Three Line Tales: Gifts of Fish #amwriting #fiction #3LineTales


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


Credit: Catrina Sanders via Unsplash.


Leo the polar bear headed down to the local watering hole and it didn’t surprise him that the usual gossiping seals were there as he drank from the refreshing lake. “Haven’t you heard?The humans are back doing their testing and they’ve tagged us all; if I were you, I’d stay hidden because once you’re tagged they’ll comeback every year to look you over.” Leo yawned, “They tagged me years ago but I never mind, each year they’re like Santa, they bring gifts of fish.”


©Mandibelle16.(2017) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: A Fading Welcome #3LineTales #fiction #amwriting


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


Credit: Bogdan Dada via Unsplash


I love turquoise and I wonder where these vivid doors lead to and if inside the home the family’s living space is as vibrant and flamboyant as their doors; but then, I also see the lock across the door and it puzzles me. I wonder why someone whose doorway had such architectural character, would make such an effort to keep people out. Perhaps, as the paint peeling off the doors’ bottom, the family’s cheer and welcome has peeled away to worn fatigue and age.


©Mandibelle16 (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Notable Quotes November 2017 Part Two #Quotes #Pinterest


Happy December! I feel I haven’t been around so much blogging but I made sure to prepare the last part of quotes for November 2017. I think I’m behind so I’ll have more quotes this week to catch up. But please enjoy these quotes for now to ponder. Have fun with your holiday celebrations throughout the month, as well.

I’m nearly done my Christmas shopping, a few odds and ends to go. How about you? Life is good. Trying to figure my direction out at the moment but excited for what’s coming this Christmas and in 2018. For now I’ll start with Christmas baking and in-between freelance writing will try to finish November Notes along with doing a few more short fiction prompts.

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Cheers 😊🍷👌 🎄

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Exception #amwriting #flashfiction #history


Thanks to Alastair Forbes for holding this week’s SPF. 

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Credit: A Mixed Bag

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The White Horse is a popular bar and inn for tourists to stay at while visiting museums and decaying buildings in town. 

Many old ones have been restored in the style of their time period. However, some buildings have rotted away. These past glories are left in ruin because they cannot be torn down as historical sites. 

Although some people wish to restore these ancient buildings, the process of doing this correctly, with trades who are trained in forgotten skills, is frustrating. As well, there are a plethora of permits needed from the city, county, and state, along with, random inspections.

Architects and knowledgable art history professors complain, saying that the quality of work by rare trades is not accurate. Or perhaps, they say the right materials have not been used, despite these materials now being nonexistent. But few so-called experts understand that the price paid for not restoring ancient buildings is having them collapse, having history disappear. 

The White Horse, however, is an exception to such procedures. The popular bar and inn has been passed down from generations of family since the thirteen-hundreds. Over time, the same lineage has updated the bar and inn through each successive family. The building  contains upgrades from the fourteenth century until early 2010. 

For some reason, there isn’t much any government official or anyone else, can say about this. The same family line has lived here for over seven-hundred-years, having always owned the bar and inn. Can the state and historical societies reprimand them now? Not likely. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Writing Prompt: Poem – Quadrille – “Mother’s Warmth” #amwriting #poetry #mothers 


Thanks to Oriole from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the June 25th writer’s prompt talking about our mothers. 

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Credit: http://www.nonprints.com

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A mother is strong glue; 

Ties all together. 

So, life isn’t, 

Tattered. 

She is calm; 

Considerate. 

Recognizing conflict. 

If no one takes, 

A mother’s role; 

We cannot hold, 

To loved ones alone. 

Mother bares burdens, 

Shoulders narrow. 

Scorning fury, 

Worst feeling. 

Abused for caring, 

From sorrow. 

Those she loves, 

Blissfully unaware; 

Glue’s stretchyness, 

Limited; 

Then, torn. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved 


Poem: Free Verse – In Memory of Evelyn #amwriting #poetry #elegy


Credit: Amanda Eifert
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A few months ago a dear friend passed away at 98 years old. She was a grandma, my great godmother, and in these last few years, a genuine friend. I miss her very much and writing her letters to mail with a poem or small story. It was our thing and I visited her as much as I was able. The last time I saw Evelyn we visited a few hours in her room. Then,  I was leaving and I couldn’t get out the door to reach the elevators. Finally, I got to the elevators went out the front time and stopped. 

