New Year’s Eve Flash Bash from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie 31.12.16

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New Year’s Eve Flash Bash: Here’s what you’ll find if you visit Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, and check out my Flash Bash. A buffet table of 5 sorts of flash fiction to sample. Why not stop by and join the party – it will go past midnight to be sure.

Welcome to a New Year’s Eve Flash Bash. Tonight, I’m offering up a buffet table of flash fiction for you to sample from. I hope there is one that piques your interest.

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Flash One: In 25 words or less: Using one of the photos provided, write a story in 25 words or less. Beginning, middle and end.

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Or Flash Two: Tweet-tweet: Using one of the photos provided, write a tale of no more than 142 characters (thanks to Kat of like mercury colliding and her Twittering Tales for inspiration). Use this handy character counter when composing.

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Or Flash Three: Selfies from the Edge: Take a selfie, post it and a piece of flash fiction (100 to 150 words) based on your picture. Include the selfie in your post.

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Or Flash Four: Traditional Fare: Using one of the photos provided, write a story of 100 to 150 words. (Thanks to Priceless Joy of FFfAW, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Friday Fictioneers, and Al of Sunday Photo Fiction for inspiration)

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Or Flash Five: Pot Luck: Choose a photo (yours or someone else’s – give accreditation) and write a piece of flash fiction 75 to 200 words based on the photo.

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You’ll be able to link up to the prompt page and click on a Mr. Linky connection.

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Since this is my party, my rules, you can submit your flash bash entries after midnight. And, one more champagne-induced indulgence: 75 to 200 words will work fine tonight – I’ll be counting down not up!

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The idea is to have fun with a few different forms of flash – only a sampling of the many that are out there in the creative blogosphere.

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Wishing you a bright, brilliant and flash{y} 2017. Let’s write together.

All photos: (c) Lorraine (click on some imagines for larger versions)

 

Art House Boogey

I combined Yves’ MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Wordle 120 with NEKNEERAJ’s MLMM’s Photo Challenge 130 and came up with “Art House Boogey.”

- Rob Woodcox

Rob Wilcox

you gaze at your navel, pleasuring your ego,

your cinematic future glistens

in that yellow mineral you adore

drift and feint – make the crowd senshucht and sentient

you sold your soul for the Codex

of/on faux film

the scent of sulfur is formidable

around awards time

I make choose a noun

and skip the artistic angst

of Ten Boys in Boxes

 

© adh [a darkened house]

affliction/addiction

image: smashingmagazine.com

This is definitely an R on the reading scale – rough stuff suggested – for MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Music Prompt: Constant Craving by k.d. lang

Baby, you know what I crave, what I need

what makes me buck and heave

but you won’t give and you won’t share

why the f should I care

I’ll take my affliction, my addiction elsewhere

Plenty of others crawl in the dusk

sniffing for the tell tale musk

ain’t so hard to find affection

when you’re got my affliction

when you’ve got my addiction

In the morning, I’ll be back

purring like a kitty cat

cause I feed my affliction

cause I indulged my addiction

so what the f should either of us care

who took what elsewhere

tangibles rub her heart raw

Being most of the tactile words devised by Yves for MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Wordle special wordle on words of touch.

Warning: PG++

Image result for drawings of bleeding human heart

image: picstopin.com

 

She disliked tangibles. Like angular cheekbones. Long waxen raven’s locks.

Malleable legs, sodden with love making, lifting her feverish body up from satin sheets.

Her coarse words as she arched rigid then fell back.

Her bristle smelling of must and lust, aching, desiring.

The prickling of his 4 day beard against the cleft he made between her breasts.

Tangibles, barbed like pumice, to rub her heart raw.

The Union Stories

Anthems to hope arose within and around the union movement. This is a tale followed by some union movement music. Just a few of the anthems to the rights of the working class, of everyday people, of you and me. (For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Friday Night Music Prompt # 56: The Mary Ellen Carter by Stan Rogers)

image: blogofprogress.com

When great-grandfather was in his early nineties, his body and his mind began to slow down. So me, being the one usually between jobs, and the one that saw the gentleness behind the hard and the strong, and the reasons for it, was deputized for the employment opportunity. Certain things were pretty constant – woke up by 5 am, calling for me to put the kettle on for his tea.

If it was an okay morning, he’d up himself, and come down those scary stairs. If not, Harvey or Harry from next farm over come and help. Sometimes they would hang out in the kitchen with ggf as I called him for a while, exchanging stories.

Three times at day, including with tea, I asked ggf a series of questions to see what time zone he was in. Asking the year, the month, and some pop culture or near family history question. I carefully recorded his scores – trying different ways to, if not delay the dementia, to make it more easy to descend.

