Aooga, Aooga – here there be prompts, so dive right in
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
outside our bedroom
a light dusting of new snow
weighs down daffodils
This week’s prompts are:
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
The stranger was a big guy, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, narrow-waisted, with biceps bulging and threatening to tear the sleeves of the black tee that clung tight to his torso. He had longish hair, but not too long. He wore it in kind of a Jackson Browne way.
Cheryl did not mind. She liked big guys; in some ways, she grinned to herself; the bigger, the better. After all, a big strong guy can carry more groceries, make short work of home repairs, and things like that. She smoothed down her skirt, sucked in her gut, thrust out her chest, and wove her way through the tables to where he sat alone at the bar.
“You mind if I sit here,” she batted her eyes and asked.
He glanced at her and waved his hand dismissively at the empty stool, “Help yourself,” he replied. He brushed his hair behind his ear.
“Thanks,” Cheryl said and took the seat. She waved at Dennis, who was pouring drinks down the bar in the other direction. He held up one finger to acknowledge Cheryl and returned to work, pouring drinks.
Cheryl studied the hunk she was sitting next to. He hadn’t seemed very outgoing, but she wanted desperately to speak with him. She opened with, “So, you probably hear this all the time, but do you know you look like Jackson Browne?” The big guy didn’t react, so she pressed on. “Well, that is, if Jackson Browne was built like you. If Jackson Browne were a ripped body builder, he would look exactly like you.”
She paused, and the big guy only shifted his eyes a bit. She imagined that would be how he might track a pesky fly on a summer day.
Dennis sauntered down, “Hi, Cheryl!” he said, “You want the usual?”
“Oh, hi Dennis, I’ll have…” she pointed at the big guy’s glass, “whatever this guy’s having.” She touched her fingertips to his forearm and inhaled a sharp breath of desire as Ripped Jackson Browne pulled his arm back and Dennis moved to grab a bottle of Jack Black, from in front of the mirror.
When her drink came Cheryl concluded that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound. She started talking.
“I don’t know how your day’s been,” she started, “but I’ve been looking forward to a drink since about noon. It was a heckuva day at work.” She glanced at Ripped Jackson Browne and saw him shift his eyes towards her, then rapidly away again. She continued, “Mr Fusco was in a mood, and I couldn’t seem to do anything right.” She sipped her bourbon, “I don’t think Mr Fusco’s been getting any lately! You know what I mean?” She nudged him with her elbow to suggest a camaraderie that didn’t yet exist.
When her reluctant drinking companion grinned crookedly, she took heart. She turned on her barstool and looked straight at the side of his head. His eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
“I’m Cheryl,” she said. She held out her hand and waited for him to shake and introduce himself, but when he didn’t take the bait right away, she said, “Hey, Mr Browne, Are you gonna get up and leave, or are you gonna introduce yourself?”
As if realizing he had no choice, he held out his hand and took hers. “Archie,” he said, “name’s Archie.” He brushed his hair behind his ear again, and this time, Cheryl noticed a ‘V-shaped’ notch was missing from the top of his ear. It had obviously happened a long time ago. It was not a fresh wound.
“Nice to meet you, Archie. It is a bit early, but I’d like you to stick around a while. You look like someone I might want to invite home. Maybe get you to tell me what happened to your ear.”
This week’s prompts are:
Happy Christmas, everyone. This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
Coop sat up straight in his bed
He was wet with sweat
His breathing laboured
He knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep. He slid out of bed softly and quietly, so as not to disturb Angie, and padded softly to the kitchen.
The clock read 0320
The whisky, he kept atop the fridge, called
Cooper… Cooper, and he knew he couldn’t fight it
Two fingers in a “tall cut” old-fashioned glass that had belonged to his father
He studied the amber liquid for a moment and shrugged his shoulders
Downed it in one draught
Poured another
Did it again
and again a third time
It had been like this since his return from Kandahar – Some wounds are slow to heal – Some scars are slow to form
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun! All the best!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
Wanda was a large woman.
Wanda was the matriarch of the well-known and prosperous Lewis clan. That’s the Lewis family of Sugar Land, Texas. Not the Lewis Family of Lake Chicot, Arkansas. Wanda had been married to her husband, Earvin almost 50 years. It was 2015 when all of Wanda’s three children last came back to visit at Christmas.
