Opposites Attract


Art by Vincent Giarrano


He isn’t my type.
I’m a mover, a shaker, a rocker, a punk.
He’s a brainiac, a nerd, a techie, a geek.
I live for the crowd, the chaos, the smoke, the applause.
He lives for the scholarships, the level ups, the test scores, the hacks.
He trips over my amplifier cord, opens his mouth, and music pours out:

“Awkward to a fault-
Contents of a graceless life
Spewed across the floor.”

This Haibun/Senryu is written for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday #synonyms only, words poets choice. The Photo Prompt, is from Mind loves Misery’s Menagerie. The word: Applause was supplied by Eugenia, at Brew N Spew Cafe. And the word: Type was supplied by Girlie on the Edge’s Six Sentence Story prompt.

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The Crack

This is written for a new Finish the Story Flash Fiction Challenge put together by Rachel on her blog, Fitful, Fearful, Phantasmal. The opener for the story, her post entitled From a Crack in the Wall can be found here. All are invited to join in, the word count is 300 and there is no tagging involved. I had fun with it. I’d do it again.

Photo Courtesy of Fitful, Fearful, Phantasmal

As he sprinted toward the crack in the wall, his thoughts, a virtual ticker tape of endless possibilities, clicked off the methods in which he could employ this most clever tool. It took him less than a quarter mile to conclude, nothing would remain out of his reach if the crack’s gifts were properly harnessed- and exploited correctly.

If his unrehearsed subliminal suggestions were sufficient to entice a natural spring to become a fountain of warm milk, why shouldn’t he at least try to get the wall to produce something of real value. Like money..

A gifted litigator by profession, words were the tools of his trade. If anyone could craft a request, formidable enough to produce the desired end result, it was Tam Rogan.

First and foremost, he understood that if his plan was going to work, every thought he allowed to pass through his mind in the presence of the crack was crucial. Therefore, preparation was paramount.

The sun had long reached its zenith by the time he deemed his argument polished enough to present it to the crack. Taking three deep cleansing breaths, he cleared his mind of all divergent influences, stepped into the flow of spring water bubbling from the crack in wall, and launched into his premeditated recitation.

No sooner had he concluded his expertly crafted opening statement, when from somewhere out on the footpath, an insufferably irritating nasal voice intruded upon his brilliantly crafted narration of thought.

Always quick with a rebuttal, Tam’s brain sprung into immediate action and before he could sensor it, “Would you stick a cork in it!” burst onto the horizon of his cerebrum overtaking the elaborate scheme of thought he had so expertly orchestrated.

The crack in the wall, followed his cerebral direction to a T.

Clever tool indeed.

Up The Sandbox

Photo Courtesy of Susan Spaulding

When Margaret closed her eyes, Harold was no longer the comely shoe salesman, sitting at the foot of the angled fitting stool on which she presently rested her scantily bootied size 11.

Much to her delight, he was now reclining seductively on a studded leather incline bench, muscles rippling, skin glistening with the well wrought glow of an intense workout. Her delicately placed, perfectly painted toes serving as resistance while he, groaning with primordial pleasure,  lifted his too taut core- closer, closer.

So close she could smell the virility of his testosterone laden sweat, when he intimately indulged himself on her delectable digits; devouring with them-any desire she may have had of remaining virtuous to her virginity.

Her titillating toes still languishing on his luscious lips- Harold spoke.

“Sorry Ma’am, but you’re gonna to have to uncurl your toes if I’m ever gonna fit you with this oxford.”

This is written in the spirit of the 1972 movie, Up The Sandbox, starring Barbra Streisand.

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction

Quoting Dickens


Photo by Isabella Mariana from Pexels


Dickens wrote,
“he’d make a lovely corpse.”
and I misconstrued it..
I imbued it
with all the pent up passions
of a woman lost, alone
far from a home
she never had.
Unfulfilled, unloved. Unable
to make a life for herself,
to ever be
anything more
than she was
when she defined herself
by her love for you..

Dickens wrote,
“he’d make a lovely corpse.”
and what I twisted it round to,
was that I
should remember you
as someone you never were…
That I should chop you up
in little pieces,
savoring the pretty ones
carrying them around
in my pocket
fingering them
when I was feeling old,
or lonely,
or used up.
That I should ingest them
in small portions
until dream sodden memories,
became my Eucharist.
The body and the blood
of the life, I sucked
out of you…


Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.”
But it was I that chose to make true…..


“he’d make a lovely corpse,” is a line from Dickens novel,
The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit
-here taken quite out of context.

Posted for The Sunday Muse Photo Prompt #49

A Wee Tale


If ye’ll just take a seat,
in the sun there, ya see,
I’ll tell ye a wee tale,
of how I came ta be.
You may think it a fib
But I’ve no reason ta lie
It’s the god’s honest truth
Cross me heart, hope ta die.



’twas me mother who told it
and she wouldn’t lie
she would rather cut out
her heart – or an eye
than spread a non truth
and so i decree
i meself am the spawn,
of the screamin’ banshee!


as me sweet mother told it
twas a quiet, dark night
the candles was lit
and the fire was bright
they was havin’ a sip
of the irish whiskey,
when outta the mist
come the screamin’ banshee!


they heard her a comin’
but no one did run
as they was tippin’ a bit
and havin’ great fun,
not one was about to
abandon the bottle
yet there she was-
comin’ at ’em full throttle!


the menfolk they cowered
behind the women’s full skirts
not a brass ball among ’em
the no good irish flirts!
and as she approached,
it became clear to see
she had a wee babe in her arms-
and that babby was me!


“quit yer whinin’ ye wankers
you’ve nothin’ to fear
i am here to give, not to take
you got lucky this year!
i can’t find a sitter
me old mans on a drunk
and there’s no one to mind
this, my wee little punk!”


then she handed me off
and fled into the wood
not screamin’ at all
rather laughin’- but good!
they stood there all quite
each not quite believin’
the rare piece of luck
they’d been blessed with this ev’nin.


that luck quick gave out
it went straight to ye midden
as they lifted the blanket
to see what they’d been given.
twas the face of an angel
all pink skinned and red haired
“a little piece of irish heaven!”
me auntie rosie declared.

and just at that moment
for no reason at all
me face wrinkled up
and i started to bawl.
i let out a scream
heard from here to the sea
and erased any doubt- that
i meself am the spawn
                    -of the screamin’ banshee!

Posted for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Thursday Writing prompt