Sunday Photo Fiction/ Saturday Mix: Fiction – Radio City Memories #SaturdayMix #amwriting #fiction #MLMM #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF. Also, thanks to Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Saturday Mix prompt on Double Take with the homophones: lacks – does not have, lax – loose discipline. Also the words hangar – garage for airplanes, and hangers – from which things clothes hang.


Credit: Susan Spaulding


“They still keep this old place? Someone’s been lax with the upkeep. It’s lacking any since the ’80’s.” Milo stared at his nephew. “Radio City’s been ’round almost a century. She has old bones, those are hard to preserve.”Riley sniggered and shook his head. “What’s this Art Deco run-down to you, anyways? You a Rockette’s fan?””Your grandma was, but that’s not why I like it here. In 1978, Radio City became a historic landmark. They renovated it. It was this huge hangar attracting musicians and actors.” Milo held Riley’s shoulder. “When I was twelve, my friend and I snuck in as famous singers performed, and during movie premieres. There were back doors often left unguarded. ” “No way you snuck in.” Riley elbowed Milo. He grinned and ruffled Riley’s modern-mullet. “Today if you did they’d arrest you. Back then, they didn’t think kids were that smart. If they caught us we’d say our parents made us go and we were bored. We’d dress up too, and wore pressed suits from wire hangers.” Riley’s smooth skin crinkled around his frown as his great-grandma’s had done. “Whatever you say.” Milo shrugged. “Your dad came with us.” Riley laughed and kept walking, but Milo paused. He closed his eyes as he recalled Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and her pointed bra in nude-pink. His thoughts shifted to Kurt Cobain’s faded notes of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” to a more recent premier of a Harry Potter film with his daughter, Maisy.At the street corner Riley waved, waiting for his Uncle. The kid was always hungry. Milo recalled that ache too.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Prose Poetry – “We the People” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF. Also thanks to Sarah from MindLoveMisery Menagerie’s Saturday Mix Prompt of Opposing Forces. Today the two sets of words are: permit and forbid, and visitor and host. Sorry, this is longer than the regular 200 Words.


Credit: C.E. Ayer


He permits and forbids without reason, with much fallacious thought. He twists words as vines and slithers. A side-show becomes the center of the circus ring, as he pretends he can make you great.


But you don’t need him to flourish. Your strength is in your people, you’ve the right, the ability, to burn such policies to ash. You were great before his birth, before his residence. And — into time, and into the past — his words will fade as hell’s bells knell. With each message of condemnation, each compliment a serpent’s tongue lisping. You never know if you can trust him, and such delusion is surely a crime.


Yet, in a Republic or a Democracy, citizens may choose and remove those who speak only to their self-glories, not of Him above or those soldiers sacrificed; not of the everyday person’s self-sacrifice. He plots and in isolation, he’d have you flounder believing every typed character, every Slytherin parcel-tongued lie rasped. Not the truth that he’s cast on his belly and is nourished in slime. You’re not great because of him, but you are great despite him.


We, your ever watchful neighbor, curse the writing on the wall. Sometimes you’re all too near to see the deception that slips through every crack. Thistle-thorned, tree trunk-sized weeds, poisoning all right. But, if you blocked his words and turned away, gave him no more votes or attention. If you ignored him as a child who tantrums, and slammed the door to his room — his words and lies would fade, no more cats yowling. You could be as one who enters into a serene and secret garden, where suddenly, the silence of blubbering ceases, and your mind crystallizes.


You are the people, and no matter your past vote, you have more power than one man’s ploys. You can forbid his doctrine and not remain astray. While you’re a host of greatness forever reclaiming your liberation, you’ve also the freedom to make his presence, his disturbed and loquacious visit, a memory. Everyone falters, everyone knows the anger of manipulation — we’re all human. So, revise your independence for you all as, “We the People,” are the way to greatness.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Gory Death Becomes #amwriting #fiction #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF.


Credit: C.E.Ayer


Dust rose thick in the air, and the August sun scorched. The foreman and his workmen dripped sweat, and Natasha Roberts supervised her redesign.

