Tale Weavers: Fiction – The Eyes of What Now? #taleweavers #amwriting #fiction #IdesofMarch 


Thanks to Lorraine from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting last week’s Tale Weavers. The theme is the a tale on the lighter side of things.

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Credit: Gary Larson

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Steve walked into English 311 wearing a toga and a gold spray-painted crown of leaves.

Dr. Lawerence, their English Professor, laughed at the front of the room along with some of the other students.

“Why is what Steve wearing funny?” Ambrose asked Jen, “Its not like this is some party.”

“I think it might have something to do with Julius Caesar. What about you?” Jen said dryly.

“The play we’re studying?” Ambrose’s asked. His friend, sitting behind him tittered. “Shut up, Dan,” he said.

Dan kept laughing, “How can you be reading Julius Caesar in English 311 and not understand why Steve is wearing that getup?”

Dr. Lawerence overheard his student’s conversation. He chuckled, ” ‘Beware the Ides of March,’ Ambrose. Remember what I said in Monday’s class?”

Ambrose shook his head, “Eyes of what now?”

The student’s around Ambrose and their professor laughed. Jen sighed. ” Caesar was assassinated on the ‘Ides of March.’ The seer in the play told him to ‘beware’ of it, but he was still stabbed and killed.”

“I thought Brutus murdered Caesar? Now you’re saying a seer did?”

Dr. Lawerence peered at Ambrose concerned, “Are you sure you want to major in English Literature, Ambrose?”

He looked up and shrugged. The professor sighed and returned to the front of the room. There was always one in every class.

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©Mandibelle16.(2017) All Rights Reserved.

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Friday Fictioneer: Where The Arched Doorways Lead #amwriting #flashfiction #fiction 


Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting FF.

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Credit: Dale Rogerson

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The [girl] who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the [girl] who went out. [She] will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging [her] ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend” 

― Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception

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“Where do those doors lead, the arches are beautiful. Is there groin-vaulting in between each arched doorway?” 

The tour guide stared at sixteen-year-old Tina who was a surprise student of art history. “If you wish to discover the architectural features of the building, you must find them exploring, it’s how things are done here,” he said. 

Tina watched as other students from her high school trip went exploring in pairs, while she ‘the know it all,’ was left on her own. 

She walked through the first arched doorway and turned to see the tour guide watching her enter, “What is the purpose of these long hallways of arches. Do they end?” 

The tour guide sighed, “Go see for yourself. Sometimes experience is the best kind of knowledge.” 

Tina began following a series of arched doorways. She was filled with both trepidation and a strong urge to succeed, finding the exit. 

At times she had to choose a direction to travel when four different archways presented themselves. She kept walking until she was frustrated, bored, and tired. Then Tina lay down, resting her head on her jacket to sleep. 

In the morning she was relieved to find the exit. Last night she had thought she would never find a way out of this maze. She felt like a changed person today. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: Colour Theory


Thank you to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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A Mixed Bag

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“Today we’re going to learn about secondary colours on the colour wheel,” Miss Michaels the art teacher said to the grade three class.

“For instance, if we mix the primary colours blue and yellow together, we get green.” 

Miss Michaels poured a little blue and yellow water from their respective wine glasses into an empty wine glass. The liquid in the new wine glass was green.

“Depending on how much blue or yellow I add, determines what colour of green I will get. If I add more blue, the green will be a blue-green such as a teal. If I add more yellow, we will get a more yellow-green such as grassy green.” Miss Michaels explained.

“Let’s try another secondary colour. Jennifer, what colour will I get if I mix red and yellow together equally?” 

“Um, you’d get orange,” Jennifer said.

“Correct Jennifer. If I add more yellow to the orange it will be and orange-yellow like flames of fire but if I add more red it will be an orange-red, like some of the lipsticks your Moms with warmer toned skin wear.” Miss Michaels said.

“Charlie, tell me what will happen if I mix red and blue together?” 

Charlie stammered, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Think about it a moment.” Miss Michaels was patient.

“Oh um, Purple?” 

“Yes Charlie you’re absolutely right. If we add more red to the purple it is more like a red-purple, a plum colour. If we add blue the purple is a blue-purple like. . .” 

Miss Michaels was interrupted by Charlie waving both his hands in the air.”Yes, Charlie?” 

“In the glasses, the water is slanting.” 

“How strange,” Miss Michaels remarked peering down at the wine glasses and then the table. “I think the table . ..” 

It an instant, the table crashed and wine glasses full of food colouring covered miss Michaels who sighed and then giggled.

“Remember what happens when we mix all the colours together?” She asked her grade three class.

“Mud,” they shouted.

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Herd Never Heard. 


I am at the crosswalk on Jasper ave and then . . .  there are young businessmen in colourful shirts and patterned ties talking loudly about sports; there are elegant older women in pencil skirts and flowing blouses shopping; homeless men in ragged winter coats and broken shoes begging; toned women in their Lululemons running back to the gym; bicycle messengers in their black mud-spattered garb; student’s in blue jeans and t-shirts hanging onto heavy backpacks waiting for the bus; there are the beauticians and hairstylists in their leather leggings, and funky light pink hair having conversations with clients; and there are people who are running home and quickly walking the dog with their husband or wife in tow.

