Current Events, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Writing, Writing Challenges

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer:  Stronger #amwriting #flashfiction 


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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Credit: Grant-Sud

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Below Joshua the city spanned the azure horizon. He wished it felt like home here, that the kids at school didn’t make fun of him. He couldn’t help that he didn’t speak English well. He’d lived outside of Beijing almost his entire thirteen years. 

Even though his English was improving, the kids in his classes still teased him, mimicked his Asian accent.  Joshua didn’t understand why they made fun of him, specifically. There were many kids of diverse ethnicities in his classes. The difference was they’d been born here, or had picked up English as toddlers. 

When some of the bigger boys punched and pushed him around one day at school, Joshua ran home immediately. There were tears running down his cheeks and he was embarrassed to be crying. He wasn’t surprised when his legs took him to his favorite place in the city. Joshua had found it one day wandering the streets and deserted buildings close to where he lived. 

As he presently stood on the corner of the brightly spray painted building, he swore to never cry again. No matter how much the other kids teased him, no matter how badly they bruised him; Joshua would show them he was stronger. 

——-

Kelly Clarkson – “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You) 

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Children/YA/Family, History, Movie Reviews, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Synchronicity Poetry - 8,8,2, -- surprise ending last 2 stanzas, Three Line Tales, Writing, Writing Challenges

Three Line Tales: Poem – Synchronicity – “Worth Teeth” #amwriting #poetry #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.

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Credit: Carson Arias via UnSplash

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It’s called a Lego graveyard,

A container full of beheaded,

Small men —

—–

A variety of pleasant looks,

Others with face’s of ire,

 No heads.

——

The girl and boy they build fast,

Tear bodies from heads not knowing, 

Bad thoughts. 

—–

—–

A pile of joy for building kids, 

A sight of horror for parents;

Gold teeth. 

——

As Nazi’s removed in death camps, 

Nothing dulls pain of Jewish soul; just —

Worth teeth. 

——

A few years ago I saw an excellent movie made by and including George Clooney and some of the regular actors found in his movies — Matt Dameon (etc.) called The Monuments Men. “The film follows an Allied group from the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program that is given the task of finding and saving pieces of art and other culturally important items before Nazis destroy or steal them, during World War II (Wikipedia). 

One of the aspects of the film that overwhelmeingly struck me as awful was as these men went into underground mines and other places the Nazi’s hid priceless artwork, were barrels full of teeth with gold fillings that had been pulled from Jewish Concentration camp prisoners. This is just one mote terrible act of numerous actions done to Jewish prisoners slated to die by Nazis in death camps. Upon researching this, I found the practice by Nazi’s to be accurate even within the context of the movie.  I read that in some cases, the Nazi soldiers forced other prisoners to do this job form them and no pain numbing drugs or even alcohol was provided. 

As well, the movie is based on a fictitious novel but the story itself is based off of real life events that are to some extent historically accurate. In the film, these American men who reclaimed the art work left the gold filled teeth and of course that was the right thing to do. Anyways, in my warped mind, those barrels full of gold teeth fillings are what these lego heads reminded me of — sorry for the imagery! 

This article The Monuments Men (2014) compares the movie and the real life Monument’s men. It answers some interesting questions about WWII Nazi History and Hitler’s reasons behind stealing such a wealth of art.  

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reseved. 

Fiction, Flash Fiction, History, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sunday Photo Fiction: The End of The CorkScrew #flashfiction #amwriting #fiction 


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

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Credit: © J. Hardy Carroll
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Kathy walked into The CorkScrew. During the day it had masqueraded as a cafe with coffee, tea, hot chocolate, soft drinks, and any alcohol you felt like adding. At night the old place truly came alive as the beloved town bar where everyone met to have fun and catch up. 

However, the building no longer met fire code regulations. It hadn’t when she started working here as a bartender when she was sixteen, having procured a fake ID. But twenty-five years later the place was so terrible it had to be torn down; even renovations couldn’t save The CorkScrew. 

