Tag: #FFFC

Safe Word: Bibliography

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Becca only meant to peek at Advanced Thermodynamics for People Who Hate Numbers.
Page twelve snapped shut like a mousetrap—whump—and the textbook flopped over her like an ambush blanket.

The velvet sofa wheezed under the impact. Its cushions smelled of mothballs and forgotten tea, a floral musk that clung to her sweater like an old rumor.
“Great,” she muttered. “Death by glossary.”

Heat pulsed from the radiator in damp, metallic breaths. Pipes ticked like a patient metronome, marking every minute she wasn’t studying. Somewhere near her ankle, a silverfish scuttled a neat little patrol.

A soft rustle drew her eye to the far arm of the couch.
A gerbil—plump, cinnamon-colored, eyes like polished seeds—sat upright, paws folded as if grading her performance. Its nose twitched with microscopic authority.

“You ever feel like life is just one long footnote?” Becca asked.
The gerbil twitched.
“Like we keep collecting facts, but the story keeps editing itself?”
More twitching.
“Do you think entropy is personal? Because I feel personally attacked.”

The gerbil blinked once, whiskers vibrating like tuning forks.

“Fine,” she said, curling deeper beneath the book’s heavy cover. “Stay silent. Let the human do all the emotional labor.”

A dulcet, throat-lozenge cough broke the hush.
“Ma’am,” said the custodian, leaning on his mop like a philosopher king, “are you being… harassed by the literature?”

Becca peeked out, hair static-frizzed into a purple-green mushroom cloud.
“It’s consensual,” she deadpanned. “We’re workshopping an integrated learning experience.”

The custodian squinted. “Book club gone feral, huh?”

“Yeah. Safe word is bibliography.”

He gave a solemn nod and shuffled off, his squeaky shoes fading into the oak-paneled quiet.

Becca settled back, feeling the papery heartbeat of a thousand unread pages press against her ribs. Maybe surrender was just another kind of study session.

Somewhere in the folds, the book rustled and whispered,
“Shh. Plot twist incoming.”

Watermelon Drops

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POETRY – FFFC #326

Have you ever had watermelon rain seeds?
I wonder if the seeds hurt?
or do they feel like gentle kisses
rejuvenating you every drop

Like the sky had a snack,
then sneezed.

A green crescent moon with juicy breath
spitting polka-dots from the fruit dimension—
plop plop plop—
onto my hair, into my shoes,
down the back of my shirt. (Rude.)

Each seed whispers:
“Grow me or trip on me, your choice.”
One tried to start a podcast.
Another’s running for mayor of the compost bin.

The clouds wore rind.
The thunder was squishy.
Lightning peeled itself.

And I just stood there,
arms open, mouth wide,
catching cosmic snacks from the snackosphere.

This wasn’t weather.
This was a dessert emergency.
And I was deliciously unprepared.

Still Not Grown: Concerts, Consequences, and MiMi’s Side Eye

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FANDANGO’S FLASHBACK FRIDAY

So, here we are. It’s MiMi’s birthday — or as she used to call it, her day — and what did I do to honor her? I went to not one, but two concerts back-to-back like I was still 22 and invincible. Now my body’s staging a full-blown rebellion, and honestly? I deserve it.

I can already hear MiMi’s voice, clear as day: “Hmm…running around here thinking you’re grown. You better sit your butt down somewhere.”

She wouldn’t even be mad — just deeply, soulfully amused. That was her way. She didn’t come at you all sweet and gentle; she came at you with common sense wrapped in sarcasm and a side-eye that could stop a grown man mid-sentence.

Thing is, MiMi knew a few things about life — mainly that it would humble you if you weren’t smart enough to humble yourself first. She was tough, she was wise, and she didn’t hand out sympathy just because you made dumb decisions. Nope. She handed you a wet rag, told you to ice that injury, and advised you to sit down and think about your life choices.

And you know what? She was right. She’s still right. Every time my knees pop or my back protests, I can feel her judgment radiating from the great beyond like, “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

But MiMi also believed in living, not just scraping by, but actually living. Laughing hard, dancing when you feel like it (even if your body says otherwise), and gathering memories worth the limp you’ll have tomorrow.

So yeah, I’m hurting today. But I’m also smiling. Because honoring MiMi isn’t about playing it safe — it’s about doing the things that fill you up, even if you have to pay for it later with ibuprofen and regret.

Happy birthday, MiMi. Thanks for the tough love, the side-eye, and the voice in my head telling me to sit my grown self down — right after I live a little.

