Tag Archives: creative writing

Sunday Photo Fiction… BIRDBRAINS

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BIRDBRAINS 

Huffing and puffing, Cheryl never thought she’d be doing this.  Hated the outdoors, liked looking at it, just not being in it. It had all started with a phone call.

“Hello, Ethel.  Before you ask again, remember Caller ID.  What’s up?”

“Birds!  Let’s go Birding!!!”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Ethel?  What’s ‘Birding’?”

“It’s where you look at birds.  They’re really pretty, and you learn a lot.”

“Really?  Just what are we going to learn?  And how are you such an expert”

” I got a book at a yard sale, it’s all the rage now.  You go out in the woods and look at birds.  I’m going Saturday; please say you’ll come.”

So Cheryl, against her better judgment, agreed to go.

“Dammit, Ethel!  Slow down!  I don’t like this mud.   I see one more barbwire fence, I’m quitting.  Are you sure you know where we are?”

“Don’t be such a baby, of course, I know.”

“Well, all we’ve seen are brown birds, I haven’t learned a damn thing, and where’s the pretty ones in your book.  I need a coffee.”

“I don’t know; I thought we’d see them.  I think the road’s over there, I’m ready for coffee.”

🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦 🐦

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I don’t think I’ve done a Sunday Photo Fiction before.  My friend at Momus does and his will be SciFi, probably a star cruiser crashed in that field.  When I saw this photo prompt, a story started writing.  Go read Eric’s and the other SPF Stories also.

Chimera 66 #4… UGLY FRUIT? NO, GUAVA!

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UGLY FRUIT? NO, GUAVA!

“No way am I trying that!”

“Come on Cheryl, its delicious. Don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Ethel, I just don’t like the looks of it.”

“But Guava’s rich in vitamin C and helps cure bad breath.”

“So, now you’re saying I have bad breath? That’s rich coming from you, Ethel.”

“No! I mean it’s good for you.”

“Never, it’s an ugly fruit.”

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(My apologies to my friend Suzanne for not writing something Ghoulistic in my first post at the GGP)

The Prompt for  Chimera 66 Micro-Fiction Challenge #4 is:

Guava

An edible pale orange tropical fruit with pink, juicy flesh and a strong, sweet aroma.

The Rules

  •    •   Challenge submissions must be fiction or poetry.
  •    •   Submissions must be exactly 66 words.
  •    •   Submissions must use the prompt as specified.
  •    •   Submissions are written for this challenge, and do not pre-date the kickoff post.
  •    •   One submission per spectre.
  •    •   Please put lengthy explanations at the end of your post, not at the beginning.
  •    •   Don’t forget to add the code for the challenge badge to your post.
  •    •   And don’t forget to have fun!
  • Here is where to find out about THE GRAMMAR GHOUL PRESS and read other stories… They are scary, not like mine.

Friday Fictioneers… MUCKING OUT

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MUCKING OUT …A Drabble for FriFic

At a brownstone in Wicker Park, the new apartment manager goes to work…

“Where do we start?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘What do I mean’, Ethel? You asked for help, this place is a disaster! Who the hell was this Doug guy, look at this junk!”

“He was a sweet guy, very poetic, and he loved the sea. Did I tell you he was a submarine commander once?”

“Didn’t look the sailor type to me, Ethel, more of a mountain climber, and definitely not a poet.”

“That’s why he moved to Hawaii, to live on a mountain. Pick something out, Cheryl.”

“He took all the good stuff, Ethel!!!”

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Friday Fictioneers’ Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has given us a photo by her BFF Douglas M. MacIlroy.  To see a story I wrote about meeting Doug ➸ ABOVE THE CLOUDS

To see other stories based on Doug’s photo ➸ 

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PAINTER OF DOGS BECOMES A DIFFERENT KIND OF STORY TELLER

The other day, I shared this ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos video of a guy playing with puppies, with a friend on facebook… she is not just any dog lover, but a world-renowned artist who specializes in paintings of dogs.  Other animals sometimes come out of her brush, but mostly… Dogs.  She is also President of the Animal Shelter on San Juan Island and an all around champion of animal rights.  Here she is in her studio holding my favorite Dog Painting, and you can view her work here… JAIME ELLSWORTH

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So, she makes this smart-aleck comment about the guy being her brother, and I like a dope say “Is it really your brother?”  I was astounded by her reply, and immediately thought… TedBook!

