fiction

The Interview

“Tell me about this,” the detective said, handing her a photograph.

The woman in the hospital bed studied it, then handed it back.

“I dunno. Just a car,” she replied, and pronounced it “cah.”

“Boston?” the detective asked.

The woman scoffed. “BAH-stin? Gawd, no. That’s not Massachusetts!”

“I was trying to guess your accent,” he replied. “Boston?”

The woman shook her head, trying to remove her confusion with a vigorous shake. When she spoke again, the twang was gone. “No,” she said,”I’m from…” Her voice trailed off.

She looked at the photo quietly, then asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.”

“That’s not the driver’s door open, right?” the woman asked, staring at the picture.

“No, it’s the passenger door.”

“Was I driving?” the woman asked.

The detective hedged. “What do you remember?”

She furrowed her brow. “I… I… I don’t remember anything.”

Her English was clipped and clean, practiced, so as not to reveal anything about her.

“What’s your name?”

The woman raised her eyes from the photograph and studied the detective’s face.

“I don’t remember,” she said finally.

“Who were you with?”

“Where were you going?”

“Where are you from?”

“Why are you in Scotland?”

He peppered her with questions; her answers were all the same. “I don’t remember.”

After the nurse left the room, he shut the door and leaned in close to her face. “Listen,” he said, “I know why you’re here, but if you want protection, you’d better start talking.”


This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge. 250 words on the button.

I don’t know why I’m struggling so much with these photographs lately. I kept looking at it and looking at.

I thought about the time I was driving home and had to pull over to throw up (stomach bug). My two youngest daughters had been with me and for months after that, whenever we passed the spot, one of them would say, “Remember that time?” Yes, I remembered.

I didn’t want to write about vomiting though. Instead, I thought the fact that I just started Season 19 of Taggart. I started at Season 1 some months ago. It’s on Brit Box.

poetry

Seasons

From there to here and here to there
From that to this and this to where
From seed on wind to in the ground
New growth, slow growth — changes abound

In winter earth and trees are bare
From there to here and here to there
Snow and ice yield to subtle Spring
Or not-so-subtle — hear it sing?!

As birds return and leaves burst out
Flowers bloom. They whisper. They shout
From there to here and here to there
Summer comes with flamboyent flair

Flaunting sunshine on sparkling lakes
Eagles, herons, doves, ducks and drakes
Some migrate south on cool fall air
From there to here and here to there


This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week — to write a quatern on the theme of transformation.

What’s a quatern, you ask? Well, it has four quatrains (four-line verses). It’s syllabic: each line has eight syllables. It may rhyme, but rhyming is not required. It has a refrain. The refrain of a quatern repeats the 1st line of stanza one (S1) as the 2nd line of S2, the 3rd line of S3, and the 4th line of S4.

I feel my Dr. Seuss influence is showing in this one.

fiction

The Winning Goalie

“Mama, look!” Hank nudged his mother. She sat dozing in the stadium suite in front of the window.

“What? What?” she said, blinking her eyes and shaking her head. “Is the game over?”

“No, Mama, Stefan is playing now. See? He’s right there?” He pointed to a lone figure in front of the goal.

“Where’s the rest of the team?” she asked.

Hank pointed to the mob in front of the other goal. “Down there,” he said.

She watched Stefan shuffle around in front of the goal he was protecting.

He scratched his arm, looked up at the sky, bent down and picked something up off the ground. He shuffled around more, then waved in their direction with a big smile.

Shuffle, shuffle.

She started to doze again, but Hank nudged her. “Look, Mama, the ball is coming!”

The ball WAS coming his way. Stefan straightened up, then crouched a little, hands on knees. He was ready; anybody could see that.

She could hear his teammates shouting: “The ball is coming, Stefan!” “Get ready!” “Pick it up! Pick it up!”

She furrowed her brow. They seemed to be letting the ball advance towards their own goal. The other team didn’t seem to be trying at all.

Stefan bent, picked up the ball, and threw it with all his might.

The final buzzer sounded.

His teammates gathered round him, high-fiving and celebrating.

And the boy with the round flat face and almond-shaped eyes beamed as only someone with Down Syndrome can.


My somewhat late contribution to the Unicorn Challenge.