Morning Vibe – 05302024

Fandango’s Flashback Friday – 05232025

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PROSE – FFFC

Fandango asked us to share a flashback. Two years ago, I was thinking hard about mental health. I was wrestling with how to speak openly about something that affects more people than we’re often willing to admit. The stigma is real; unfortunately, that silence—that collective reluctance to talk—is part of the problem.

But I’ve also learned that standing on a soapbox hollering about PTSD or anxiety doesn’t always help much either. Yes, we need awareness. We need voices and visibility for what’s become a growing crisis. But awareness without connection can fall flat. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do isn’t a speech or a post—it’s simply being present.

Being the friend who checks in. The sibling who listens without trying to fix. The stranger who offers compassion without judgment. That’s how we start to chip away at the shame. That’s how we show each other we’re not alone. And sometimes, that quiet presence speaks louder than any headline.

PTSD is Wicked Scary

Arc Logic

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FICTION – FFFC #315

“Did you know rainbows aren’t real?” Sophie said, nose pressed to the rain-speckled window like she was trying to peer through the fabric of reality.

Josh, flopped sideways on the couch and half-heartedly plucking his guitar, didn’t look up. “Real enough to chase. That counts.”

“They’re just light doing a water park routine. You can’t touch one. You can’t keep it. It’s basically sky clickbait.”

Josh strummed a lazy, spacey chord. “Exactly. That’s what makes it magic.”

Sophie turned, eyes narrowed like a nine-year-old prosecuting attorney. “Magic isn’t real either. Honestly, sometimes I think you were left on our doorstep by a pack of whimsical wolves.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “Bold accusation for someone who still believes in bedtime.”

“I’m just saying—look at the evidence. Dad’s an engineer. Mom rebuilds humans for a living. I’m a well-documented overachiever with a spreadsheet for everything. And then there’s you—Mr. ‘What if clouds are just sky-whales and the rainbow is their feeding tube?’”

Josh laughed. “Okay, that was solid. Respect.”

Sophie gave a smug little bow. “Thank you. I’ll be here all week. Try the sarcasm; it’s aged to perfection.”

“I’m the creative recessive gene,” Josh said, plucking at a new tune. “Or maybe a stowaway from an alternate timeline with looser rules.”

“You give strong alternate timeline energy,” Sophie agreed, already hopping off the windowsill.

She disappeared down the hall and reappeared 90 seconds later fully suited up in a bright yellow slicker, matching boots, and her frog-shaped umbrella. She looked like a tiny storm hunter gearing up for war.

Josh blinked. “Are you… ready to fight the weather?”

“I’m ready to dominate puddles,” she said, snapping her hood into place. “The rain’s letting up, and I have a contract to enforce.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “What contract?”

Sophie stared him down. “Don’t play with me, Mister. You promised me ice cream after the rain stopped. There were witnesses. I can draw you a diagram.”

Josh put both hands up. “Okay, okay. Ice cream. I hear you.”

“Good,” she said, already halfway to the door. “Justice will be served. Preferably in a waffle cone.”

As Josh grabbed his keys, he glanced at her. “Are you gonna be embarrassed being seen with me? I’m kind of a known weirdo.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, but grinned. “Of course not. You’re my brother. I love you—even if you are intellectually stunted. No one’s perfect.”

Josh chuckled. “Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel cherished.”

“I try.”

He set the guitar down with exaggerated care. “But when we get back…”

She paused mid-step. “What?”

“Will you let me play that song? The one I wrote that’s totally not about you but also definitely is?”

She sighed, but her grin cracked through. “Fine. But if it’s sappy, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

“To who?”

“Your soul.”

Josh laughed. “Noted. Minimal sap. Maximum chords.”

“And no eye contact,” she added. “That’s how feelings sneak in.”

Outside, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. A rainbow stretched overhead like it had been waiting for them to notice.

Josh looked up. “You know, it kind of feels like a map.”

Sophie squinted at it. “To where?”

Josh shrugged. “Somewhere we don’t have to know everything. We just get to… exist.”

Sophie stomped into a puddle with both boots. “Cool. Let’s go there. Right after ice cream.”

They set off down the sidewalk, the sky still dripping a little, the rainbow curved above them like a wink. Neither of them said it, but both figured: if that thing was pointing somewhere—maybe it was toward each other.

Reach

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – POETRY

problems left behind you—
ghosts with no mouths left to speak.
you walked on,
didn’t flinch.

bare your soul.
not for them.
for you.
because silence
never saved anyone.

whenever i look at the ocean,
i see a version of myself
that doesn’t need fixing.
just space.
just time.
just tide.

home—is
a sound you remember,
not a place you stand.
it’s warm light on old walls.
the echo of your name
spoken like love,
not demand.

reach for infinity.
not to conquer it,
but to know
you were never meant to fit in the lines.