Her middle child, her only daughter, Quinn, arrived at the family home first. Quinn was single. She was a successful pharmacist who played with men, chewed them up and used them for pleasure. Quinn owned three drug stores in Big Beaver, Pennsylvania and was considered a community leader, successful in her own right and on her own terms. She took good care of herself.
Quinn hugged her mother, “You look great, Momma,” she said. “How ya doin’?”
“You look beautiful, too, Quinn. When are you going to find yourself a good man?” She pulled her daughter in close again for another hug, then held her back at arm’s length and took a good long look at her daughter. She sighed, “Your Dad’s in the Den watching the game. Why don’t you go in and say hi.”
Quinn nodded her head and moved away to see her father.
Her youngest son, Todd, was a single man. A rarity among men, he was, for the most part, sensitive, caring, and good-looking. He’d brought his partner, Grant, along on the trip. Todd hugged his mother, and then he made the worst mistake of his life.
“Damn, Momma,” he said, “I can hardly get my arms around you anymore. How’s your health?”
“I’m good, Todd. I’m good. I’m just getting old, and I’ve been married to your father for a long time.”
Todd shrugged his shoulders and thought little about how his mother had answered. Then he slipped away and into the kitchen with his husband, looking for something to eat.
About an hour later, Wanda heard the unmistakable roar of her oldest boy’s car in the drive. David was unmarried, a doctor, and he drove one of those Chevrolet muscle cars; easy to recognize the sound of the exhaust system. David burst through the screen door and hurriedly hugged his mother.
“Damn, Momma! You’re getting big. Are you making healthy food choices these days?”
She clucked her tongue, “Shame on you for talking like that, David, shame on you and your brother, too. You both know better than to speak to your Momma like that.”
Todd wandered back into the room and found them both glaring angrily at him. “What?” he queried.
“Listen close, boys, I’m only going to say this once… When young, single women come home, they look to see what’s in the fridge and then go to bed. An old married woman comes home; she sees what’s in bed and then goes to the fridge. No more comments on my weight, y’hear!”
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
I arrived to pick Chrissy up that Saturday at about noon; I was taking her to the amusement park, Western Playland. We planned to ride the ‘Mad Mouse’ roller coaster. Her dad answered the door, and I introduced myself. He gave me the third degree to the point that I was becoming unsure if she would be able to go with me. I must have said something that he liked, though, and eventually, he called her from the back end of the house and told her I was there.
When she came out, she looked great, wearing a red miniskirt and a frilly white scoop-neck blouse with cap sleeves. On her feet, she wore shiny, black, patent leather Mary Janes; that reflected the inside of her thighs. They had clunky soles and mid-size heels paired with ankle-high, ruffled, turned-down socks with red hearts embroidered around the top. She wore her dark hair in a shoulder-length bob with the ends curled in and straight-cut bangs. When she smiled, her face lit up. She walked across the room, took my hand in hers, and turned to wave goodbye to her dad.
“Uhm, hold on a minute, Chrissy.” her father said. She and I both paused, and she turned to look at him.
“Yeah, Dad,” she queried politely.
“Uhm, I just remembered that you can’t go out today. Your Grandma’s coming. She should be here within the hour. She wants to see you.”
“Jeeze, Dad,” Chrissy complained. “I didn’t know she was coming. Why didn’t you tell me? Where’s Mom? I should be home before dinner. We were going to ride the Mad Mouse, and this isn’t fair!”
Her dad gave me the ole ‘side-eye look,’ and I knew that Grandma wasn’t coming. Dad didn’t trust Chrissy, or he didn’t trust me, or he didn’t trust Chrissy and me together.
“That’s OK, Chrissy.” I said, “We can go next weekend.” I nodded to her dad, and he nodded back. I knew without a doubt that when I came next weekend, she would have on baggy jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but that was OK. She would still be Chrissy.
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
When Sheriff Allison led his men onto The Windy River Ranch, Alcorn met him about a half mile from the house. He had a red mule and his lever action .44 Henry Rifle in hand. He shot a single round into the air to get everyone’s attention.