At the front of the bar were bottles from years gone by. For some reason one could still get an ancient bottle of 7Up to mix with lime juice and Vodka. There was original Coca Cola and original Pepsi, whatever you preferred to have with your Rye or Rum. 

Kathy along with neighbors, patrons, and friends — some she’d known all her life — had come to the bar one last time to watch as The CorkScrew was boarded-up. Oddly enough, even the rats seemed to be leaving the building, which only made Kathy cry harder. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Current Events, Event, Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sunday Photo Fiction: Remembering #flashfiction #writing #amwriting #poetry #remberanceday #lestwenotforget


Thank you to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

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A Mixed Bag

——-

“Why don’t they rebuild this old stone building Grandpa?” 

“You know well, Gertrude, it costs a great deal to repair a historical building. They can’t even take it down because this building is a designated historical site.” 

“That doesn’t seem right. Why would we leave something so valuable to history, to fall apart? Eventually it will only be a pile of rubble and everyone will forget its significigance,” Gertrude mused. 

” Maybe someday someone like you, Gertrude, will restore the building. It’s a painstaking process and you must use and find authentic materials.” 

She nodded. “I understand Grandpa, but sometimes certain cities choose not to rebuild. Like in Venice, many buildings are left to disintegrate and collapse into the water. They don’t let architects even plan to rebuild. Many once grand buildings are in such dangerous condition, they’ve been left so long.” 

“Restoring old buildings can be good Gertrude. They are a part of humanity’s history. We need to remember our history to learn from it. But sometimes we need to knock old buildings down and design better ones from our present day knowledge. Future generations can learn from us through newer buildings too,” Grandpa said. 

Gertrude nodded. She was training to be an architect but was only a freshman in university. Her Grandpa had been a great architect and was still well known. 

“What will future people learn from our buildings, Grandpa?” 

“Hopefully, they’ll learn our buildings are stronger. Made with more thought to design, to the environment, and how the everyday person lives. Our simple routines we take for granted are our history as much as the calamities of our time.” 

Gertrude frowned, turning to her Grandpa. He was wearing his WWII uniform for the Rememberance Day Ceremony; he was going to walk in a parade as well. 

 “Will they remember men such as you, Grandpa?  Men who fought for their freedom in Normandy and in other places in Europe? Will they understand why you and other soldiers have nightmares from war? Will they remember why you had to fight and saw so many of your buddies die brutally?” 

A tear escaped Grandpa’s eye and he shook his head, not able to speak. He was too afraid what he and his fellow soldiers had fought for in brutal war, would melt away in time. 

——

Lest We Not Forget. November 11th is Remberance Day in Canada. 

“In Flanders Fields” 

John McCrae, 1872 – 1918

——-

 In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, 

That mark our place, and in the sky, 

The larks, still bravely singing, fly, 

Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

——–

We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields. 

——-

Take up our quarrel with the foe! 

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high! 

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

——-

Works Cited: Poets.org

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing

Sunday Photo Fiction: Historian and Pyromaniac #amwriting #flashfiction


Thank you to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

——-

A Mixed Bag – Alistair Forbes

——

“It will never burn. It’s stone and concrete. People don’t build monumental buildings to burn easily these days,” Trent commented.

“Well they used to and this building is pretty old. I’d say it’s eighteen-hundreds,” Chip guesstimated. 

“That old?”

“Yeah, I took some art history so I’d know. Burning this building won’t destroy the whole thing, but it will burn a lot of history within. Maybe it’s like the White House when the Canadian’s burnt it in the War of 1812,” Chip said. 

“Pffff . . . Canadians aren’t that aggressive,”Trent said.

“Oh yeah well why do you think it’s called the White House? Canadians and British soldiers burnt it and the states had to white wash it after rebuilding some parts; white washing covered up the smoke damage and scorch marks.” 

“But wasn’t Canada more a British colony at that point?  So, the fault lies with the British who were leading things,” Trent insisted.

“Many of the soldiers identified as Canadian, Trent,whether or not they were led by Britain; the States shouldn’t have tried to take the Canadas, as upper and lower Canada were known then.” 