Jaime Ellsworth No…but we could be long-lost twins separated at birth by a baby snatching nurse who sold him off for money for cash to gamble away in Vegas. She drank too much and lost all the money, and then felt so guilty about her dirty deed that she became a hooker to try to buy the baby back. Sadly that was her downfall as she became addicted to heroin and spent every penny she had on drugs. My brothers faux parents could never figure out why he preferred the company of dogs so much because they were told his real parents were busy astronauts and never had any attachment to animals or children as they were always in space. As a child he was never allowed to have a pet and made up for it in his adulthood by stalking people at pet stores who bought puppy chow and followed them home, waited until they went to work and climbed in the puppies play yards to fill his heart with all the puppy love he was so denied as a child……….to be continued…. “

So what do you think?   Artist becomes Author?  I for one am looking forward to the ‘to be continued…’

To see a previous TedBook story about The Painter of Dogs,  and a show at Waterworks Gallery in Friday Harbor…

DOG SHOW… Sort of…

 

A RIDE AROUND THE CITY

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A RIDE AROUND THE CITY… by Ula Grace

The wind rushes through my hair as if in a hurry.  We breeze down the ocean side highway in our neon pink Caddy at the start of our tour of Havana.

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Our first stop is the Hotel Nacional, a hotel built in the 30’s and famous for housing people like Al Capone and others. We speed toward our next destination: Vedado. On the opposite side of Havana as Old Havana, otherwise known as Habana Viejo in Spanish. Next the Plaza de la Revolucion, with the black outlines of Cuba’s greatest now dead heroes: Ché Guevara and Camlio Cienfuegos. Below Ché there is his famous quote “Hasta la Victoria Siempre” (in English “For Victory, Always”). IMG_2806

 

We leave the plaza and drive onward. My favorite place is next: The John Lennon Park. I had been waiting to go here throughout the whole drive. We arrive at the park to find dry, scraggly, yellow grass and burning bronze benches, one of which a bronze statue is lounging with the words “Ustede puede decir que soy soñador pero no soy el único” (in English “You may say I’m a dreamer but I’m not the only one”).  I rush out of the car to sit next to my Idol for a picture, but I have to sit on my bag because the bench is too hot. As we reach the bench we are met by an old man holding a pair of eyeglasses for the bronze John. He carefully places the glasses on the statue and waits for us to finish taking pictures. As we walk back to the car, I look back and smile to see how carefully the little old glasses man handles the little bronze glasses.

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We go next to a lush green park and stop for a beverage.  When we leave I decide to sit on the back of the seat and my auntie Krissy sits up with me. We ride like that to our next stop: a green house that my mom specially requested to see. But we couldn’t go inside. To end our tour, our guide took us through a tunnel under the ocean to a castle. All in all it was a fantastic tour in a ridiculous car and was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

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Another installment from our Foreign Correspondent, Ula Grace, as she recalls her visit to Cuba with her parents Krista and Steve.

To see other stories… THE CUBAN DIARY

 

 

 

 

 

TORMENTED… A Vignette

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TORMENTED… A Vignette by Ula Grace

I remember that night, that night of sorrow.
I am responsible for what happened to them. I hear her voice in my thoughts, during my nights.
I hear all of their voices. They torment me. Their words accusing, all except hers.
They blame me for it all. I have no escape. Everyone is gone, those who survived left after that night. I’m alone, wandering this darkened, silent house in search of some escape from this torment.
I see her walking in the halls, our grandmother’s nightgown draped over her thin shoulders, the back trailing on the floor like the train on a wedding dress. My little sister, only six years old when her life was ended. I see her open her mouth, and read my name on her lips… Caleb. It seems to take a lifetime for the sound to reach my ears, and when it does, its distant, a shadow of her voice. She’s searching for me. I try to tell her that it’s all right, that I’m here. But all I hear is silence, where my voice should fill the emptiness with comforting words. I reach out to stroke her hair and pull her into my embrace. But then she’s gone, as if she never existed, ever walked this Earth. Leaving a trail of tiny footprints behind her as she walks.