This piece was written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #374. This week, she asked us to pick a blog or more to write something. I was surprised that I hadn’t written for her challenge before. I hope I got it right. Anyway, I chose the following:

Eugenia’s Moonwashed Musings, and then I ran into her challenge, Moonwashed Weekly Prompts. I don’t participate often, but I always enjoy myself when I get over there. This week is no different. Her poem for this week struck a chord, so I scribbled a few notes. It served as the bones of this piece.

Sadje’s KeepitAlive is another blog I read regularly when I decide to keep it out of my head. In her piece “Homecoming,” her line “home is” has quiet power and hits hard. As an old soldier, I remember the importance of “home.” So, I scribbled some more, and the bones got thicker.

Melissa’s Mom With a Blog hosts these flash fiction challenges, which I enjoy. Often, I scribble pieces for them, but they are used in something else. Every now and again, I manage to finish one just for that challenge and post it. This week, I found her piece, “coming home” whose opening line pushed me over the edge. So, I started scribbling a little more. Her image inspired by the graphics for this piece. I love the feel of that image; I will probably write something for it. And we’ll see if it actually makes it out of my notebook.

I haven’t written any new poetry in quite a while. My brain seems to be churning out the longer stuff. Thanks, ladies, for helping me find my way back.

Bent but Breathing

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FICTION – FFFC #313

Bent but Breathing

I’m a vagabond. A minimalist, or so I tell myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Wednesday. Which Wednesday is it? On those Wednesdays, Mrs. Johnson from the Second Avenue Church of God in Christ leaves out the Bible study leftovers. She waits until I stumble by and grab the tray. Never smiles. Never waves. Just watches. Lately, she’s started leaving grocery bags so I can carry more. Got Ms. Pearl from the bakery to set aside day-old bread. Otis the butcher leaves scraps. Every other week, I eat like a king.

I’ve been living this way long enough to learn a few things. When you’re practically invisible, you see everything. People will walk right over you if you let them. Some look at you with pity, like helping earns them heaven points. Others can’t stand the sight of you. They try to tear you down, not realizing they’re dragging themselves lower in the process.

Then there are the few who see you. Really see you. They look you dead in the eyes and don’t flinch. Like maybe they’ve been through it too. Like they know what it takes to survive — and maybe, just maybe, what it takes to make it out the other side.

A Jewish woman, not much older than me — if at all — asked me what happened. Not in that judging way that makes you want to either run off or tell someone to kiss your ass. She asked, like she really wanted to know. The ask that says, Pull up a chair. Let’s sit. Not Let me fix you. Not Here’s a sandwich, now tell me your trauma. Just: I don’t want nothing from you. You don’t gotta clean nothing, or do no freaky shit. Just tell your truth. If you want to. Take your time. Say what you can.

I sat down, eyeing her, trying to figure her game. “I’m Ruth,” she said, and stuck out her hand. Left it there. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just waited. So I shook it. She leaned in, like she was listening already. No pressure. No rush. It was crazy.

They sat in silence, sizing each other up — not like enemies, more like two people checking if the other is real. No threat. No fear. Just… reading the room, and each other.

Everybody wants something. Nothing’s free. That’s just how it is. Whether you’re on the street or in a boardroom, there’s always a game being played — whether or not you know it. Society teaches us that. You gotta play your role, follow the rules, if you want your piece of the pie. Do the right thing and get rewarded. Slip up, get nothing. Simple math, they say: Good people go to heaven. Bad people go to hell.

We can’t help ourselves. We were bred in an incentive-based society. You know — that carrot and stick shit. We want to do good, be better people. Lord knows we’ve seen enough misery. But somewhere along the way, it all got twisted. Long before we take our first breath, it stays twisted, and it stays that way long after we take our last breath.

I asked Ruth if she had a square. She held up a finger and walked out of the room. A few moments later, she came back and motioned toward the door. We flipped a couple of five-gallon buckets upside down and copped a squat. She handed me a square and lit one for herself. We smoked in silence. I watched her. She had that stare — the one you get when facing your demons, and they don’t blink. The kind of stare that says you’ve got something on your mind, and no one else can carry it but you.

