Sunday Photo Fiction: Space Oddities #amwriting #flashfiction #music 


Thanks to Alastair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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Credit: A Mixed Bag
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“Ground control to Major Tom.” 

“Wow, Dad. Look at that space suit. I want to wear it,” William said to Ben.

“Uh, no. Not happening.”

“This is major Tom to ground control / I’m stepping through the door/ [and] I’m floating in the most peculiar way.”

Take the headphones from your ears and listen to your son,” Violet chided.

“I’m listening to William. He wants to wear the space suit and I said he can’t. What else can I say?” Ben asked. 

“Just stop listening to your iPhone and be present,” Violet said rolling her eyes.

“But I have to finish this song. It’s a classic –the theme song to this museum moment.”

“What song Dad?” William asked curious. 

“David Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity.”

“Oh, I love that song, turn it up. Take the headphones out,” Violet said. William nodded in agreement. 

They chuckled before singing out loud: “For here am I sitting in a tin can / [far] above the world / [planet] earth is blue / [and] there’s nothing I can do . . .” until they reached the end of the song. 

When they had finished the three of them looked up surprised to have everyone present at the museum’s space exhibit applauding their singing. 

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“Space Oddity” – David Bowie

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

#OctPoWriMo – Day 30/31 – Senryu – “Eternity for Real” #amwriting #poetry #religion #christianity #faith


Day 31 Prompt: Eternal

“When I think of eternal, I think there isn’t much that is eternal, at least not on this earth. When I wrote this prompt, I believe I was thinking how even though OctPoWriMo is coming to an end, our words are forever – what we wrote during this month and beyond. What does eternal mean to you?” 
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“Truly, truly, I say to you, he who hears My word, and believes Him who sent Me, has eternal life, and does not come into judgment, but has passed out of death into life.” –John 5:24

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http://www.pinterest.com
 

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Time on earth is done, 
When my body is only, 
An Empty vessel. 

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Then shall eternity —

Begin; time will not matter. 

For all those gone on. 

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Time on earth, linear, 

Comprehend forever, 

It’s hard imagining.

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What forever is, 

What it looks like and feels like, 

Who the maker is? 

—–

Death is frightening, 

Even in sleep, will it hurt? 

Where does our soul go? 

——-

This is why I think, 

Believing in God is wise, 

We can worry less.

——-

Perhaps worry not —

At all; because we know what —

The otherside will bring.

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Many say we’re wrong, 

There’s no heaven, there’s no hell.

I learned fear of God.

—–

Not that we should be —

Afraid of benevolent —

King; but his word speaks. 

—–

Gives us hope for life, 

Eternal in Jesus dying for —

Everything done wrong.

——

We’re not perfect and —

We never will be, we can’t 

Keep the Ten Commandments. 

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Fulfilling God’s law, 

Impossible to achieve, 

So he sent Jesus.

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He hung on a cross, 

Cruxifician painful, bled. 

He died went to Hell.

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Defeated devil, 

Defeated death and the grave, 

So with him remain.

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When our death comes there —

Is no sting, because those who —

Have faith, believe — live.

—–

That is eternity, 

Heaven with God, better than —

Our wildest dreams. 

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Forgiveness of sin, 

Becoming perfect beings, 

Paradise for real. 

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Thank you for following me for #OctPoWriMo. Sorry, I’m behind on my usual prompts! I will catch up and am following a new themed daily prompt for November. Stay tuned 🙂 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016)All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: No Piano Mom.


Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

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http://www.pixebay.com

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Mom, I don’t want to play piano, 

But you force me every week, no! 

You say “it can’t be that hard,”

My piano playing, will never go far.

You think I’ll get better when you make me play, 

I practice, fumbling the wrong keys — you say:

“My boy he’s going to be a musician,

My Alex is going to go far, be a physician;

Playing the piano helps with math and science skills, 

Playing these notes, he learns to read music: I’ve chills, 

One day he’ll be a musician and a doctor, 

How could a mother want anything more.” 

So I pound out the notes, keeping my hand like a ball,

Ignoring your wince when my fingers stumble and fall.

I want to do something fun, 

I want to play soccer and run.

I want to be an astronaut, or maybe a fireman, 

A hero who saves people, maybe Spider-Man?

I’m not sure yet what I want to be, 

I don’t like math or piano you see. 

But my printing is good; I handwrite well,

My typing is fast; in my stories, witches cast spells.

I like to read; I’m quicker than other children.

Are you listening to me? Or yelling certain —

I should be practicing piano, something you decided for me.

Never asking how I felt as years passed by and I still played off key.

I couldn’t memorize the music; it was tedious, 

I preferred writing stories, characters mischievous. 

How your face dropped, 

Now you never talk to me; you stopped.

Because I didn’t become a musician or a doctor,

I used my talents and your boy Alex plays professional soccer.

Writing stories in the paper about sports and other topics, I glean.

I didn’t meet your standards; I lived my own dreams.

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© Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

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.

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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.

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“Poker Face” – Lady Gaga

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Tonight


There is no where to go; when you can only say ‘no.’And look down the street knowing you’ll never go that way.

When a desire to say ‘yes’ leaves quietly, and hides in the chamber of the soul. I think too much and write to pour, misery into the air, to see it dissipate. 

Come out tonight, it use to be my delight; now I can’t even drink wine alone, without the proper wine opener.

And I’d be glad to spend some time among friends; but life now has a harsher bent. And living feels so alone. 

It would deplete me to go out, for just an hour or two; the minute I can’t handle it  I start to feel sick.

The moon is in the sky, a lunar delight; it covers my tears, and holds my fears. And it is my ill, the night. 

The stars sparkle vividly; they’re bright spots of joy. But I haven’t seen them, it’s been far too long.

Fire in the nightmare sky, in the breeze, in the house; fire yearns to build up and burn through everything. 

But kept in quiet places, fire can only heat the coals of a life, lost before, it was ever born. It simmers out to ash. 

Unravel life, it’s too complicated, to fix my soul, to fix my body; I’m thirty-years-old tired and worn. 

So, if stay at home again tonight. While the world is alive and I’m still as twilight. I will not mourn, it was never my night.

I’m not the same as I was before, times have changed and barely do I see the sky in blinding starlight.

I’m use to indoor lights that flick off and say goodnight, sleep well, or suffer more.