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Guest Author Ula Grace

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Ula Grace is a frequent contributor to TedBook.

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Photo of the little girl is on the cover of Ransom Riggs’ novel Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children   

Of course I bought the book… after I read it, I’ll give it to UlaG.

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THIS STORY IS FEATURED ON THIS WEEK’S MOONSHINE GRID AT YEAHWRITE.COM

Trifextra: Week 105… “GOOD-BYE”

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GOOD-BYE

“Dammit, Cheryl, I need more than 33, why can’t I have 333?”
“Well, they said 33, and you know them, Ethel. Why don’t we just say this…”

Thanks for the memories, we’ll never forget you, Trifecta.
You introduced us to a new writing world.
Inspired us to be daring, be better writers.
We’re so glad everyone liked us.
Good Luck!

“Okay, that works I guess, but I’m still not happy, Cheryl.”
“You’re never happy, Ethel. Say good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”

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Goodbye… Ted

THE TRIFECTA WRITING CHALLENGE

俳句… HAIKU BOMBERS #2… St. Paddy’s Tacos

          Quill Shiv has a new Haiku writing prompt… A photo of Saint Patrick.  
My result:
                         You can make your own
                         corned beef, cabbage and salsa
                         at the taco bar.
Corned Beef and Cabbage Tacos… In 1986, back in my Restaurant Days, I went to work for Jerry Franco.  Jerry was a bit of a culinary impresario on the Sacramento restaurant scene.  He had just reopened The Town House on 21st Street, down the block from The Sacramento Bee newspaper.  The Town House had been a Mexican Food tradition, and had been sitting empty for a few years after the owner retired.   Franco had opened in a blaze of glory, courting the news hounds and the denizens of California State Government. Having just left a job managing The Fabulous Fifties Cafe, I was ready to mingle with and serve adults.  So I went to work for Jerry as a waiter/bartender/manager.
It was a fun place to work, and we did some crazy promotions to try to make the The Town House a success.  Big lunch business, big after-work bar business.  He kept a few Mexican items on the menu, along with the ‘Upscale Designer’ dishes he came up with.  Each Happy Hour, we featured a Taco Bar, where the patrons could make their own tacos, to wash down with their Martinis and G & T’s.  For me, that taco bar was a pain in the ass, since I had to leave the bar and run back in the kitchen to replenish the supplies.  But the tips were pretty good as long as the food held out.
Saint Patrick’s Day was coming up, and The Town House, along with every other bar and restaurant in Sacramento… no, in the United States… was looking for ways to make some money off one of our more important Drinking Holidays.  I had the bright idea to put corned beef and cabbage on our Taco Bar for the day.  Jerry agreed that it was a brilliant idea, and gave me full credit, in case it bombed.  Getting free publicity was not too difficult, since we always made sure to ‘take good care of’ certain writers from up the street.  Low and behold, we saw some nice mentions in the gossip and the What’s Going On In Town sections of the Bee the day before, and our Happy Hour was packed that St. Paddy’s Day.  In fact, two guys drove down from Hangtown at lunch time to try the CB&C Tacos.  I had to plead with the cook to make some for them.  At Happy Hour, the idea was well received, lots of new people came in, and best of all… Mr. Franco even stuck around to help stock the Taco Bar.
So, when I saw the photo prompt for this week’s Haiku… for some reason, I thought of those Corned Beef and Cabbage Tacos, and working at The Town House.
About 4 months later, I left for the Neon Restaurant Lights of Chicago.  I later heard that the Town House had closed and that Franco was the chef at a seafood joint in Cape Cod.  Last time I was in SacTown, it was a gay bar.