There are also pretty girls with long black hair, heavy makeup, and leather moto jackets who are waitresses at restaurants of good repore; there are CEO’s and their top men in fine suits with pin stripes from Holt Renfrew who are negotiating deals; their are men with New’s boy hats and skinny jeans walking quickly to a retail job selling clothes; there are men in semi-casual khaki’s and a stripped rugby shirts working at cubicles in healthcare; there are firemen in there navy uniforms laughing loudly eating at the Wok Box; there are security guards in grey shirts and ties with a badge looking through a women’s large shopping bag; there all old-women dressed in their warmest down coat, with silver hair, and creased grey eyes looking to make some purchases at the Winners; there are old men sitting in the food court over coffee regailing each other with tales of their lives and of past jobs and children grown up and busy, of grandchildren who visit; there is a blind man led by a black dog in a jewel blue vest, stopping safely at the crosswalk before the cars go by.

Then there was me. An observer of everything, watching everything around me, knowing what they’re all doing. I was there a few days ago crossing the street in heels. Stepping onto a curb before I am pushed by two large men in suits not paying attention to a 5’1″ women. When the car drove over me I didn’t even feel it. I had hit my head on the concrete curb of the street. I was lying there bleeding and the hords stepped around me. They barely flinched when the truck drove over me, as if I was meant to be road-kill.

But I watch them from a tree a wisp of myself. And I wonder if today someone will care about the lonely and the lost, those too short and whose voices are too small to be heard above the noise.


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Poem: One Day at the U of A (and thoughts).


The swirls of the smoke coloured sky, scintillating and swarming as it deepens to ebony, a black blush of thoughts blanketing my mind. This is the evening time of reliving the ravages of day. 

I went out into the torrid of the thoughtless crowds, university students sighing and harassed by midterm exams. For a moment I held faith with them as I wrote, before remembering I was someone else.

Caught between two spheres, the adult who should be solidifying her career if not for a fatiguing sickness, and the ever determined student delving  deeper into knowledge once she learned the more you know, the more you do not know. 

A paradox indeed, that going to school for what seems like a seamless and unending time, has left me the truth: you know nothing even though you’ve been in school since you were six, you only can perceive that a person cannot know all there is to learn; no wisdom here but the air between your ears.

And I pass the swirl of bodies in modern university garb – ankle boots, and pea coats; skinny jeans and knee boots; sweat pants and running shoes. I do remember those days when I wore what they wear. Now I go out, I dress like an adult, classic, I think; but the staff on campus look at me as if I’m a young student, lights dim, it’s nearly been eight years.

But I found through my minds persuasion of lurid purple thoughts and intriguing segways, that there are many paths to knowledge and many ways to gain it; Pathways of pink and plenty into the working world, could be wonderfully convenient one day if I train myself for jobs with adult education. 

But for now I’ve accepted to attain the unattainable and focus on one course and apply for a masters, when next spring comes about. I figure that an MFA in creative writing cannot make me know nothing if it’s all fictious because I formed the story myself. I know what I know, especially if I made it up.

Clouds of cotton fluff in the air, sunshine soothing on my face, no wrinkles to create I wear serum with SPF. Still Green grass in October with orange fire and red fire leaves. I walk home, hop on a train, the bus. Hurriedly, pull myself beneath the covers. One day down, sleep in the breath of cold air tonight, arise fresh and freezing to winters bitter blow. 

Saturday Night to Life


I use to think the whole world was alive and vibrant every Saturday night. I looked forward to the rush of excitement, the shouts of joy, the laughter, the dancing, and a few drinks (or more). I remembering going out in a big group and loving every single song they played ( because it was my favorite) and taking my poor dance moves out onto the floor with the lights, fog, and other dancers encroaching on our space made around a pile of purses. It was a soaring feeling dancing to a hypnotic beat and loving all your friends — even though there was drama of one kind or another always. I think when the drama gets too much you start to grow up and not put up with a group mentality.

That’s when you stop getting together as a group first and start living other lives outside of school. It’s when you start to develop a career, start to not just hook up but find a lasting boyfriend or girlfriend, it’s when some of your friends become parents, it’s when your friends become engaged and get married, it’s when you can’t stay hung over the entire weekend, and it’s when things start to go wrong in life. 

Some friends you knew in high school or university die or get into serious accidents, mental health takes on a new meaning for you or those around you, and some parents of kids you grew up with become ill. You may stay home or have a job but things change. The glory of life is no longer yours in the same form it was in your late teens and early twenties. Glory comes sitting at the pub with a few good friends some nights. It comes in the birth of a child or seeing your best friend get married. It comes in finding the person you love and staying in together. It comes in lunch with a dear friend you haven’t seen for ages or an elderly grandparent in their 80’s or 90’s. 

Drama changes from little spiteful fights between girls or brawls between guys to real life problems and issues. You feel alive for different reasons, you dance in your car on the way to work, and your packs include people of all age groups. Life changes because suddenly you’re not preparing for it, you’re in it for better or worse. Now you really are an adult with much greater responsibilities, outcomes, failures, resentments, moments of pride, vulnerabilities, and happiness. 

But then some have said we never ever really leave school we just move up to different classrooms, classes, and teachers. Life is a classroom and we are always pupils. What do you think?