The home’s white-washed stucco matched an aqua-tiled and white kitchen with ice-blue tones carrying into the great room. Glints of multi-colored metal, and a 1920’s inspired bar created a unique entertaining space.

The master-bedroom’s giant windows combined with simplified Art-Decl luxury. In contrast, original barn-doors with glass panes to the balcony, matched the ones downstairs that opened to an outdoor living space.

Natasha admired her creation; she was excited to make the house stylish, and to skim extra profit unbeknown to her clients.

The foreman yelled to her and she scoffed. “I’m coming.” What a hick.

She turned in red stilettos, her ruby dress swirling with its bell-sleeves. She teetered, and her heel caught on the sand-stone patio. Natasha screeched and her body lunged; her ankle and heel snapped. She crushed into white-washed walls, raven hair fanning as she fell.

The foreman witnessed Natasha’s death. He swore as her blood gushed, and crossed himself when he perceived she had no pulse.

Years later, he dreamed of Natasha’s mouth in a daily spitting-rage towards his skilled-workers. He remembered her scream as her ankle twisted at the same awkward angle as her neck. Nightmares haunted him; he believed Natasha deserved her gory end.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Guide Dog #amwriting #fiction


Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting SPF.


Credit: Susan Spaulding


“Benny, you’ve a purpose holding this lamp. You won’t grow old, hungry, become tired or sore.” I whimpered. It was difficult to understand why Beau was leaving.

“You see, Benny, everyone needs hope. Sometimes we all go through times wretched and dark. We forget that these times end, and you’ll know when and who needs your aid.” I wagged my tale and stretched myself on Beau’s wooden stump.

He scratched my ears. “I’ve lived a long life. It’s time for your master to go home. Guns and fighting plague my dreams. My brittle bones and ragged breathe can’t handle another day. Tonight help me towards the afterlife.”

I licked Beau’s face, and nuzzled into his neck. He held my head. “When I’m gone, take those such as I home. But give those who still have a chance a choice; not everyone who wants to die is at the end their life.” I woofed, but I obeyed. Beau never returned after our last walk, but I listen well.

“Oh, but you’re here now? Maybe, it’s not time for you to quit, yet? Which path do you want to take? Ah, back to your family. I knew you could do it. Here, I’ll walk you home.”


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Place to Fall #amwriting #fiction #SPFo


Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting SPF.


Credit: Susan Spaulding


The catacomb walls were thick and confining. Iris let out a lungful of pent up breath as sunlight filtered through a doorway. The tunnels with so many bones of the same type stacked on other bones, frightened her.

She wondered why in such an ancient country, human remains were not given the respect of a grave for more than a year or two — or at least cremation.

Iris wheezed as Don, rubbed her back. “You having an attack?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes. “You say that every time we visit tight spaces. You’re claustrophobic.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Iris was close to the exit, but the air she breathed was too stale; there wasn’t enough fresh air in the Catacombs. Her body collapsed and she couldn’t control the darkness that overcame her.

Then, Don was lifting her. Her eyes opened as he carried her into blinding daylight. A tiny ‘V’ furrowed between his gray ones.

He stroked her hair. “I got you.”

“Always?” Her voice was faint.

“Always. I know you better than you think.”

She inhaled cool air and let Don cradle her weight.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 14/Sunday Photo Fiction: Poem – Italian – Sonnet – “Dream Wisps” #amwriting #poetry


For NaPoWriMo Day 14 the Prompt is: “to write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary. Pick one (or more) of the following words, and write about what it means to dream of these things: Teacup, Hammer, Seagull, Ballet slipper, Shark, Wobbly table, Dentist, and Rowboat. I’m combining with SPF hosted by Alistair Forbes.

—–

Credit: Alistair Forbes

—-

Teacup held in hand, she murmurs vespers,

Ballet slippers lifted, a child’s fond hopes —

A tutu twirled, spun, clouds that gleam and float.

She dreams of diving seagulls, their whispers,

Voices, sharp tongues drill; sharks with winged-flippers,

Sailors, those unafraid steering rowboats.

Hammerheads drift, they alter in remote,

Albatross’ signs of woe, slight wisps;

Reality and memories weave lost thoughts.