THE CUBAN DIARY… The Canvas

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THE CANVAS by Ula Grace

As I look down from above, I see a vast canvas waiting to be inscribed upon with memories and experiences. I see a scene of everlasting beauty, created out of the continuing story of the amazing people who make up the Cuba we know today. I see a masterpiece created by waves of blue that fade into the green that is Cuba. I see where the unblemished blue dissolves into the clear aquamarine that accompanies the shallow water near the shoreline. Where the navy seeps into the translucent blue of the shoals, I see a spray of deep azure that at first glance mars the surface of that perfect transition. As I continue to gaze, I see deeper, I see how the azure completes that chapter in the story of life…

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This is the first dispatch from our Foreign Corespondent, Ula Grace, as she explores Cuba with her parents. A world… seen through the eyes of an almost 13 year old student at Spring Street International School in Friday Harbor… that most will never visit. To see the start of this journey, click here… ULA GRACE… Foreign Corespondent … and stay tuned for her next post.

Ula is a world traveler, visiting many countries since a babe in arms. To help establish her credentials, here is their Christmas card from last year…

Ula's Christmas Card... Burma

THE WRITER

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THE WRITER

Last Chance by Max Welton

It is hard going, but the demolition is scheduled for tomorrow.   The brush that started at your ankles now reaches chest height, the fence is in sight.  Past bulldozers, poised like fierce beasts to devour the hapless sanitarium, you enter the north wing and hunt for room #36.  An excited sadness overwhelms you as you search her room for what was hidden within the wall.  After the accident her decline had been swift.  Seventeen years since you learned the truth about Daisy, it’s now or never.   An unseen hand guides you to a loose wallpaper patch,  glittering Art Deco reveals itself. Her bracelets are safe once again.

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FROM THE DESK OF MAX WELTON

So, that’s it!  The start to my first novel.  I’m kind of going for a Twilight Zone vibe here, maybe Rod will be interested when I’m done.  I’ve always wanted to be a writer, like my uncle Nick. I’ve written a few poems and stories for the Reader when I can find the time, but I would really like to write a novel.  I have great ideas and can write really great titles, like ‘Death in the Shadow of Saint Mary’s’.  I live on the North Side in Bucktown, a Polish/Puerto Rican/Low Rent neighborhood, and I work right down the street from St. Mary of the Angels, I think it’s the coolest looking church in Chicago.  I can just never come up with a story… that was it, just a great title.  It’s going to be a murder mystery someday when I can think of a story.  But right now, I’m quitting my job and writing full-time to finish ‘Last Chance’, thanks to uncle Nick.

My uncle Nick was a famous writer, well kind of famous.  He had one big hit, but made a decent living writing for magazines.  He was very kind to my mom and me, more like a father than my father.  When I told him I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, he said “Write what you know about.”  I saw my first Sox and Cubs games with Nick, he introduced me to art, and he showed me Chicago.  I wanted to be just like him.  I still do after all these years.

Nick was killed covering the war when I was just out of high school.  He never married, and I was his only heir, so I was not only sad, but expecting a nice inheritance.  Like the character in his book, I got cheated.  He left everything to the Perkins Sanitarium in New York.  I got a few boxes of old letters and unfinished manuscripts.   I was bitter at first, but his lawyer told me that Perkins had given Nick his life back when he was lost in an alcoholic depression.  He had dreamed of being a writer, not a bond salesman, and a new technique called ‘automatic-writing’ was a perfect fit to help cure him.  His doctor suggested he write about the events in Long Island, and the grief that was fueling his condition.  “Write a book.  Even if you are the only person to ever read it”, he said.  It worked, because Nick came out a well man, and a writer.  The story was published to a huge success.  He moved back to the Midwest to be near his family and write stories.  He took care of me, so I forgave him.

Years later, I actually looked at the contents and discovered a story he never intended to publish.  I thought it was interesting, as it was about a distant cousin named Daisy.  She had been part of the whole Long Island thing, and ended up in a ritzy mental hospital also, Lakeview Sanitarium on the North Shore.  That’s where the filthy rich went… guys like me went to Cook County.

That was awhile back.  I forgot all about it until the other day.  I was reading the business section of the Trib, and saw that some new luxury homes were slated to be built there, using the bricks from the Lakeview Sanitarium.  The property had been abandoned to seagulls and rats for many years and was in ruins.  Demolition was slated soon.  That jogged my memory… something Nick had mentioned in his story about Daisy.

