo who treated her better and with whom she conceived an entire erotic dance troupe of brothers. Known as “The Korybantes.” The assumed personas of seven demigods, and performed, danced, directed and choreographed what was to become known as The Dance of the Mysteries of Samothrake. A salacious and vulgar dance performed by the nude brothers armed with spears and shields, accompanied by tambourines, drums and the cries of their mystic groupies.

 

One of her better-known solo works is the semi-autobiographical 76th Orphic Hymn which was dedicated to her sisters.

 

She was spared the temper of her older sister and never turned any of her rivals into alternate species, but neither did she realize the fame of Calliope.

 

The third and youngest of the sisters went by the name of Erato. A hottie who likes to flash her body for people on the roads and in the subways of Galway. She wrote romance poems about love and sex.

 

Her best-known work is a tragedy that tells the story of a young man, Seamus, and his girlfriend, Rhadine, who were star-crossed lovers from Lydacan Townland, east of Galway just beyond the airport. Rhadine was a young girl who was supposed to marry a rich man from the ancient city of Blackrock Heath, but instead, she chose to have a secret love affair with a dairyman called Seamus.

 

The man Rhadine was about to marry was a dangerous Irishman, with a sexy accent. When he learned of the affair, he killed both his future wife and her lover, Seamus.

 

Erato wrote the tale over the course of almost a month. She wrote in poetic form while sitting naked in the front window of her flat on William Street. William Street is famous for buskers who perform there and the people who film them. There is a lot of footage of Erato sitting naked in the window of her flat. Postcards can be bought for 20p at any number of barrows lining the street. Videographers would wait for days, hoping to capture her moving more than her right hand as she scratched her quill across her parchment. Did I mention that she’s a hottie; lithe and lean, petite, with tanned skin, kept flawless by frequent visits to Allure Beauty. A salon tucked into a corner of Corbett Court Shopping Centre not far from her flat. Women want to be her. Men want to be with her.

She is one of “The poet’s daughters.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. inside my dream
  2. picture postcards
  3. it’s the plural of plankton

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 261- The A to Z Guide of Families and Family Life

Written for OLWG# 261



Peter’s family moved from Live OakTerrace to HighPoint Heights at the end of his first year Jonathan Doerr High School. As one might expect, this necessitated his transfer to Stephen F. Austin School of the Arts.

He met Ellen Grisham at Austin.

It was love at first sight.

Peter was so in love with Ellen and so excited about being in love that he went home and told his father. “Dad, I’ve met a girl at school, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. We want to get married and raise a family together.”

He expected his father to be supportive but was shocked when his dad pulled him out to the garage, “Ellen Grisham, you say?” Peter’s dad almost whispered. He seemed nervous.

“That’s right, Dad, she’s beautiful. She and I love one another.”

“Peter, you can’t date Ellen Grisham. Please don’t say anything to your mother, but as a young man, I sinned. My flesh was weak; and I slept with women outside of my marriage. Ellen Grisham’s mother was one of them. Ellen is your sister. You can’t do it son. It would be unnatural.”

Peter was heartbroken, but he took his fathers words to heart, and he cut ties with the young Ms Grisham. Although heartbroken, Peter was young enough to bounce back. After several months he met Angela Bishop. Peter again went to his father and, guess what? He told Peter that Angela Bishop was also his sister.

Devastated, Peter had no choice but to betray his father’s confidence, and he went to seek advice from his mother.

He told his mom everything. He told her about Ellen and Angela. He cried as he told her how her husband, his father, had betrayed her all those years ago.

Mom smiled sadly and pulled Peter into an embrace.

“Don’t you fret about that shit, boy I knew about his philandering ways.” She pressed his head into her shoulder.” If you want to date any of those girls, you feel free to go ahead and do it. Hell, date them both. I’m going to tell you the truth now. He’s not really your father.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. bellyful of gin
  2. remember what it feels like to fall
  3. death comes like dawn