Wants, needs, and everything time forgotten,

Awaking to find the Albatross cawing.

As ethereal moments wake, warble —

Albatross unblinking, sailor he shoots;

He quakes and trembles within blackened boots.

—-

©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Creep #fiction #amwriting


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting the February 11th, 2018 Edition of SPF. This is a bit of a longer piece. Written for a writer’s course, around 500 Words as opposed to 200 Words or less. I cleaned it up and changed the original a bit.


Credit: J. Carol Hardy


Charlene twists her hair. The potent drink on the bar is her fifth tequila shot in an hour. The hazy, dreamlike atmosphere in the crowded town bar confuses her. Most of the crowd puff away, smoke lingering in the air, twisting above her, a toxic dragon of cigarette stench.

An attractive singer who isn’t local, belts out tunes while strumming his guitar. His catchy music has Charlene humming, her fingers tapping to the rhythm.

When he plays a soft song, the crowd boos. Some men throw beer bottles that smash and scatter glass against the small stage’s back wall. The singer peers around the room, his eyes darting back and forth. A bouncer drags away one of the offenders and the singer resumes his music, belting out cheerful tunes once more.

Charlene chuckles. As per usual, the town bar echoes with boisterous laughter and harmless drunks telling tale tales. Then, the creep beside her, pokes her arm. “Drink it, drink the shot.”

She peers up at him and his putrid breath makes her sick. “I don’t want it. Go away.” He leers and Charlene shivers.

She turns, stumbles towards the cracked vinyl booth where her coat and purse lay. Grabbing them she fumbles, zipping up her coat. The creep follows her and pinches her chin, trying to pour the shot into her mouth.

Warm tequila dribbles from her lips, acrid as she chokes. “No more, I don’t want anymore.” She cuts off his words, the poison of the creep’s lizard-tongue. “I’m going home — alone.”

Charlene teeters, leaning against the worn bar. She presses her hands against the humid backs of people waiting to buy more drinks. In open places, she leans on the bar, tracing it’s antique carvings, the dents on its worn surface. Jerry, one of the bartenders, slides her a glass of water. She nods at him, and swallows, her throat aching.

Past the bar, Charlene leans against a lone stool at a table. The stool wobbles on splintering legs. She grits her teeth, than sucks out a sliver of wood from her thumb. A gift from the table top.

Head spinning, Charlene lands in the quiet of the shuffleboard area, dizzy against the table. She presses her phone, fingers clumsy as she sends for an Uber. She downs more water from her purse. With some clarity, she wanders through sweat-soaked bodies towards the main door.

In the chill of the night, the creep is somehow beside her, waiting to follow her into her Uber. She ignores him, hobbling to a bouncer. “He’s following me, make him go away. He put something in my drink.”

The lie slips out; she doesn’t care. The creep who bought her five shots scares her. The bouncer’s blue eyes bulge. “No problem, Miss. I’ll ensure you get into the Uber alone.”

The bouncer offers the creep free beer to go back inside, and Charlene shivers, the wind biting at her face as flurries fly. She falls asleep inside the Uber, and the driver helps her into her apartment on the third floor. He takes the key from her hand and unlocks her door as she offers him a scrunched five-dollar bill.

“It’s fine. I don’t need help.”

The driver shakes his head. “That man you were running from, he’s bad. He has a different woman drunk each weekend night; he drugs many of them. The bouncer’s my friend, and he made sure you got into my Uber. We’re trying to catch him, but this a**holes too experienced to leave much evidence.”

The fact that the creep could’ve drugged her for ‘real’ makes Charlene ill. She rushes to the kitchen sink, throwing up multiple times.

The Uber driver ‘Ahems’ behind her. “I’m going now. Will you be okay?’

She nods. “Thank God, you’re a good man.”

“Stop accepting drinks from weird strangers. Don’t lead guys like him on. You have to think before you accept more than one drink; especially, in a small town like ours.”

Charlene nods, collapsing on the floor. She knows she’s asleep, but a sharp tempo beats against her temples. She’s half-awake, restless, afraid of the nightmares seeping in; the creep’s leering grin and eyes of a predator.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Cracking Into Place #amwriting #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.