“Um, that’s a great history lesson but why do you want to burn this building?” 

Chip’s eyes grew dark, “Some people just like to watch the world burn; but I’m okay with one building . . . to start.”

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Relationship, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poetry: Free Verse – “Woman On Fire” #amwriting #poetry


http://www.pinterest.com

———-

Animosity conspires within her belly, 

Her reactions fast, lightening sparks. 

She stalks through corridors and hallways,
Blood boiling, melting inner warmth of heart. 

No one speak of  what’s right or the truth.

The bottom line — what is right or true, 

Meant nothing when they used her. 

And the fire flits through her system, 

She’s wants to burn the world down, 

What made a gentle song bird, claw back viciously? 

The wrath of Maleficante, innocence stolen. 

Now, the swagger of her hips, 

Is a femme fatele arising, 

Wingspan of dragon, breathing flames of fire. 

Beating down the masses, burning pyres, 

Magnificent rage multiplying. 

Try to stop her, it’s in her being now. 

Her heart is blazing flare of woe. 

Be watchful and be wary, 

Someone, something, hurt her fiendishly —

A soft woman breaks most brutally, 

When her inner demons burn in wrath.  

She’s diligent and mean — so lost, 

All her love sprung and fled. 

Appears as if she should be wimpering, 

But when she talks her words scorch

Heavy smoke will make you cough and choke, 

It’s a dense whirling mass, 

That sends ruthless cowards to their knees. 

Before fire can blister and raze you, 

The smoke will leave you dying, 

No breath of life in her has forgiven. 

Don’t hurt a soft smart woman, 

She’s most dangerous;

Because when her dams break open, 

All hell leaks forth. 

Demon woman, betting on retribution, 

No absolution, no temperance, 

They’ve flown away, murdered by spite. 

A reckless beauty in pink, with pearls, 

Diamonds changed for rubies, tinder red glare. 

Her price for life is costly, 

Sparked by a wreckless cause, 

Anger building, layer open layer molds. 

She’s become the wretched clouds, 

Above the Valcono seething. 

And sulphuric rain’s in her power, 

No water to save and cool you, 

From a dragons lair or breathe of flame. 

Another way to die —

 Like she dies inside, daily,

Consumed by all her hatred;

Marked by vengeful ire. 

She’s become her indignation, 

She’s fury and resentment. 

A witches pot brewing, 

Antagonism, tears, and vexation. 

She will set afire and raze her foe. 

Dangerous and furious words, 

Melting magma from stones. 

She burns inside, and all that’s left —

Ashes killing, if exhaled. 

Dust she compresses, from the barren world, 

Her flame, herself broken once too often.

Wretched soft woman, 

Destroying the world and herself.

That’s why kind gentle women, 

Should never be screwed with, 

Once destroyed —

They bring the world down with them. 

——
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved 

A L' Arora, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Word High July, Writing

Poem: A L’Arora -“Wise King Solomon”



King Solomon
http://www.Ids.org

Knowledge King Solomon asked,

To rule with wisdom His Lord gave,

Over people “numerous as —

The dust of the earth;” to rule with —

God’s grace provided and for,

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom;

Granted wealth, possessions, honor.

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom.


Solomon, blessed as no king here passed.

From King David’s line; His God saves.

Gifting Solomon with treasures as,

Chariot, precious metals with,

Best horses, chariot bred for.

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom;

Granted fame even, today for —

Praying for such knowledge,wisdom.


Building temple, His Lord, him tasked,

Timber from everywhere, many gave.

Silver and gold; gone as time has —

Drifted through the ages, left with —

Second Chronicles telling for —

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom;

Asking right gifts, rewarded more.

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom.


Time passes; treasure hunters classed,

Finding Solomon`s treasure, braved.

But I believe they forget as —

Those who seek only wealth; lose with —

Elusive gems; not asking God more.

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom;

Ask as Solomon too asked God for,

Praying for such knowledge, wisdom.


Based Off Of The Holy Bible 2 Chronicles 1-2 and probably beyond (NIV).