“What’s your business here, Sheriff?” Alcorn shouted.
“Take it easy Mr Alcorn.” Sheriff Allison tried, “We’re here to investigate the theft of a mule from the Doolin Ranch. It was a red mule, just like that one you got with you. Do you happen to know anything about that?”
“This here’s my mule, Sheriff. What are you suggesting?” Alcorn worked the lever on his .44 calibre rimfire, ejecting the spent cartridge.
“I’m not implying anything, Mr Alcorn. I’m just asking about your mule.”
Alcorn squinted against the sun and cocked his head slightly, “I reckon my mule ain’t none of your business, Sheriff. You, and your men, might be best served by turning around and getting off my land.”
It was about that time when a shot cracked from a distance, the sound echoing from the surrounding hills. Alcorn blinked his eyes and slumped forward as if in slow motion. Allison quickly scanned the surroundings and spotted Greer Doolin riding out from the tree line, his Winchester on his knee.
“Damnit, Greer. What the hell are you doin’?”
“Just fetching’ my mule, Sheriff. Just fetching’ my mule.” He paused before adding, “Thanks for your help.”
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
It was about twenty years ago; when I got on the train and pulled loose the ponytail that I always wore to work. Running my fingers through my hair, I let it fall over my shoulders, stuffed my earbuds in place and managed the Bluetooth connection to my phone. Scrolling to the playlist, I cranked the volume up loud. I like almost all genres of music as long as it’s loud.
I know; some songs shouldn’t be loud, and I avoid them. I prefer them loud.
I leaned back in the seat and listened to a selection of the greats: Dire Straits, Gnarls Barkley, Coolio, Amy Winehouse, Oasis, The Cranberries, and Leona Lewis. I got off at Ashby like I always do, and there she was. She’s there every day, and I think she is beautiful. Roxanne, by The Police, was finishing up on my playlist. There was a brief pause in the music when I nodded and smiled at the girl. To my surprise, she began signing. I was intrigued; I didn’t know she was deaf, so I paused my soundtrack just as Clapton played the opening riff of Layla.
“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t know how to sign. I can’t understand you.”
“Oh, oh, oh my.” she stammered, “You can speak.”
“Of course, I can. Why would you think I couldn’t?”
“Well, I see you almost daily here at the station, but you never respond when I speak to you. I thought you were deaf. I thought you were cute. I thought you couldn’t hear me.” Her cheeks began to flush red. She was, by now, almost whispering, “I’ve been trying to learn ASL in order to speak with you.” By now, she was bright red.
“I’m Reginald,” I said, “and you are?”
“Nora,” she answered, she turned her eyes downward. Shyness, I supposed.
“Nora, would you consider joining me for a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you prefer? There’s a good shop around the corner called The Dancing Cup, my treat.”
“Love to,” she said.
I extended my hand, and she took it. My heart fluttered as I guided her to her feet. Then we left the station, heading out.
To this day, Nora blushes when I tell the story, just like she did that evening at the station. Look now. Look at her. See what I mean?
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
I’m a day late, but this week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. A bit longer than normal, but I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
Maynard woke that fine July morning and made his way downstairs. Today was his birthday. He was eighteen years old. He cocooned deeper into the duvet.
Warm, comfortable, lazy
He wanted to spend the day in bed, but caught the scent of bacon frying in the kitchen so he rolled out of the covers and put his feet on the floor. He had no plans for the day, was just planning to take it as it came.
Downstairs his mother spotted him from the kitchen, “Morning, Birthday Boy.” She called cheerily, “How do you want your eggs?”
He looked at her questioningly.
“Oh, right,” she said, “scrambled.”
As they sat down to breakfast together she mentioned, almost casually, “I almost forgot to tell you, I got you a little something for your birthday. It’s outside in front of the garage door, but finish your breakfast before you go look.”
Maynard nodded and kept eating, “What’d you get me?” he asked.
“Eat, and then go see for yourself.”
After having his fill he grabbed his mom’s hand, “Come on then,” he said to her, “Show me what you got for your favourite son.”
“My only son,” she teased and pretended to hang back. “Just go take a look.”