The Unicorn Challenge is simple: 250 words based on the photo. That’s it.

poetry

In my hand

The nothing weight of a bird
(the word is zero zilch nil)
In my hand, I thought it dead
But its head moved. Later still

The indigo bunting flew
Brilliant blue away on wing
Wonder, marvel, such splendor
I surrender to this thing

This idea that beauty
(nature’s duty) is oft found
In small overlooked moments
Whose components astound

When examined or seen
Like the green praying mantis
Spindly legs folded in front —
A hunt? Or holy practice

The wooly bear in my palm
A psalm of security
As it curls up –in that pose
Choosing to trust surety

I would get it ‘cross the road.
I sing an ode to efts (or
Are they newts?) turtles, toads
Crossing roads. Yes, I adore

The fact that I can hold them
Avoiding mayhem of cars
Moments of peace in my hand –
So grand – if we but stop, ours


This is a Welsh form: Awdl Gywydd (pronounced “ow-dull gee-youth”)

  • Four lines
  • Seven syllables per line
  • The final syllable of the first and third lines rhyme with the 3rd-5th syllable of the following lines
  • The second and fourth lines rhyme.

It’s my response to the W3 prompt this week. Selma Martin (the poet of the week) challenged us to write a poem of any form on the theme of the beauty and perpetuity of the natural world that surrounds you. I am a nature-rescuer, in my own very small way, helping small cross the road on a daily basis, and very occasionally, like the indigo bunting, being surprised at life where I assumed death.

fiction

To the Lighthouse with Virginia and Wolfgang

“Is there anything you don’t know, Mom?” asked Wolfgang, as he walked with his mother along the beach.

Virginia laughed. “There are a LOT of things I don’t know.”

“Like what?” the boy asked.

“Well, I don’t know what I don’t know. I just don’t know it,” his mother responded.

“Hmm…” he thought aloud. “I’m going to figure out what you don’t know.”

He looked at the tall grasses growing along the dune. “Okay,” he said decidedly, “why is grass green?”

She laughed again. “I actually DO know the answer to that one. Plants get their green color from something called chlorophyll.”

She started to explain more, but Wolfie cut her off.

“That one was too easy,” he said. “How about this? Why do dragonflies zig-zag when they fly?”

“They’re catching bugs,” she answered.

“Where do seagulls sleep?”

“You’ve seen them,” she answered. “They group together in an open place and take turns watching for predators.”

“Where does sand come from?”

“Broken up rocks, shells, and dirt pounded by and carried here by the surf.”

“How far away is the sun?”

“93 million miles.”

“How do you know stuff like that?”

“Grammie and Grampa encouraged us all to read. Your uncles and I also liked trying to stump each other with trivia. I like to learn.”

As they approached the lighthouse, Wolfie asked, “Why does that lighthouse not have a top on it like other lighthouses?”

“You know,” she replied, “I don’t know. Let’s go ask someone and find out.”


Exactly 250 words for this week’s Unicorn Challenge.

The challenge is so simple: write no more than 250 words and base it on the photo.

Easy, right? Unless, of course, you have no idea what the picture is. I tried and tried to figure out what this is.

Can you tell me? Is it a lighthouse? Where’s the lens?

This is the lens in the one lighthouse (Ponce Inlet Lighthouse) I walked to the top of with my grandsons on vacation this past February.

And this is the lighthouse.

Faith · poetry

In Church

Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler
Darkness flickers while light streams
Sinner. Beloved. Which?

That shadow in the back — did I see something?
Tiny glimpse of disquiet
Lurking, lurking, lurking

Yet, there is light casting rainbow colors
Through tow’ring stained glass windows
Overwhelming peace

Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler
Tiny glimpse of disquiet
Overwhelming peace


This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge — to write a Garland Kimo on the theme of good vs evil.

The ‘Kimo’ is a short syllabic poetic form of three lines. The syllable count per line is 10/7/6.

Also, the kimo is focused on a single frozen image (kind of like a snapshot). So it’s uncommon to have any movement happening in kimo poems.

The ‘Garland Kimo’ is a series of four ‘Kimo’ verses, in which the fourth Kimo verse is composed of lines taken from the previous three Kimo verses, using the 1st line from the 1st Kimo, the 2nd line from the 2nd Kimo, and the 3rd (last) line from the 3rd Kimo.

    fiction

    The Ultimate Exile

    She noticed the token on the platform and picked it up, slipping it into her pocket before boarding the train.

    Once seated, she closed her eyes and replayed her day. God, she needed to get away. Glasgow may be one of the world’s friendliest cities but today she needed to get far away.

    She felt a vibration in her pocket and pulled out the token. It was glowing, an eerie pearly white. She tried to read the words but the characters weren’t familiar.

    The train ticked, hummed, click-clacked. She closed her eyes, holding the token, and thought, I should just go to London.

    She opened her eyes at the squeal of brakes as the train eased to another stop. Her brow furrowed at the symbol outside her window: a red circle with a blue line. The Roundel.

    Wait — what? London?! No-no-no-no-no-no!

    If she really wanted to start over, she needed to go to a new continent.

    The token vibrated. The doors swooshed shut and the train left the station, plunging into darkness. Clackety-clackety-clackety. Again she closed her eyes. Again she opened them at the squeal of the brakes.