I exhaled, and something eased up — for the first time in a long time. I looked at her, still locked in that staring match with her demons. “You are just another sister in the struggle,” I said. “Trying to stay above the churn.” She exhaled deeply and looked at me. Her gaze had softened — not by much, but enough. This is usually when you make your play. But I knew this wasn’t that kind of game. Hell, for some reason, I knew it wasn’t a game at all. I struggled to understand what was happening. She leaned back against the wall, arms folded, square resting between her fingers, waiting. So I laid it out. She’d earned it — my respect.

Fandango’s Flashback Friday – December 06

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FFF-DEC 6

Here is my post from a year ago. I had just started dealing with my illness and was feeling pretty vulnerable. So, that was what the QOTD was about. It is still relevant today.

Quote of the Day – 12062023

The Neighorhood

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FICTION – FFFC #288

Authors Note:

When I looked at this image, I had no idea what I would do with it. Literally, nothing came to me. So, I read what others had done with it, and still, no joy. I noticed that Melissa had provided a description of the image—something I think she always does. I’ve seen it before, but it made no impact until this challenge.

I took the description and rendered several images from it. Then, I started playing around with the description. All of a sudden, I had a voice. I looked around to see where it was coming from. I thought maybe my iPad was reading a book, or another of my gadgets had decided to push me over the edge. Nothing. Everything was functioning properly, but isn’t that how it works in the movies? Everything is working correctly when you go to check it.

Anyway, I returned to working on the images when I had the voice again, much louder this time. The voice was telling a story about his friend after his mother’s funeral. Then, I realized I wasn’t losing my mind, but a character was speaking to me. I’ve no clue where he’s going with his story or why he decided to tell me. It doesn’t even have a name. It has been a long time since I had a new character shown up. If I’d known, I would have tidied up a bit.

The Neighborhood

It was a lovely service; Mrs. Byrne would have been proud. No one liked to attend funerals, but they appreciated them being done correctly. Over the years, I remember her mentioning bits of this and that she saw at the different services. She mentioned some more than once, so I added everyone we could remember in her service. Her daughter Ivy had been my best friend since I showed up in the neighborhood at five years old.

My older brother Sean and I moved into the neighborhood after cancer had taken our Mom. Cancer is cruel, and it took its time taking our Mom. Pop lost his job at the plant because he refused to leave our mother’s side at the end. It took five months to cross the Rainbow Bridge and years to prepare for the journey. Her death broke Pop, but somehow, he pulled it together once we moved to the neighborhood. At least for a little while.

The neighborhood was three miles long and ten blocks deep, filled with Irish Catholics, and our Black faces weren’t exactly welcome. Mr. Flannery was Pop’s best friend, and he convinced a friend of his to rent to us. Pop got a job doing demolition. Pop said he had a lot of anger to work off, so the job was perfect. Sean was a teenager when we moved there and had rougher than I did. He’d come home with bruises most days until one day, he didn’t.

I played in the yard by myself most of the time until a red-haired girl with pigtails stood there looking at me one day. She didn’t say a word.

“There are swings a couple of blocks from here,” she said. I stared at her, knowing I couldn’t leave the yard. Yet, something this girl made me want to risk a trashing.

She continued to stare momentarily, then started walking away. I went to the fence and watched her. She turned and looked back, then stopped.

“You coming?” ” You aren’t a pansy, are you?” she asked. In seconds, I was walking next to her. We talked all the way to the park about the usual stuff. She told me Spider-Man was the best superhero ever, and Wonder Woman was a close second. I knew she was crazy because it was Batman, then the Green Arrow.

We played all day, swinging and climbing trees. She fell out of the tree and skinned her elbow. I leaned and kissed it. It was something my mother did when I got a boo-boo. Ivy punched me in the arm.

“You ought to know a girl’s name before you go kissing on her.” she said, smiling. She had one of her front teeth missing, but that stopped that smile one bit.

“I’m Ivy, Ivy Bryne,” she said, sticking out her hand.

“Frank Anders,” I said, shaking her hand. I gave her a soft handshake because she was a girl and punched me again.

“My dad, you give a person a firm handshake. Try it again,” she said, sitting her hand back out. I gave her a proper handshake and went back to swinging. I saw Sean coming over the crest of the hill, and he didn’t look pleased. Ivy and I met him before he got to the swings.

“See you tomorrow, Frankie,” she said and ran off.

FFFC #293

I was standing in the garage smoking a cigarette pacing back and forth when I heard Ivy come in. She always walks hard in her heels. I don’t think she’s taking a graceful step in heels since I’ve know her. Most of the time, she could be found sporting a pair of sandals or sneakers when the weather bad.