He let her go and tried to peek out the front window, but couldn’t see the garage door. He stepped outside and saw a bright red Honda CRF250 trail bike, just like the picture in the magazine he wanted.
“Holy shit, Mom, is this for me?”
She nodded her head, and smiled at her son.
“Can I take it for a ride?”
She kept smiling and nodded again. “I don’t expect to see you much today,” she said, “go have a good time.
Maynard ran back inside and grabbed the two sets of keys that his mother was dangling. He changed his clothes and called Jamie to arrange a rendezvous at the cottonwood tree. Then, with a quick, “See you later, Mom,” he was gone.
The bike was a dream; it purred and got him to the meeting point in almost no time. A kid, maybe a couple of years older than Maynard sat in the sand beneath the tree, leaning up against the trunk. Maynard didn’t recognize him.
“Nice bike,” the kid said
“Thanks, I just got it.”
“Want to sell it?”
“I don’t think so,” May said.
“I’ll give you $5000.00,” the kid offered, “but you’ll have to give me a ride home.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I have cash.”
Maynard thought about the offer for a short time and nodded his head in agreement, “OK, where do you live?”
The kid stood up, dusted himself off and walked over to Maynard with his hand outstretched. “I’m Chris,” The two boys shook on the deal. The kid hopped on the back of the bike, behind Maynard and they took off with Chris giving directions.
The ride was only about fifteen minutes and when they arrived at Chris’ house Maynard said, “Give me the money and I’ll leave you with the bike. I’ll walk home, and then tomorrow morning I’ll come back and sign over the title.”
Chris shook his head slightly back and forth, considering, “I don’t know,” he said, “doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m leaving you with the bike, man. I’ll be back.”
“OK, OK.”
Chris was inside for about five minutes and came back out to hand Maynard fifty crisp one hundred dollar bills.
The boys shook hands again, and then Maynard turned and walked away. At the corner he looked over his shoulder, Chris was watching. Maynard smiled and waved. Chris waved back and went inside the house.
When he saw Chris go inside, Maynard circled back around the block.
It was easy to take the bike. He had the spare key, and now he had $5000.00.
Back home he put an ad on Craig’s List.
New Honda CRF250
FOR SALE
Less than 100 miles on the odometer
$4500.00
Over the course of the next week Maynard sold the bike three more times.
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. A bit longer than normal, but I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
When my Grandpa died, he wanted a full-on funeral – one with all the bells and whistles. He wanted a bunch of things, including a parade complete with dancing girls from the strip club on Highway 68, but that didn’t happen. He got a private internment with a memorial service on the day after. We scheduled the memorial for the third day of the month, and the service was to be at the Fierce Baptist Church on Spruce Street, Presided over by Preacher Maclaren.
Scheduled to start at 1400, it allowed enough time for a proper memorial service. We could listen to a few testimonials, and some condolences could be passed around. There would still be plenty of opportunity to gather at the house after to eat, drink, and tell stories.
So we all gathered in Villebeck to pay our respects.
Grandpa and Grandma had four children, my Uncle Harry, my dad, and my aunts, Beth and Carrie. Each of the children had three to five kids of their own, so it grew exponentially. A whole passel of aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up for Grandpa.
It was well known, but never spoken about, that Grandpa had always kept company with Miss Sydney Dupre, who lived across town. She and Grandpa also had three kids of their own The Dupre branch of the family decided that they should attend, and I, for one, couldn’t have agreed more. So we also had them. My new uncles: William and Connel, came with my new aunt Patience. They all came from out of town and brought their families. New Uncle William came with his wife, Lexi. New Uncle Connel brought Joanne, who was at least six inches taller than her husband and outweighed him by maybe fifty or sixty pounds. She was a hoot.
New aunt Patience also brought her wife, Kizzie. Kizzie had an unplaceable European accent, and I loved listening to her talk; her voice was music.
Everyone from out of town stayed at our house for ‘bout two nights.
All the bedrooms were full. Every bed got filled, and each couch was folded out and occupied. Sleeping bags, suitcases, shaving kits, makeup bags, and the like littered all the empty floor space.