    Times Square — 42 Street Station.

    New York. No, she thought, farther. The train unexpectedly lurched out of the station. The token flew from her hand. Darkness.

    When it stopped again, she had no token. She looked at the other passengers. Their green skin tone and oddly-shaped heads told her. She WAS far away — and now with no way back.


    This is my rather tardy response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge. The Unicorn Challenge seems so simple, just 250 words based on the photo. Yeah. Right. I whittled out so many words that this may no longer make sense.

    For another ultimate exile, here’s the Kingston Trio singing about poor old Charlie, riding forever ‘neath the streets of Boston.

    And all of this grew out of a quote I read the other morning about meteorites. Go figure.

    Earliest Memories · family · poetry

    One fish, two fish

    You may have tangible wealth untold;
    Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
    Richer than I you can never be–
    I had a Mother who read to me.

    ~~ Strickland Gillilan

    My mother read to me.
    She read and read and read.
    She taught me to read, maybe so I would stop the pestering.
    One memory, small but big, was a time I asked her to read One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
    For the 729th time
    And she sighed, like she didn’t really want to read it, but she did.
    I loved this book.
    It wasn’t the intricate plot.
    It was rhyming words, silliness, and a mother who read it to me over and over.

    One fish
    Two fish
    Red fish
    Blue fish

    Love to look (fish)
    In a book (fish)

    Love to read (fish)
    “MORE!” I plead (fish)

    Snuggle, snuggle next to Mom
    Dr. Seuss? He is the BOMB!

    Reading ’til my eyes grow bleary
    Marguerite Henry, Beverly Cleary
    Jim Kjelgaard, H. A. Rey
    I think I could read books all day

    Late at night, late at night
    I get out my big flashlight
    Hiding underneath bedsheets
    I wander down literary streets

    Mixed Up Files,
    Desert isles,
    Big Red, Misty
    Bring me smiles

    It all began with
    One fish, two fish
    My love for reading
    Grew and grew (fish)


    The W3 prompt this week is to base your piece, a mix of prose and poem, on a childhood memory. I remember my mom reading to me.

    SCN_0276
    Peter, Mom, and me
    fiction

    Fairy Tales

    “Here’s my idea for a story,” Jakob said. “A girl with long hair gets locked in the tower.”

    Wilhelm scoffed. “That sounds dumb.”

    “No, listen! She’s locked up there and she lets her hair down for people to climb up.”

    “Climbing up hair? That’s ridiculous!”

    “It’s magical hair.”

    “That’s even dumber. Magic hair. Besides, there’s a stairwell right there.” Wilhelm pointed to the door at street level.

    “What if,” Jacob said, “she was locked up there with a bunch of straw and spinning wheel? What if she had to spin the straw into gold?”

    “What if she pricked her finger on the spindle and fell asleep?”

    “What if the whole country fell asleep?”

    “What if a frog hopped up and kissed her?”

    “No, no — it should be a prince.”

    “The frog could turn into a prince!” Wilhelm suggested.

    “You thought magic hair sounded dumb. Listen to your ideas. Frogs kissing people and turning into princes! Pshaw!”

    The two boys walked slowly out of the city in silence.

    Suddenly they both stopped.

    “What if…” they said at exactly the same time, and then both started laughing.

    “What if it was just a story about kids walking in the woods?” Jacob suggested.

    “Yeah! And they find a house made of gingerbread with icing and all?”

    “How about walking to Grandma’s house and meeting a wolf?” Jacob said.

    “That could be scary,” said Wilhelm.

    “Really scary,” said Jacob. “Let’s try to write that one.”

    With that, the Grimm brothers headed for home.


    A struggle — but it’s done!

    Unicorn Challenge — no more than 250 words launched from the photo prompt


    poetry

    Garden Fresh

    Summer foods
    Summer eats
    Fresh wholesome
    Tasty treats

    Green beans – yum!
    Dangling down
    Pick and eat
    Best all ’round

    Cucumber
    Love to munch
    Garden yield
    Fresh raw [crunch]

    Yellow squash
    Sliced, sauteed
    Seasoned well
    Makes the grade

    Corn on cob
    Freshly picked
    Butter, salt
    So perfect

    Summer foods
    Summer eats
    Fresh wholesome
    Tasty treats


    This poem is a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire.  I can’t pronounce it, but I can tell you that it’s an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

    The W3 prompt this week is to write a food-related poem in any form. Okay, I thought, I’ll just write down everything I eat for the day and make a poem about it. Here was my first verse:

    Farmstand egg
    Whole wheat toast
    Smoked Gouda
    It’s the most

    But I realized that almost everything else I ate was garden-related, so I nixed my egg sandwich and just put verses in that involved fresh produce.