Ggf did time shift and slip: “Girl, why ain’t ya got da radio on for them Leafs playing Montreal – we’ll miss . . . .” or “Girl, why ain’t ya got the tv on, Expos is playing the Reds . . . “ I think he recognized his mistakes at times, and was ashamed to admit it. I’d ask if any aliens had been in town lately, or if he’d fallen asleep in Sleepy Hollow. He’d laugh, usually, sometimes get real mad. But then the raw red hate in his face faded, and he was smiling at his favourite ggc.

“Did I ever tell ya ‘bout the time, they’d tried to break the strike in …” Didn’t matter, I loved his stories; he came alive with them as if his union comrades stood shoulder to shoulder across his living room.

The family’s large enough I did get time off for good behaviour, and one night down at the tavern, I ran into an old classmate and beau, Matt, and this incredibly studdley man who I’d been seeing round town.

“Geneiva, heard you were back for ggf. How’s he doing.”

“Considering dementia and all, not bad. Some time zone slipping, but that’s when he tells the best stories.”

“Stories?” studdley perks up.

“Oh, Geneiva, met Stu; Stu, Geneiva. We’ve got a grant to do a pov then make a theatrical film based around the essence of the docu with a lot of live streaming and internet interaction . ..”

“Huh, Matt. I’ve been out here in the boonies with VCRs too long . . .”

Stu said, “We want to tell a story, maybe stories, from different perspectives and time frames, real and imagined, legend and lies, truth and transgressions.”

“Surely, ya thought of the strikes, “ I said.

Matt and Stu looked at each other and said – another round. Which turned into several. I got the union song singing level down within earshot of the house. That’d get ggf up outta the house in a  blizzard wind and he slept in his skin.

Lots of sshing, and I thought we’d made it.

But, ggf was waiting for my return in his recliner in the living room. “Didn’t know you had so many men friends, you was bringing in by 2s,” Ggf being the bastard he could be.

“Matt’s Chaz Hatley’s ggc, and this is Stu Garrison, from away. Matt, Stu, this is my ggf, M.G. Rogan.” Both stepped forwarded to shake hands. “What brings you boys back here with me ggc, by the way, she’s a good girl fair as I know.” Matt tried not to giggle, Stu looked perplexed and I said – “They wanted to talk to you about stories, union stories, the real stories. Make a film” Ggf looked at them with his fierce blue eyes, “None of them gd talking heads Ken Burn’s types in it, I hope.” “Ggf watches PBS a lot,” I added. “He’s got a hate on for the Burns Boys.” “Spoiled documentary film making, I say . ..” my ggf began.

Well past midnight, but I put the kettle on for tea. He’d have them full of head-bustings, and union cards, and army rifles firing at ya, and picking coal from the tracks, and . . . the fingers of dawn would knock on the window for a cuppa too.

Ggf couldn’t make it all the way to the official premiere. A flu, then cold got him down, and the hacking worried me. But, there was a hookup at the local museum, and afterwards, Ggf, the boys, the actors, writers, the neighbours, the labourers all asked and answered questions coming in on the internet from around the world. But my ggf, M.G. Rogan, was the true star. If ever a person knew how to keep a tradition alive, to make sure the anthems continue to be sung, make people see what we’re losing when we loose the unions power, the peoples’ power, it was him. And if ever a person knew how to tell a story, well . . .

As things closed down post show, he leaned over and whispered, “That Stu fellow – he’s no Ken Burns type, ya know. More talks than just his head. Why ggc, you’re not a blushing all red are t‘a?”

 

To finish off, 3 union standards.

 

Billy Bragg, Internationale

 

folkways/Smithsonian Pete Seeger: If I had a Hammer: Songs of Hope and Struggle

 

Union Maid (Woody Guthrie)

the first patron and the installation

NEKNEERAJ has chosen an awe inspiring photograph for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge 126. I have chosen to interpret within the world of art.

Through a general comment conversation, he mentioned the incredible (my interpretation) artistic skill of his son in a variety of medias. I asked for photographs and/or websites. His father quickly provided me with breath-taking examples of his son’s art, the art making process, the installations, the commercial items based on his unique and intricate designs.

I’d ask of up-coming shows, or he would mention this one or that one. His son was always experimenting, making a name for himself internationally. A very justifiably proud father.

An excited fatherly email arrived – a commission to do another of his permanent monster sized installations. Based upon the first, the son began his process of artistic wizardry.  I asked how things were progressing, and he replied his son was rather quiet about it. Giving little information as to what the installation would represent, materials used, and none of the usual progress shots. The website and facebook pages were equally enigmatic and cryptic.

Although the show was half a world away, the father decided to go. Time with family becomes more important; saying, “Tomorrow,” is less feasible and realistic. Upon his arrival, he learned his son had arranged a private showing – just his father to take in the installation alone. To experience the visual, sensual, sights, sound, smell, music. The “first patron” I teased him when I received the email.

I slipped into the back of the gallery, awed by the art, and the man – an aura of love, respect, and pride – glowing around him. It shone more brightly than the iridescent and shifting colours of his son’s art.

I would give him a long while til I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him I was the “second patron”

 

© adh [a darkened house]