I found the volume devoted to Daisy.  Nick tells how her life unraveled after the murder of Gatsby.  She was a woman torn between two men not able to have them on her terms, her tense gaiety gone, and perhaps never forgave herself for her involvement in an automobile accident.  She had been the one driving the Rolls, and Jay had covered for her.  Nick was never sure if her husband knew she was the driver, but Tom Buchanan saw fit to take her away from the unhappy scene.  They moved from East Egg back to their estate in Chicago, not even going to the funeral.  When Nick finally went to see Daisy, he found that stricken with grief and guilt, she had slipped into a despondency so great that she was in a constant state of shock.  Her husband could no longer put up with it or bear to watch and committed her to a sanitarium, where she stayed till her death.  Sadly, Nick was her only visitor, and would go to Lakeview to visit Daisy once a month.

This is the part I was looking for…   “I never knew who to expect when I visited Daisy.  One time she would be staring out a window, alone in her thoughts, and completely incommunicado.  I would hold her hand and talk to her, hoping she could hear me.  Maybe she wouldn’t feel alone.  Curiously, the next visit would find her attired in one of her finest dresses bedecked in jewels and excited to see me.  She loved her diamonds, especially the bracelets, of which she had many.  She would chatter on, completely a different girl.  We would never bring up Long Island.  On occasion, she would ask me about her daughter, Pam.  Daisy had not been the most caring of mothers when well, and I wondered if she thought it odd that Pam never came to visit.  I would say she was just fine, and that was that.  Lakeview liked the guests, that’s what they called the patients, to dress as they had at home, and it could be quite the fashion show.  We would dine in the great room and the attendants always made quite a fuss over her.  Daisy liked that, as I think it brought back memories of the good times.  One day as I walked Daisy back to room 36, I asked her if she wasn’t the least bit concerned about the safety of her jewelry.  She assured me she wasn’t and was quite proud that she had been so clever.  Daisy explained that she had peeled back a square of wallpaper, and hollowed out a place in the wall.  With the wallpaper pushed back, “you couldn’t tell otherwise”, she said.  I didn’t ask her to show me, but she did say it was low to the ground.”

The demolition date was in two days, so with that bit of information and a few tools, I set off for the old hospital to see if I could get lucky.

Maybe now, I’ll get lucky with ‘Death in the Shadow of Saint Mary’s’.

Max Welton… Chicago… 1970

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Okay, I know what you are thinking… “The next F. Scott!” … please, I’m far to modest.  This is a post I started last June.  I had just seen ‘The Great Gatsby’, and was inspired to write a 100 Word Flash Fiction for Friday Fictioneers based on Daisy’s character.  It is actually Max’s story and can be seen here… Friday Fictioneers: LAST CHANCE  It got me to thinking about what life would have been like for Daisy after the book.  The only problem… I had never read The Great Gatsby, so I only had the movie to go on.  I know, I can hear it now… the outraged “Never read ‘The Great Gatsby’, The Great American Novel!!!… in your mind right now.  I’m still puzzled why it was never assigned to read in high school or college, but it was not, maybe it wasn’t The Great American Novel in the 1960’s.  So I had started the story of Max Welton and then put it on hold till I could read the book.  Mission accomplished, I finished my story and immediately got sidetracked with work, taking time off writing anything for a while.  And so my story languished in my draft file, a cold case, forgotten… until my memory was jolted by this line by Karen, in her blog Fat Girl In Boxing Gloves, ” They’re all in my draft box collecting cyberdust, and if that trollop of inspiration that stokes my creative fires ever returns, you’ll get to read them”.  My creative fires were re-lit and my story now sees the light of day, or the glow of your computer screen.  Please let me know what you think.

The photograph is of the Willard State Asylum in Upstate New York.  I came across it when looking for photos of gothic looking asylums to represent my made-up ‘Lakeview Sanitarium’.  I also came across an amazing story.  A project by photographer John Crispin, inspecting patients suitcases that had been stored in the Willard State Asylum, which closed in 1995 and had only recently been discovered.  It is pretty amazing… Willard Suitcases.

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