Long Time No See

Image by Cyranny

Hi, all. Been a while since I wrote. Just found this old photo of the fountain in front of the house. Bruce was the model for the statue, you probably recall.

Not a lot to tell since last I wrote. Adjusting to all the changes here. Not like it used to be, that’s for sure. We keep an eye on your situation as well. I’m sure you’re coping somehow. You’re all so smart and strong.

Miss you. Think of you every day.

By the way, the seawater has got up to Bruce-the-statue’s neck by now. Still rising.

Love to all.


for 100 Word Wednesday

First Day

My first day in Homicide, my partner and I caught a case out by the river. A guy was found choked to death with a catfish.

“Who runs things out here?” my partner asked me.

“A guy named Catfish Brown,” I said.

“You think there’s a connection?” my partner said.

“I don’t believe in happenstance,” I said.

My partner laughed.

“Happenstance?” he said. “Don’t let them hear you say that back at the station. We don’t believe in coincidence, partner, not your happenstance.”

for Ragtag Daily Prompt

inflection point

Crispin and his parents were not getting along. At fourteen, without being aware of the fact, Crispin had begun the task of separating from his parents.

“You don’t listen,” his dad said. “You think you know it all. What makes you think you’re so special?”

Crispin didn’t think he was special but he thought he was ok.

“Please don’t keep this up,” said his dad, voice rising.

Then, just like in the movies, his dad grabbed his chest and collapsed. Crispin’s mom and sister weren’t home. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911. While completing the call, he raced to the front door and flung it open. Then he returned to his dad, knelt by him and put one hand on the other on the man’s chest, as he had been taught. His dad’s eyes were closed. He wasn’t breathing.

Crispin pushed his dad’s chest down an inch or two, roughly twice a second. Every sixteen seconds, he stopped and forced air into his dad mouth-to-mouth. He continued thiis for five minutes, which seemed like an hour, until two EMTs appeared by his side and took over. Then he wept.

He got along better with his parents after that.

Photo by https://morguefile.com/creative/GaborfromHungary/31/all _DSC6204



is that thing spying on me?
motionless. eyes unblinking.
but wait. it ate an insect.
it ate another.

Image by alexis parra from Pixabay
for 5 Lines or Less


Photo by Nadiya Ploschenko at Unsplash.com

john’s life turned around and he became a success when he learned that blackout curtains, like those used in motels, work much better than venetian blinds for those who sleep during the day and work at night. no longer was he drowsy and sluggish on the job. and then he met mary.

for Twittering Tales

bounty hunter

i’m a bounty hunter. it’s an ugly job. it’s not about the carts. the stores don’t want them back, not the carts i’m after. it’s about the commercial war against the homeless.

Your normal carts gone astray are collected by high-school students making minimum wage or fished out of stream beds by canvasing environmental groups.

My targets are the carts filled with a lifetime of belongings, filled with the residue of hard times, the detritus of civilization’s living detritus. Or so the mercantile class around these parts sees it.

When I head under the elevated interstate interchanges into the dark encampments where hundreds of carts are present along with abandoned furniture and discarded building materials and makeshift cardboard-and-blanket tents, i’m descending into a mental underworld,

i used to repossess automobiles but i’m too old for that now.

my focus this year was mary p., who accumulated a collection of carts, filled them, and hid them around the city. i found them one by one and dumped their contents. word on the street was that her distress increased with each loss. word on the street was that she was teetering on the edge of a serious meltdown.

i didn’t stop. i kept finding and dumping her carts.

you know how they say, take a long walk off a short pier. she took a long walk off a pier with no surface remaining on it. i emptied her final cart into the sea.

photo courtesy of Morguefile
for Friday Foto Flash Fiction Challenge


Marcia and Andrew were not getting along; their marriage seemed to be lacking something.

Their therapist, the nose-ringed, tatted, red-haired Tatiana, made a suggestion, which worked beautifully for their relationship.

They adopted.

for Three Line Tales

tainted air

“Come in, my boy,” said Professor Goldbaum. “I have a new invention to show you.”

He indicated the gramophone sitting on his workbench.

“We have one of those,” I said. “Lots of people do.”

“I’ve added something to mine,” he said. “I’ve told you before that the air is full of words and music. This machine can pull them out.”

“How do the words and music get into the air?”

“People in the future put them there. My discovery of time-overlap allows me to grab them. Listen.”

He strode to his machine, twiddled knobs and levers, and suddenly a talking-and-singing voice filled the room.

The voice was harsh and annoying. So were the words:

“Marco got that big blast
When I blow it at your back
You don’t got a xxxx-xxxxxx chance
A full clip up so close flame touch you
Colors, uh huh, ragged up, uh huh, how I live
Call a Lyft with my piece
With a xxxx MAC-10 we jus’ do this
Claim they killing xxxxx while I really xxxxxxx do it.”

“Geez, Professor,” I say. “Can’t we just listen to your Au clair de la lune again?

photo: https://morguefile.com/creative/GaborfromHungary/47/all _DSC7987

First Contact

Here’s a photo of the first alien to contact earth – presenting himself as a dude with long blond hair and noticeable hips. A Viking effect.

We see him standing in front of the US DOD Intergalactic Message Board, which has been designed to facilitate communication between the Free World’s military and whichever extraterrestrials, using binary code. We are told that after studying the board for some minutes, the alien, named by the press “Eric the Blond,” requested that in addition to all the 0s and 1s, we begin using some 2s.

for Twittering Tales


Water is stable. It can sit comfortably in liquid form, unemployed, for ten billion years, unchanged, given an agreeable environment.

Contaminates may intrude, but that’s not the water’s fault. There may be leaching, but blame that on the oxygen atoms in the water molecules. Nature not nurture.

Water changes to steam betimes, or ice. Waters of this planet, naturally phlegmatic, may be incited to violence by the moon or coriolis force or a cliff that must be plunged from. However, perhaps the only example of mischievous waters are those that replace their protium hydrogen isotopes with deuterium, creating the amusing “heavy water.”