My cousin, Nash, the oldest son of Beth and her husband June, spent the entire time holding court in the kitchen. He chain-smoked Lucky Strikes and hugged a bottle of Tequila. Two cases of Bud Light sat stacked on the floor next to his chair. He meticulously placed the empties back from the same spot in the cardboard box from whence they had come. Only when a bottle was resecured and repositioned properly would he remove another. His mother, my Aunt Beth, decided to spend her time migrating from bed to bed and sleeping roll to sleeping roll in a futile attempt to find someone with whom she could cuddle. When it became apparent that intervention was necessary, I pulled my uncle June aside to have a quick word with him. It turned out that Beth was drinking again. June kept her close from then on and rationed her hooch.
Then there was the thin guy with the grey ponytail. He told me that his name was Murphy. I was trying to figure out how he might fit in with the rest of us. Why was he even here? He spent most of his time sitting on the screened-in porch entertaining the young folk. He was rolling funny-smelling cigarettes and sharing them with the teenagers and other young’uns. We made it a point to keep the real young kids off the porch with Mad Murphy but didn’t interfere too much with the teenagers and young adults.
On the morning of the service, everyone showed up in the kitchen at the same time, looking for breakfast. That was a challenge we had not anticipated, or perhaps we had just been in denial. Jessie baked a couple of big sweet potato pies. I found a flat holding at least two dozen eggs in the beer fridge. I didn’t know how old they were.
Somebody found a pound of bacon in their ice chest. It was only a little green around the edges, so I trimmed the bacon and scrambled the eggs. Bacon, eggs, and sweet potato pie make for a mighty good breakfast. Everybody that came looking got a bit of food and then scattered around to tell stories about Grandpa.
We all made it to Spruce Street on time and listened to Preacher Maclaren say some nice things about Grandpa while Cousin Nash snored in the pew.
It turns out that Murphy was a big-time importer of black-market Mexican weed and a friend of my Uncle Harry. A nice guy, Murphy, provides quality merchandise at an affordable price. He still comes up to visit from time to time.
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
It’s Monday morning, and I drag into work, put my butt solidly in my chair, and cup my chin with my hand as I stare blankly at the unlit screen perched atop my desk.
It’s dark outside and dark inside; it’s that time of year when the nights are too long and the days are too short. I am blessed to see the sun only on weekends.
At 0750, I reach down and boot up the mini-tower computer that crouches below the desk. The monitor, at which I have been staring blankly, is next. After powering the flat screen, I spread some papers and files on the desk. Promptly at 0800, Mr Fraser, the boss, comes in and takes his place. He prefers his desk away from the windows and next to an inside wall. There’s nothing to see out the window, and the glass is always cold – ice forming on the inside.
I saw the sun yesterday, but only briefly before the snow flew. My brother, Kevin, lives further north, in Northern Quebec; he goes months without sunshine – and says, “If it’s dark outside, it’s Monday, and if it’s not Monday, then it should be.”
We have a staff meeting every workday morning at 0900 sharp.
At 0850, I rise and make my way to the kitchen for coffee, passing the desk of Catherine Levesque, the most beautiful girl in all Quebec who is, today, wearing a long-sleeved white cotton blouse that she has paired with a black leather mini skirt. She must have been cold on the bus this morning.
I know she has a rose and a dagger tattooed on her shoulder, just below her clavicle, and I wonder what it means.
“Good morning, Catherine,” I greet her.
“Bon matin, TN,” she replies and smiles at me. I almost pee my pants. Catherine guards her smiles closely. She is known to be stingy with them. Today, I am the luckiest man alive.
In the meeting, I dream of her smile when Mr Fraser interrupts my thoughts to ask me about a spending overage. There seems to be an overage on the Bumstead Locomotive account. I do not hear him; I am staring over his head at the point where the two outside walls meet the ceiling, but eventually, I jump about the third time he yells my name.
“Sorry, sir?” I query him and then bumble my reply after he reiterates the question.
“Come see me after the meeting, TN.”
I nod and make up my mind that this afternoon, I will ask Catherine out to Café Chez ma Cousine on the weekend. It is a rumour around the village that Marie-Pierre Leduc will be singing there on Saturday night.
I sincerely hope that Catherine could like folk music. Folk music with just a hint of anarchy.
This week’s prompts are:
You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!
The New, Unofficial, On-line Writer's Guild 