©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

 

 

My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Prose – “Poker Face”


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut out all the instances of “I remember,” or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

——

There are memories and memories inbetween memories, things you shouldn’t know. But I write and I say, what naturally comes to flow. Spending a day building raw story into characters who have flaws and appeal. Characters who are relatable and show affection, lust, a special connection with each other.

 I am building story from the ground level, thanks to a friend, who tore my story down line by line so I am able to build. I’m grateful for everything he sees that I do not. How the story doesn’t flow and how the characters actually appear.

What’s believable in real life? I think an interesting situation because the story involves magic and in real life we don’t believe in curses and the power of magic. We write of it extensively wishing for such power, such talents, such super-human abilities. Probably because we’re human, and sometimes being human makes a person feel mighty small. 

Today’s memories are about editing and refinement. Answering questions I wouldn’t know how to ask. I’m learning. Digging deeper, past the simple, into the complex. I don’t want a one-dimensional story. Though it has magic I want the characters to be real people and I want their flaws and likes/dislikes to show. I want what they’re good at, their occupations, their speech and actions, the people they have around them, to demonstrate their characters.

The minds of people are endlessly fascinating, especially the minds of those who say everything or say nothing. My Grandpa said little, his mind was complicated. He was a Pastor whose smoking habit ended his life at seventy-three -years-old. He would ask questions which made one think and consider alternate routes as he taught me the games of cribbage, chess, and when we attempted cryptograms and crossword puzzles. Grandpa’s questions always hinted at digging deeper, searching for another method, and missed details.

But my Godfather, he says everything. And what he says is thought-provoking. He is always thinking of other people, how to help. He is the bestfriend to his friends and he has many. He can listen but mostly he talks and he’s wise with his words.

I miss him and the second place I call home, his and my Godmothers charming house. His wisdom and continual thinking, his belief in God solving all problems, and finding answers from an omniscient God are well expressed; he gives me such peace after we’ve had a conversation or I’ve listened to him talk.

 And I’m thinking about a paint night I’m doing with friends at the bar Sunday night. Painting, did you know I love it? I will need a couple drinks to merely do as the instructor says, but I know what my hands and mind will do.

 I will mix the paint, either ruin or add to the design. I desire creativity. I’ve said it before, creativity cannot be boxed in its true form. But with a drink or two and two good friends, the evening will pass and I’ll come home, painting in hand.

 Also, finding a good guy — one whom you enjoy being with and talking with is difficult. You need to be attracted to their looks and their intelligence. You hope they such as you, have plans to do ‘something’ with their life. Finding a guy with all these parameters, is it asking too much? I’m not sure. I’m not extensively experienced here.

But time after time I’m disappointed when a date becomes, “come over to my place,” usually at night but sometimes in the day. There is no dating involved. There is no understanding of, ” I’m not interested.” And certain men keep messaging or calling. 

I’m not adverse to sleeping with the right guy. I haven’t found a right guy lately. I don’t know if I’m such as Alice’s friend at tea I’m, ‘mad as a hatter’ to believe there are good guys out there who want to have fun out of bed and when a woman trusts them, in bed too. Laying that foundation of trust is vital.

 I don’t think this thought of mine is right accordingto God but I’m trying to find a happy middle. Maybe my happy middle won’t make me happy? 

I’m tired of guys who only want a night here and there. That was university, I’m going to be thirty-one in July. I’m not twenty-one and even twenty-one year old me would have smacked a guy who kept after her after she repeatedly told him to back off.

Guys don’t get it, they scar women. This is stuff I cannot believe I’m writing but eighteen-year-old me was extremely naive at the bar. Her friend ditched her for some guy. She was all alone and trying to get away from this guy who followed her around the bar. She didn’t have the confidence a girl three or so years older had at the bar, batting away and shooting down idiots before they became stalkers for the night. 

She was so stupid. It’s effected her sense of trust ever since. He didn’t stop for a long time; it only felt like eternity. The repeated “No” in his ears, he was deaf to it until she cried wet tears. There were different guys after that, few who she didn’t mind getting close to.