I looked back at the wonderful care facility she’d been staying in these past three years. She was in her own home until she was 95. I had this strange feeling that I woldn’t see her again. I gazed back deciding all I could do was hope that in a month or two, she would still be alive and well. I do wish one more visit might have been possible. 

She was a wonderful, outgoing, and opinionated person. She demonstrated great care with people and her hospitality is/was famous. She even drove big trucks and was a mechanic in her day besides working at the Woodwards Department store for many years. For much her life, she was a single mother. Evelyn had many talents, her cooking, her unpredictability, and a spirit that kept on shining and pushing through life’s miseries. 

R.I.P Evelyn. I’ve been trying to finish this last poem for you for a few months.  It’s taken me awhile to get right! I’m so happy you are with our Heavenly Father and no longer suffering in any way. 

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A monument falls, crumbles, 

Although, she was strong. 

An impenetrable force, 

A spit-fire, a trail blazer. 

You can press your hands against thick steel, rock, or concrete, 

Wonder how such monuments are designed, 

Buildings of beauty, fortified through time;

How could they fall? 

Then you realize that soft skin isn’t stone, 

And a woman isn’t a superhero. 

When you gaze into the past, into beloved photographs, 

You see how smooth marble crinkles, 

As fine lines, directions on a map. 

The most elegant calligraphy, 

Words muted in the unforgiving sun. 

And photographs appear in memories, 

The warming light of conversation, 

Over hearth: satisfying food and laughter. 

Yet, still I attempted to see how her puckered lips,

Were once plump, young, and beguiling.

Long gone are her cherubic child’s lips, 

Nearly a century ago. 

And flawless cream skin is marked, 

Lines settled in, can be followed, 

A pattern of an Autumn leaf. 

No monument left to be seen, no eyes sparkling, 

With a smile uniquely hers, 

Never to be repeated;

Only in whispers of genealogy. 

A monument stood and —

She was significant. 

Someone who was seen and not afraid to be, 

A grandma who paraded around, 

 In forty two pairs of shoes — probably more. 

Her body could be strengthened with steel, 

Knees and hips better off with fabrication; 

The real ones worn out. 

Do stone monuments feel the pain of lost children? 

Of polio’s grasp, sucking the life out of a small boy.

Of a little girl who passed away a whisper. 

And of one child who survived, 

A reader, a teacher, a traveller, a builder. 

One who is imperfectly perfect as her.

My godfather with his wife, 

My godmother, both I adore.

Yet, the stubborn cheerfulness, 

Of this monument lives on in her family, 

In her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, 

And beloved relatives and friends;

Partners who marked her life, always leaving early. 

Sisters and brothers, marrying others becoming new brothers and sisters, 

How she adored and missed all them all, 

Passing away before she could blink.

For the most part, she was unsurpassed in years, 

She mourned her family and friends gone first, 

But reunites with them now.

And when she fell, the monument’s pieces scattered, 

Although all feels lost,

She needed her relief in heaven. 

And no one ever thinks that day will come, 

Until it crashes upon those left behind. 

Monuments fall, it happens every minute of every day, 

For every type of personality, 

To each person someday;

Special and authentically themselves. 

It’s okay to morn the monument’s empty place, 

To hunger for her caring advice, 

Her kind words. 

The silence is hard, her not being, 

In her home or in her room.

Now she’s aged, is dust of the earth, 

She is the ideal of herself, the creator’s perfection. 

Her life was imperfect, as we all are, 

It was shadowed by pain and misery; 

Yet her optimism always pulled her through it. 

Remembering her and taking comfort within, 

Her greetings to all those she meets again. 

The suffering and sorrow has ended, so do not cry your tears. 

For every monument is eclipsed, 

Heaven’s radiant light filters into the cracks, 

Rebuilds the rubble. 

Her figure of faith and grace. 

The love she had, that does not die, 

But multiplies in eternity, 

Waiting for her family someday. 

And for her her dear friends. 

 When we arrive, 

She’ll wonder what took us so long. 

Offering a piece of pie, uncooked fresh blueberries in a crust, 

With soft dollops of whipped cream. 

Her timeless love in cooking, baking, hospitality, 

Everyone was always welcome, 

If you weren’t, she’d tell you so. 

True monuments may appear hard and resilient, 

Underneath they are as the rest of us, 

They are frail and human. 

Time will catch up with everyone, 

And we pray we can meet our deaths, 

Mansions prepared in the sky. 