“Did you know, Mom was into photography?” Ivy asked, before I could respond she launched into the next question typically Ivy. It always seemed like she wasn’t interested in your response, just your attention. You were to listen until there was break which usually meant your response was required, but sometimes you missed the opening that prompted, “Hello, earth to Frankie! Aren’t you listening to me?” I’ve gotten better over the years catching my cues and today was no different.

Ivy was going around this new discovery about her mother when a few photos fell out of the binder she holding. One was a picture of a crane with it’s beak pointing skyward and the other was a picture of a eagle with a mountain landscape in the background. Wonderful shots I thought. Mrs. B had really found her thing. She had confided, years ago, that felt she had lost a portion of herself being a mother. She had no regrets raising her children, but she should have carved out more time for herself.

The binder slammed Ivy was biting her bottom lip trying to hold back the tears. I didn’t understand why. If these was a time to cry, this was it. However, Ivy never wanted to be considered a punk and she wasn’t by far the toughest person I knew. Tears streamed from her reddened swollen eyes. There emerald hue seemed to sparkle in the light. Yet, she held back the wail. I always loved those eyes. She rushed towards me burying her head in my chest.

The muffled banshee cry grew louder by the second. The harder she wailed, the tighter she squeezed.

“It’s alright, baby. Let it go,” I whispered

Good Stroll

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What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

There is nothing like taking a walk. I would add cigarettes and coffee to the mi, but that would only dimish the benefits. I was poor as a child, we had two ways to get anywhere; walking or riding your bike. In some cases, you ended up doing both. So I learned early to enjoy the journey. To freely allow the thoughts in my head to run wild. No one there sticking their opinion mudding up the process.

Even now, I walk with headphones on. The music provides a blanket shielding me from the outside. I hear my thoughts exhale, clear their throats, and call the rest of my body to order. My arms and legs are moving in unison to a subconscious rhythm. Yet, I realize my breathing is setting the tempo. My thoughts and ideas line up to me counted.

Next, I exclaim, not looking up at the next idea waiting to have their say.

“Good day, Mr. Khan”

“Good day.” I reply, waiting for them to get on with it. They take a moment to gather themselves to ensure not to waste my time. I’m thankful for the gesture actually. I can’t count the numerous times progress has been striflield by a ridiculous idea.

‘“Well get on with it,” I nudge.

“You see Sir, I been thinking the story needs a bit of restructuring.” Idea stated.

“How so?” I questioned. The idea went on to explain its opinion in great deal. I have to admit I like the idea. But I couldn’t let this go unchallenged. It was the principle of the thing. I can’t be having ideas rushing up to me at hours of the night thinking they’re to get their say. The other day I saw a wanna-be Picasso paint his cat pink.

Photo by Anna Shvets Pexels.com

Painting a cat pink, really?

Uncle Willie told me a story about a fella who had an idea to impress a woman. We all know the lengths men go to impress women. It’s ridiculous the things we come up with. Well this fella, got the idea that the women of his dreams was worth it. He met her at the local bowling alley. The story goes, she liked him well enough, but she always wanted to see what a kangaroo looked like up close. For months, they’d meet at the bowling alley and talk, but she kept bringing up the kangaroo thing. Finally, the fella invited her to fly with him to Australia to see a kangaroo. Her reply was that she didn’t know him well enough to go on a trip like that. What kind of woman did he think she was?

Cedric, the fella, was determined to have Gretchen, the woman, by any means necessary. So, he contacted a navy buddy who owed him a favor and got a damn kangaroo. Christmas Day 1966, when the bowling alley was closed, arranged for the place to open and convinced Gretchen to meet him there. So, Gretchen’s Christmas present was a kangaroo, named Rocky. Of course, Gretchen didn’t have any place to keep Rocky, so he lived with Cedric. Christmas 1967, they were married. The marriage lasted five years. Gretchen got the house and Rocky in the settlement. I know this may be hard to believe, but here is a photo from the day Gretchen and Rocky met.

Aunt Willie, on my father’s side, a bit touched if you listen to Nana. Despite this, Aunt Willie, was the most successful pig farmer in the state. A winter’s back, Aunt Willie got a notion that Charlene and Jessup, her pet pigs didn’t want to spend the winter in the cold. So, she pack them up and took them to the beach. The local took exception to the pigs at the beach and made a big ruckus. However, Aunt Willie was to snap a picture of Charlene and Jessup before things got out of hand.

I have to admit I’m a bit jealous, they look rather peaceful.

There’s nothing like a good stroll to clear your mind and you get a little exercise to boot.