Away and again, /
the miles separating us /
bloom empty in my heart.
Filed under 2015, Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
Still, he keeps trying.
Filed under 2015, cartoon by author, CarToonsday
There once was a prophet who walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also was a mendicant, so he ate very little, only what he could beg, which made him rather frail and with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. One day he was found unconscious, breathing rapidly, and was taken to the local hospital. When asked what his name was, nobody knew. When asked what was wrong with him, nobody was sure. After a quick exam, the doctors decided he was a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 8.]
by David E. Booker
I tossed the wet wipe in the trash and stepped through the curtain and behind door number one was the woman who had threatened me with her rolling pin. She was still gripping the deadly device.
#
“You heard her side of the story. You’re going to hear mine,” she said.
“I’m not the Dear Abby of the recipe world.”
She was sitting in my one good client chair. I decided not to sit down. Maybe she’d get the hint and stand up and step out.
It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.
“Be careful what you say,” I said. “There’s a priest in the office.”
She sloshed her disheveled hairdo toward the other room. “Him? He’s harmless. We had a nice conversation waiting for you, we did.”
She was looking up at me. There seemed the hint of a foreign accent in her speech. English maybe. Either that or that’s the way she talked when she was inebriated. I once knew a Jewish guy who took on a Russian accent when he was drunk. He would also start referring to himself in the third person and how “that worthless Jew” needed a trip to a pogrom. In the past few years I had lost contact with him and hoped he wasn’t off somewhere punishing himself. I think he wanted to be comedy writer.
“Your half-sister is not my client, so you don’t have to stay,” I said, still standing near the doorway.
“Then I want to hire you.” She curled away from me and toward her purse, which was beside her on the chair. She popped it open, jammed her right hand inside, then pulled out a wad of bills and shook them at me like a rustling bouquet of flowers. Green flowers. Andrew Jackson and Benjamin Franklin flowers.
“Tea anyone?” Father Brown wriggled himself around me and walked into the room carrying a wicker service tray that was sagging slightly toward the center from the weight of the teapot.
(To be continued.)
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Story by author
Maybe the tree of Knowledge was actually a tree of books.
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday
Holiday anxiety: /
Nerves like torn wrapping paper /
Wadded in corners.
Filed under 2015, Haiku to You Thursday
Glimmer Train’s Fiction Open
Deadline: January 2, 2016
Glimmer Train
Other considerations:
Writing Guidelines: http://www.glimmertrain.com/pages/guidelines/fiction_open_guidelines.php
Submit here: https://glimmertrainpressinc.submittable.com/submit/46391
Once upon a time a wannabe novelist finds a magic lantern. He rubs it and a genie appears. He had heard about the writer who asked to be a bestseller and that genie turned that writer into a book, so he thought he should try a different tack.
Instead, he asks his genie to speak to a bestselling fiction writer.
“It will take all three of your wishes to summon a person for you to talk to. If I do that, you will only get to ask this writer three questions.”
The wannabe writer sighs and nods his head. The genie waves his arms and the bestselling novelist appears.
The wannabe writer thinks for a moment, then asks: “What does it take to write a bestseller?”
The fiction writer says, “A novel, usually.”
The wannabe writer considers objecting, but sees the sharp look in the genie’s eyes and decides to move on to his next question. This time he tries to be clever, just like the novelist, and hopes to catch the novelist off-guard. “Okay, what was novel about your fiction writing?”
“That I wrote it,” said the novelist.
Frustrated, the wannabe writer tries to think up one question that will help him. Finally, he asks: “How long should a bestseller be?”
“Long enough,” the writer says, and then disappears.
Filed under 2015, Monday morning writing joke
This holiday season, consider donating books you’ve read to the Little Free Library in your neighborhood.
There are many ways to share the gift of reading with friends you know and even folks you might not ever meet. Giving books is always a good idea. Donating books you’ve read but don’t have room for is another way.
Where to donate? How about a local Little Free Library. It’s based on the idea or bring a book, take a book. Bring something you want to share and if you see something you like, borrow it to read.
This exchange idea is what keeps these free little libraries going. In my neighborhood, there have even been folks from outside the neighborhood who have donated books, people who will probably never make it by to borrow one, but still want to see this Little Free Library remain open and available to those who can use it.
Give the gift of reading this holiday season. Donate a book or two to your local Little Free Library, especially children and young adult books. Start them early on the adventure of reading.
Thank you to all those who have helped to keep the Little Free Library in my neighborhood going.
The Night Before
by David E. Booker
With a nod to the original
The Sax man.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around the place
Not a customer was left, then in popped his face.
Cash was counted — We were almost out of there
Santa Claus was coming, so we had no time to spare.
The face had a sax and music on his mind.
We didn’t care; some of us had presents still to find.
He floated about the room, from the front to the back
As if he were looking for a place to lay his shiny sax.
The manager stepped forth and tried to shoo him away.
“Go on, be gone. It’s almost Christmas Day.
“We’ve fed all our customers. We have nothing left to give.
“Then you float it as if our walls were a sieve.”
He seemed not the least bothered as he continued to float
Then he brought the sax to his lips and played a few notes.
Then out came a song: kind of mournful and slow
And when he was done, the manager said, “Go, go, go.”
But the man did not stop; he continued to play.
And he played and he played until it was Christmas Day.
Though he had no lungs, he could belt out those tunes
“White Christmas,” “Silent Night,” the notes filled out the room.
“Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolf” were next.
Soon we were all listening and the manager was perplexed.
“We can’t leave you here. The Health Code won’t allow.
“You have to leave us now or else I’ll have a cow!”
But the Sax man kept playing on up to the light of dawn
And somewhere along the way we started singing each song.
If we had forgotten the lyrics, we hummed our best
Or some of us made up words or took our best guess.
The room was filled with magic as our voices cracked about:
Off key, out of sync, and one of us sang like he would shout.
Still the words and music filled the room with a new light
That carried us to places long forgotten on this night.
Then sunlight snuck in, signaling it was Christmas Day
We watched golden light through glass doors flow our way.
We tuned back to the Sax man, but he was already gone
Back into the magic moment which comes with every song.
We put on our jackets and said our good-byes.
We hugged and sighed and few of us had dry eyes.
The manager smiled as he wished us Merry Christmas
And we all felt a bit of renewed kindness within us.
What happened next has been only speculation
But the sax lay on a table, to the manager’s consternation.
He scanned the room for the head that went with it.
The sax had ribbon round as if meant for gift, give it.
He picked up the saxophone and placed it to lips
He blew a short note; it sounded like a quip.
He blew again and again, doing his very best.
As they say, it is history, so we’ll let the story rest.
Except this extra note I now will propose:
Some say it was the manager the Sax man choice.
I say it was the manager who choice to pick up the sax
And the music he now makes fills something that he lacked.
Either way, that’s our story of music on Christmas Eve.
You can take it or not; it’s up to you to believe.
But if you come by this Christmas Eve to get a bite to eat,
You might find your voice moving to the Sax man and his beat.
The face had a sax and music on his mind.
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
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