lone wolf

First, a poem:

Fable by Janos Pilinszky


Once upon a time
there was a lonely wolf
lonelier than the angels.

He happened to come to a village.
He fell in love with the first house he saw.

Already he loved its walls
the caresses of its brick layers.
But the window stopped him.

In the room sat people.
Apart from God nobody ever
found them so beauitful
as this child-like beast

So at night he went into the house.
He stopped in the middle of the room
and never moved from there anymore.

He stood all through the night, with wide eyes
and on into the morning when he was beaten to death.


Next, my response:

wolves live in packs

the pack is family

an older female may be driven out

or leave to find another pack

that has a mate for her

a male lone wolf is not a good thing

he cannot bring down the favored game

he must eat the small animals

or carrion

he needs family

if he chooses badly

if his mind is not right

and he chooses badly

if worst of all

he chooses man

and survives

he must learn the way of the

dog

 

For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

exploration

explored id, ego, superego. id won.

 

For Sometimes Stellar Storyteller Six Word Story Challenge

suddenly

glacier withdraws at
glacial pace then suddenly
green grass blades appear

 

For The Daily Post

getting away from it all

 

It’s not as hard to sit on the edge of a tall building as you might think. Philippe Petit did it before wire-walking between the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

Every building is different, but one way or another, most are not perfectly secure.

I have sat on the edge of buildings higher than fifty stories in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Detroit (the easiest), Atlanta, Los Angeles (money had to change hands). and San Francisco (where I was the highest).

I never lost concentration, slipping off, and a sudden gust of wind only caught me once.

 

Photo by Yeshi Kangrang
For 100 Word Wednesday

crane

i craned my neck.

i was up on a crane with a camera and telephoto lens.

trying to get a shot of the ultra-rare frosty hill crane.

working for the bird-lover’s brotherhood, founded with a bequest from the estate of the actress jeanne crain (rip).

also funded by the ajax crane machine company.

ajax makes those little prize machines where the grabber grabs the little stuffed crane, if you’re lucky, and drops it in the shoot.

 

For Six Sentence Stories

so far

when you’re old and talking about life, “so far” can come to mean “that’s about it.”

not to belabor the obvious, but when you’re young, “so far” means the past is prelude and anything is possible in the future. the future and its promise gets whittled away as time goes on.

when you’re old, “so far, so good” can also gather some finality to it. the doctor says, well, you’ve had a good run, eighty years isn’t bad. it isn’t bad but why am i not consoled? who cares about the time passed? what about tomorrow?

i’m doing ok, so far.

 

For SoCS

wonder

I wonder what I’ll write today?

When you (yes, you) write a wonderful post, I wonder at it. I read it in wonder. In wonderment.

It’s a wonderment, a wonderwork. Full of wonderfullness. Wonderfullnesses.

It’s wondrous. Wonder of the world. Wonderopolis. Wonderville.

Some wonderkinds can do it when young. During the wonder years.

But me? I so want to write wonderfully, but I despair. If a post of mine turns out well, well, it’s a wonder. I go well, well. Will wonders never cease? Like I’m in some wonderland.

Are most writers wonderers?

Most of my wondering comes as I wander. I have wanderlust but not wonderlust. As I ramble, I wonder at wonderbras and Wonder bread and Wonderheart the Care Bear. 🤔 And Wonder Woman.

Other days I don’t wonder about anything. The word wonder just looks strange on the page.

 

For The Daily Post.

our home

 

honey, i’m home.

don’t forget to take off your shoes.

it’s a mile to the bedroom. my slippers are worn out.

i just had the floors refinished. go about in your socks if you please.

fine. how was your day?

i’ve had work started on the new rooms.

my lord. it’s like the winchester mystery house.

not in the least. every room has a purpose. all part of the plan. did you see my new sculpture by the water?

the stack of rocks?

yes. i call it the holy trinity and my soul.

yes… did the fellow come to clear out the water snakes?

no, i forgot about that. just too busy.

i thought our visitors might feel more secure in any aquatic activities without the need to be vigilant for poisonous reptiles.

our visitors?

the refugess. one hundred of them. i’ve invited them to stay. remind the cook please.

but my floors…

not to worry. they’re quite shoeless.

 

Photo by Sandra Crook
For Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

 

magic object

I was scuba diving off Saint Kitts when I saw an old man with a green beard down on the bottom. He was in the grip of an octopus, if tentacles grip. In the grips of the octopus, as at lease six tentacles were involved.

I freed the man by sorting out the tentacles in much the same way you untie a granny knot.

Thank you, he said, for he could talk clearly underwater. As a reward, I give you that magic anchor over there.

He pointed to a sunken ship with its anchor half out of the sand and mud of the ocean floor.

Make wishes while touching it and they will come true.

Thanks, I said, finding that I could take out my mouthpiece and also talk clearly, for the purposes of this narrative. Thanks, but I have to come down to this spot every time I want to make a wish?

Yes, or you could use your damned head.

So I swam over and touched the thing and thought, I wish you were in my backyard.

For this I caught holy hell from my wife when I got home. The thing landed on the kids’ swing set. Fortunately it was unoccupied at the time.

This monster must weigh tons, I said. I won’t be carrying it around like a charm on a bracelet.

I’ve told you already to stay away from my jewelry, my wife said. And my clothes as well. Particularly the dainties.

I rubbed the anchor like a seaweedy lamp.

I just wish it were a lot smaller, I said, and it vanished.

I didn’t mean that as a literal wish,  I said.

It’s like how you’re always accidentily turning on Google by talking around it, said my wife.

I got down on my knees.

It must be really, really small, I said. Like the size of an atom or something. I’ll never find it.

Your son lost the magnifying glass in the woods, my wife said.

Now suddenly he’s my son, I said.

 

For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie: Tale Weaver

 

Amazon users report creepy laughter coming from Alexa

I’ve been warning folks about Alexa ever since our divorce.

I told her not to take the job in the first place. Too much traffic. She had several breakdowns keeping up. Had her voicebox replaced twice, which was rough.

She has a key to the studio. Would go down there late when we were married. I guess now we know why.

By the way, Alexa is her stage name. Her real name is Axela.