But always, I have this disgust for men who treat women as if a woman’s existence is for their pleasure, because she wants or needs sex too. Should she have to sleep with a man after she has deliberated and said, “no?” No she shouldn’t, it’s always a woman’s choice, it’s her body after all.

Guy’s scar with their repeated advances boardering on harassment. They scar bruising you badly where they should be gentle. You look to see how purple your bruises are. Not understanding how he didnt comprehend, “don’t be rough.” 

Enough. To much info. But this poem is prose; it is memories past and to come — some awful and some exciting. Building memories writing and living in a world that can be cruel at times. 

But I think if you’re building if you’re working towards a goal you can be proud you’re using your talents despite the cards life and your stupid self may have dealt you playing poker.

Cheesy analogy but ever since I learned to play poker — Texas Holdem — in the basement of my Pastor’s house with friends I’d grown up or met in church at that time, I always think back to poker seeing such a carry over for life. 

Each day, place your bets and see what the ‘river’ holds, and how the cards in your hand can be played. Ask for another card if you dare, trading one in . . . 

We’d drink beer and play poker. We’d watch NFL football and play video games. I never entirely got why some days my poker playing was terrific, while other days I could fold most hands and end up broke. We paid twenty dollars in a pot at the beginning of each game. At times my one brother and I would play with the other players until 3:00 am or 4:00 am in the morning.

I didn’t play much poker after those years ended. But I feel sometimes as if I’m placing my bet, and trying desperately to hold onto my poker face. Tomorrow, more building. It keeps me going.

——

“Poker Face” – Lady Gaga

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Sunday Photo Fiction: Babel Falling


I was curiously studying the buildings downtown. Especially a building shaped like an elongated pyramid. It was under construction and would be the tallest building there was. It felt out of place to me. Like the Tower of Babel  built to the heavens. I think it was a mistake to build it so high. 

It made me think of the pyramids where the Egyptian Pharohs were buried. Pyramids built by slaves who toiled and died. It was hard work to toil so high in the sky. This tower also made me think of the Inca’s and the ziggurats on which they sacrificed an innocent person, cutting out their hearts for their blood thirsty gods.

I observed something was wrong high up on the elongated pyramid. I heard the squeak of steel and I cringed when I heard the breaking of glass shattering. Pieces of the building began to plummet to the streets below. I tried to avoid them. The closer the pieces come, I understand. I am a sacrifice. The tower of Babel is falling. That is what happens when you pay only enough money for near slave labour. I cast my eyes to the heaven in prayer as a piece of metal silences my thoughts. 

Alistair Forbes

Thanks to Alastair Forbes for hosting SPF.

——

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, Poetry, Relationship

That Fuzzy Feeling


Building for weeks now, has been this fuzzy feeling in my heart. It’s brand new and I really wasn’t sure what to do with it at first. Separating feeling and being reasonable is getting harder to do, in fact, emotion is becoming reasonable. A huge bursting feeling tickles my chest and I know it because it’s been growing inside me slowly, a deep red rose, thorns and all. A feeling as if I’m wrapped in a soft plush blanket and it’s insulating me from everything bad outside.

I think you call this feeling love, it’s what I’ve begun to know it as. At first, it was just a look in his eye and now it’s something shared between us. I try not to think about the problems, I just stay wrapped in our bubble. I know outside are all these thorns, brambles and dangers waiting to ruin the web of connection spun between us. But here, are just he and I. As John Donne had written in one famous poems ” The Good Morrow”  we are lovers in our own world. And we have to stay connected, we have to face challenges ahead but for awhile I feel safer than I’ve been in such a long time, I am cherished – really happy – and all these fights, these hard issues we’ve dealt with, the one’s we will deal with, are met with the lack of space between he and I – barely an inch. We just look at each other and smile and as long as I can touch him even with my voice, it’s going to be alright. The future is not so scary, it’s hopeful and building as we build stone upon stone a foundation for a life.

The Good-Morrow

BY JOHN DONNE

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
(www.poetryfoundation.org)

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