Dreaming of Hollywood

This week I have posted a piece of poetry, a villanelle.

It reminds me of sitting in a hot, dark bar in San Salvador wondering why was I there. At the time, the country was in turmoil with rumours of a civil war.

Cottonbro – Pexel.com

Dreaming of Hollywood

When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.
They were playing soft Jazz in the Bertolt Brecht bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She licked her sulky red lips, her dress smooth and white
She asked me to drive her somewhere, anywhere not far
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night.

The jazz switched to Latin and couples were holding tight
I said let’s Salsa and away from drinking at the bar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She uncrossed her legs, her bare thighs flashing in the light
What happened here? And she caressed my facial scar
When we met in the September’s heat one lonely night

I said, it’s a reminder over a woman I lost in a fight
We could go to a room, she smiled and I lit up my cigar
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

She purred, and asked me politely to pay for her flight
As she spoke of her dreams of being a Hollywood star
When we met in September’s heat one lonely night
Where she was sipping mojitos under a flickering light.

The Curse of a She Wolf

Friday Fictioneers – hosted by Rochelle Wisoff Fields

Read all the stories  HERE

The wonderful Dale has given us a picture of a garlic string to stir our imagination and taste buds. I understand that the greatest benefit from garlic is to eat it raw in salads. Does anyone really eat the cloves raw?

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Curse of a She Wolf

Radiant with the beauty of eternal youth, Silvia enchanted a fluttering of men like lavender surrounded by buzzing bees.  Four of her husbands died of broken hearts and the fifth during a moment of rampant ecstasy, and she howled pitiless that night. It was her curse to devour the passion from the souls of men.
In Vulcan, the women called her ‘She Wolf’ and fortified their homes with strings of garlic.
Late afternoons, wearing fine leather and furs, she would ride her sleek stallion to lure a lusting youth.
By midnight, her mourning and howling would haunt the mountain villages.

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers

This week’s picture reminds me of Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story;

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Every Child Deserves a Mother

Damn, how Malcolm preferred the office than coming home. He kicked a box out of his way. The City garbage strike was a health hazard.
Then he saw it. Hell! Mary has flipped. Another of her tantrums since the IVF failed, and for the last time. Dr Nolan said it was pointless.
Malcolm suggested adopting a baby girl. No, she wouldn’t listen to him.
In the flat, the aroma of baking eased his tension as Mary pecked his cheek in a gregarious mood.
‘Oh, Malcolm. I’ve decided to adopt.’
‘Then, why throw out the chair?’
‘Because Charlie is three already.’

Gateway to Adventure

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers

Click here for more story contributions.

I always admire the skill and patience it takes to handcraft art that produces aesthetic pleasure and brightens up our lives. Even more so when the item is an antique with a checkered history. This week’s picture reminds me of wandering through street flea markets and searching in curiosity shops for nothing in particular.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Gateway to Adventure

Carla, me and Joey loved Old Hickory’s shop. We spent Saturday afternoons enchanted by the curiosities. To us, every item oozed a magical secret.
Old Hickory frightened us with murderous tales of the polished pirate’s chest. Full of gold. He grinned. Inside is a world of dangerous dreams, and he laughed like Bluebeard himself.
One day, lifting the creaking lid, we took a peek, and heard Hickory cough and spit in the backroom.
No, we said, but Carla climbed inside looking for adventure. Don’t tell, she giggled.
For years now, Joey and me, we have stood outside praying for Carla.

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes

The Night Game by Jennie Boyes.

This morning, I enjoyed reading this story, by Jennie Boyes.

The POV is that of a child, Fridel, who try’s to make sense of the events taking place in her village.

Fridel’s mother is suffering from depression from the loss of her son Bert and blames The Mare and other mystical spirits.

Fridel starts to suspect that witches are to blame and in her own way (you decide) takes action to rid the village of them and the Mare.

The narrative gripped me from the beginning and drew me into the naive thoughts of Fridel. It was clear to me, the reader, what was going on. However, the adults were unaware how their explanations of spirits and evil witches influenced Fridel.

You can read the story here: The Night Game

Honky-Tonk Inheritance

Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The picture reminds me of the book, Huckelberry Finn.  The wooden fence prompted my memory.

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Honky-Tonk Inheritance

‘It looks kind of grey, it wants painting.’
‘Yep, Grandpa was colour blind, it didn’t matter to him.’
Sally-Anne wasn’t sure about this legacy and expectation. It needed a lot of maintenance.
Grandpa was a Christian and provided a home for orphaned children of every race. Fifty children grew up here and all have prosperous concerns in the town and attend the Gospel Church, yet they are reluctant to help.
Grandpa wanted a new  hostel for teenagers providing educational activities.
‘I don’t think anyone cares, Sally.’
‘Oh, they will. I’ll say, what this town needs is a honky-tonk northern bordello.’

When Two Make a Crowd – Ochlophobia

Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Read more contributions from the group here.

When Two Make a Crowd – Ochlophobia

Caroline shivered, and she pulled up her hood. She staggered and used the wall to steady herself. Was she the only one who saw it? The tower floated away up into the clouds.
So many people talking; the noise. She pulled her scarf over her face; no one will recognise her. At last, she dared to walk along the street and she felt proud.
She had quivered locking her apartment door, but she forced herself out to restore some self-confidence.
A child began screaming; was she the only one who heard it?
She fled with her chest gasping in agony.

Riding the Rails Home

Friday Fictioneers -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Read more stories here.

Riding the Rails Home

Brad grabbed the ladder and jumped onto the rung. He pulled himself onto the wagon. He swung the rucksack off his back and sat.
Freight-hopping was not comfortable, but the airports and rail stations were under surveillance by Grego’s thugs.
He felt the USB stick in his jacket pocket as reassurance. His undercover duty was over and tomorrow he will resign from the FBI.
He thought of baby Rosanne who had not seen for two years. She will walk and talk now and likely not recognise him.
Carla wants a divorce. He said no.
Hell! They need the money.

Dolphins are Guardian Angels

A 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

You can read the stories from other contributors, here.

Dolphins are Guardian Angels

I admired the parrot fish shoal dashing past, then wham! The impact dislodged my facemask; my flippers were clamped in the teeth of a shark. I struggled my feet free, readjusted my mask and mouthpiece, and swam to a coral buttress. I watched John climb into the boat ten metres above.
The excited bull shark circled and raced towards me. I was trapped.
I heard a screech of whistles and clicks, and a dolphin struck the shark’s underbelly. The pod harassed and chased the menace away.
My saviours escorted me to the surface, and to the safety of the boat.

Concussion in the Kitchen

A short piece of flash fiction for the Friday Fictioneers prompt.

Click here for other stories.

Concussion in the Kitchen 

At first, Beryl laughed. It seemed harmless. She arrived home from work each evening to a cluttered kitchen.
Although, she was certain the place was spotless when she left in the morning.
This problem started soon after the accident. An inconsiderate driver had knocked her from her bicycle, and she spent the night in hospital with concussion. The doctor advised that her head injury may lead to confusion and disorientation: take it easy.
She took pictures of the kitchen and kept a diary; it was not her imagination!
She lived alone.
Did someone else stay in her flat?