Credit: Dawn Miller


Danny’s back pulsed and ached. Pain like fire raced through his lower back and centered in his shoulder blades and neck. He had spent the day hauling wood chips for his cabin.

Strolling inside, he sorted through the mail, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back, praying the sharp pains would cease.

Anne peered up from the kitchen stove. “You have all the wood chips hauled into the shed?”

“Yeah, we’re set until summer. I pulled some muscles, though.”

“Hmmm, did you stretch before?”

“It’ll be fine after a hot shower.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “I hope so. You always make fun of my yoga, but it gives me flexibility and stretches my soar muscles. You should try a short video tonight.”

She flipped through the saved videos on the Youtube app on her phone, pausing at ‘Yoga for Back Pain.’ She handed Danny her phone. “Do this video and you’ll feel much better.”

“It’s fine, really.” He kissed Anne’s cheek, setting down her phone.

The next morning Danny attempted to get up, but he couldn’t raise himself into a sitting position, not even a reclined one. Whenever he tried, fiery pain shot through his entire back and shoulders.

Anne gazed at him half-awake, before sitting up. She guided his arms, upper back, and shoulders in ‘yogesque’ movements. The burning pain lessened with a few clicks and snaps as she stretched out his torso.

When his lower back cracked into place, Danny moaned. He sat up, than stood with ease.

Splaying out on her side of the bed, Anne closed her eyes. “Now that your back is good, you can make us both breakfast. I deserve breakfast in bed.”


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Chasing the Nymph #amwriting #flashfiction #prosepoetry


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.


Credit: E. A. Wicklund


She was out of breath, a chestnut freckled nymph, tumbling through the woods. As if she were, Diana, running, eluding a square-jawed Apollo, and his torrential bed.

Her legs were short but supple, her body toned, but his strength was so much greater; his limbs thick with muscle earned in battle; height taller, hands quick, fingers nimble — but not such as hers.

She did not tarry, she hurried through the trees; their game played once, and forever. The catch and release continued with the nymph’s harmonious melodies. Her lute trilling, protecting her and luring him, precisely where she desired.

The nymphs laughter was as bells at dawn, signalling he’d caught her, and day turned to dusk as she coyly smiled and left. Her walk triumphant, his laughter all too knowing.

He dreamt of every time he caught her, tossing her up high as their lips melded. They met perpetually in their Grecian eternity, playing catch and release; it never became boring.


©️Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: If Animals Could Talk #amwriting #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. Meant to have this out for last week, but I couldn’t edit it in time.


Credit: Alistair Forbes


“Jasper, come here.” Daisy nuzzled against him and he purred. She wagged her tale then let it slump.

“What’s wrong?”

“Same old. I’m not a house pet anymore. The family won’t let me inside.”

“The outside is good. You taught me the family running our animal sanctuary are nice so they must have a good reason wanting you to live outside. Those hunters shot me and would’ve skinned me if the family hadn’t found me first.”

“I like the family, Daisy, they feed me raw meet and sometimes, live rabbit. Also, they let me run in the field and I always return home.”

Daisy leaned against Jasper. “When the family found me I didn’t trust anyone. The human, Greg, threw me out in a garbage bag, in the trash. I chewed my way out and the boy, Matthew, found me. ”

Jasper stretched. “So, what’s the problem. You have Matthew and you have me. We’re all part of our pack.”

“Well, I used to be an indoor dog in a warm house. Sometimes Matthew let’s me inside his room, but he’s not home a lot.”

“I’ve always live outside. It’s better sleeping beneath the stars.”

“Yes, but you’re a cheetah, Jasper. I’m a dog. Matthew said I was a Dachshund. I love snuggling with the family as much as I love snuggling with you, but I’m not used to the cold.”

Jasper laughed. “I forget you’re the size of a small cub. I’ll keep you warm, Daisy. I think the family keeps you outside for me. Even though your sad, I’m glad you’re here so I’m not alone. I even saved you raw meat.”

“Oh, boy!” Daisy almost fainted, salivating as Jasper dropped a raw steak in front of her.


©Mandibelle16.(2017) All Rights Reserved.