I just found 100 Word Wednesday! Thank you, Bikurgurl!
To participate visit the link here. And, of course, you knew if it had a dog, I was going to write it!
We’ll call this the #weekendcoffeeshare without the actual beverages, because I just finished my cuppa. 😞
What a gorgeous autumn day! The willows still have some vibrant yellow leaves, which look even more gorgeous against the rich blue sky. Continue reading
Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. June 22, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a dream. This action could have happened while awake, such as daydreaming, or make up a dream when asleep. Go where the prompt leads as it could be a nightmare or just fond memories or ambition.
This was the first “thought” that came to mind. I will probably try something more fictional as well.
The inspiration for my very first ottava rima (and my last?) is occurring right now and I probably should be powering down rather than typing on, and I can hear people I know say: she just doesn’t show good sense.
While I consider myself a writer, I don’t totally consider myself a poet. I love words and I love the possibility of the musicality of words when rhythm and wordplay exist. However, when words like iambs and feet and meter come up, I, for some reason, hear white noise. I’m still hoping to grow out of it.
Today a driver saw a laundry bag moving in the middle of route 7 and stopped to investigate. Two small dogs were inside. Someone had tossed them in the road to get rid of them instead of taking them to a shelter.
At the rescue the pup looked up at me with big eyes, and I cried. She put her paws on my chest and licked at my tears, demonstrating a huge capacity for forgiveness.
Weariness has tainted my ability to forgive people who don’t comprehend that the sanctity of life extends to all creatures.
I wonder, will they ever understand?
Rachel walked by this chain link fence five days a week morning and evening on her way to and from the metro. Never fail, the German Shepherd mix chained to the dogwood tree barked and wagged its tail. The bowl, supposed to be providing water, was upside down.
This was enough. The temperature was already below freezing with snow predicted tonight. The dog had no protection.
She seethed as she opened the gate, but tamped down the anger before carefully approaching the dog at an angle the way the rescue group had instructed. She held out her hand. The dog licked it and then play-bowed.
The house door opened.
“Get out of my yard,” the balding man with a paunch yelled. He caught a glimpse of her face. “You again. I told you to leave the dog alone. She’s my dog and none of your business.”
“It’s too cold out here for her. If you can’t be bothered taking her inside, I’ll take her.”
“This is abuse.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
Rachel seethed. “Go ahead. I’ve documented the abuse. I have pictures.”
The man thundered toward her. For a moment, Rachel felt fear. She didn’t think the dog would ever hurt her, but this man, probably a bully all of his life, could.
Immediately the dog growled and bared its teeth. Rachel glanced down, expecting a bite, despite her previous self-reassurances. Instead, the dog was focused on the man who instantly halted. She saw his fear. This was why the dog was outside.
“It’s stealing,” he said again.
Rachel opened her wallet and removed all of the cash, roughly eighty dollars and thrust the bills at the man.
“The dog will attack you,” he said.
“I don’t think so, but consider it no longer your problem.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And, the dog, realizing she was starting on a new path, also leveled two barks at her former master before following the woman to whom she pledged immediate loyalty. The liver treat in the woman’s pocket didn’t hurt either.
This post contains language that some may object to. You know who you are. 🙂 Don’t object if you read further.
She doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror, lines around her lips. She spends less time there now. She won’t give in to shots of botox or surgery. Men look at younger ones now. She has become invisible.
Sex hurts. The nympho in her curls inward. All of these years bitching about the fucking period and now, it hurts to be penetrated. What a cruel joke.
And the net result of online dating?
The man says he wants a woman from 45-60, but at the restaurant his eyes barely glance at her between sips of his vodka martini when there’s an under 40 around. He’s smart enough, funny enough, but his roaming eyes warn her.
At home, her dog jumps up, wags his tail. She sits on the tiled floor of the foyer, hugging this creature and his real, unconditional love, accepting his licks to her temple
Divorce kicked her ass. Aging now too. Her young officemates treat her like a fossil, even though she offers smart alternatives. She’s not even mid-fifties.
Her dog, though. He thinks she’s the best thing, although sometimes second to Greenies.
She thinks of going to Europe. More than once she’s heard that they respect middle-aged and even older women there. They even think they’re sexy. (Her nympho shines.)
In the United States, with its obsession with youth, she’s washed up, disrespected. Her brain disregarded.
It took just one last dissing. One man on a date staring at the firm ass of the waitress, ignoring her witty comeback to his stupid meandering about, well, Freddie Mercury and Queen. He thought Vanilla Ice invented the riff.
She almost hears a voulez-vous in her future.
She books a one way ticket for her and her dog to France.
On her key was a plastic strip that said “My pet is alone.” The fireman took the keys and went to her house. A frightened black and white dog, some kind of shepherd, stood there, toy in mouth looking at him expectantly. He tried to reach for the dog’s collar to see if there was a name tag, but the dog moved just out of reach.
He sat on his haunches and looked at the spotless linoleum. “Your Mama had an accident. She’s in the hospital.”
The dog approached, his head cocked.
“She’s going to be okay, but won’t be home for a few days,” he said.
The dog moved up to him and rested his head on the man’s forearm and whimpered slightly.
“You can stay here or come home with me.”
The dog placed his paw on the man’s forearm where only moments ago his head had rested.
The fireman nodded. On the other side of the plastic it had said: my dog speaks English and Spanish. He’s able to make up his own mind.