God the only monument, 

 Not our crumbled lives. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Clang with the Trolley #amwriting #JudyGarland #flashfiction


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.


Credit: Yinglan Z

Each Christmas it is traditional for my family to watch Judy Garland’s Meet Me in St. Louis. The more times I watch it, the more it and Garland’s dazzling voice pull me in. By now I know the songs by heart and if not all of them, then at least the well-known “Trolley Song.”

The scene of Judy Garland’s character singing on the trolley is what comes into my mind whenever I see one and why today, I feel that I need to ride the trolley, wherever it may be going. Sure, it may take me places I have no idea where I am or why I ended up where I did. But it will also lead me to unexpected and interesting city jewels, waiting for discovery. 

As Garland’s character in the movie  did not want to leave St. Louis but at the same time possessed a yearning to explore, I have a connection to the trolley and wanting to explore the city because of  Garland’s famous song and her character’s adventurous spirit. 

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“The Trolley Song” — Judy Garland 


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Saturday Mix: Poem – Blank Verse – “Addiction Nightmares” #amwriting #poetry #saturdaymix 


Thanks to Teresa of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting last week’s Saturday Mix Prompt. The prompt is to write a Homeric or Epic Simile. 

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Credit: Angel Jimenez via UnSplash

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He lived his life did, what he could, but could —

Not find a way to escape the demons. 

He could not escape his addiction; the —

Monster sunk his teeth into him when his, 

Guard was down; he would feel wonderful, 

Healthy, good, then he felt it’s teeth gnawing. 

The biting, the teeth claiming his flesh, would make, 

His skin itch until he wanted to tear it, 

Off; running for the bathroom where he hid, 

His medication, the pills he so craved. 

Wanted to quit; to never take again, 

But the monster clawing down his back would, 

Never stop; not until he claimed him for–

His own; made him demon too, who hits her, 

His girl; who loves him, though hallucinates, 

Of the Hell monster,  he lives in terror of, 

He wakes from Hell to find his family, 

Has deserted him; he’s alone breathing; 

Trying to forget the demon who would start, 

Eating him alive soon, making his temper —

Rise and his fists fly as he imbibes too, 

Craving the second monster who is the, 

Only way to handle the greater, 

The worst monster, the devil hiding. 

Evil itself repeatedly gnawing, 

Trapping him in Hades, stripping his —

Soul; so he feels that he does not exist;

For anyone, but to grind and lash out. 

To battle the demon, his addiction, 

And no one can help him, they’ve given 

Up all hope; so one day he thought he would, 

Give in let the monster finish him. 

Bind and seal the deal, his soul in hell for, 

All eternity and he was going, 

To jump when he saw —  a light, awoke; 

In the room of the addictions unit. 

At the hospital and the nurse tells him, 

“It’s okay it’s been a month and you’re —

Dreaming again; it’s a wicked —

Nightmare and not your reality now.

Keep clean and the monster, he’ll leave soon, 

Then, you’ll be free as you’re here and —

Remain aware; when you leave stay far from, 

Put those drugs, the alcohol behind. 

And soon you must embrace your new life, 

Make your apologies and live.” 

The man sighs almost crying, so —

Happy the demons are distant dreams. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Sunday Photo Fiction: For Joy #amwriting #flashfiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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Credit: Sally- An Hodgekiss

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All was as it had been that day, a harsh purple-blackness filled the sky and the towers of the palace appeared to cage him in. Their ruthlessly straight architecture left no room for imagination and no room for failure such as the sins that had made King Salivoir a statue.

A thousand years ago, Jupiter had been furious with King Salivoir. His handsome features scorned the human king who had dared to bed his beloved Venus. Jupiter was so furious with Salivoir his mighty hands crushed the stone of the palace fountain. Salivoir had ended up in the water begging for his life. 

Then, Jupiter had said something shocking, “King Salivoir, I forgive you your transgressions with Venus.”

Salivoir gasped and Jupiter smiled in arrogance turning wretched King Salivoir into solid marble — yet Salivoir still lived within his frozen form. For ages he was there, his marble body cowering in fear. 

Then today a storm just as the one that occurred a millennia ago came and instead of the mighty Jupiter, Venus strode from the violent sky. The clouds turned a brilliant shade of sunset orange. Salivoir was freed and Venus in her benevolence granted him a new life in a new time; Salivoir wept for joy. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.