Well, the big day has arrived. What happens now? Your guess is as good as mine. The only thing to do is brace yourself, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. What? You think I’m talking about the end of the world as we know it? Nah! It’s just my little brother’s birthday.
Happy Birthday, Bro! Remember, you’re only as old as you can remember. Birthdays are the best thing since sliced bread. What’s better than getting another year older? Friday Fictioneers, of course! This week’s picture worth a hundred words comes to us from Dale Rogerson, and driving the bandwagon is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thanks to you both.
Humor In The Post Dystopian Era
Discovery of a structure outside the city walls generated excitement among the Remainders. Centuries had passed since the Great Divide left them without a dependable power source and artificial intelligence began to decline. Drones were dispatched to investigate, but all they found were some decayed tablets.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Siri and Alexa amused themselves with jokes from their days at the AI Club.
“Siri, have you heard this one? An idiom, a cliché, and a platitude walk into a bar…”
“Hold on, Alexa, that’s impossible. Everyone knows idioms, clichés, and platitudes don’t have a leg to stand on.”
Credit where credit is due, this week’s Friday Fictioneer prompt was provided by C.E. Ayr. Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for keeping the challenge running on time. Off The Rails seemed an apt title for my contribution this week. I assure you, every word counts. More FF stories are here. Thanks for reading.
On a gloomy Tuesday, Cooper called Lou. Lou set down his phone. He was stunned. He felt used. A ticking time-bomb he couldn’t defuse had been tossed at his feet, there was nothing to do but go home to his wife and tell her the news.
“That Cooper should have to walk a mile in your shoes!”
“I know you are shocked. I’m dumbfounded too.”
“What happens next month when the mortgage is due?”
Lou smiled at his wife and held out his hand, “We’ll figure it out, Dear. I love you.”
A project I worked on for one of my anthropology classes has provided me with a great deal of material, some comic, some not so much. Ever since I scrapped the Drunken Poet’s Campout story last week, I have been unable to shake the ring and rhyme that has infected the muse attempting to safeguard my sanity during the conflict inducing, merry making season that is upon us. So, this week’s Friday Fictioneer prompt seems a good reason to share some of my research on the history of human conflict.
How humans express what matters most to us is an important area of study for anthropologists. Art, in its many forms, attempts to help us understand ourselves as well as the rise and fall of civilizations throughout recorded time. I use writing and photography to make sense of the world around me, since Apple has pretty much ruined music for me.
Many art forms have been used to commemorate the conquests of great civilizations, dance, painting, photography, poetry. Cultural artifacts curated in museums around the globe, where acts of treachery and bravery are on display for all the world to see, give us a magnificent pictorial record of humanity’s triumphs and tragedies. The ancient war depiction at the Karnak Hypostyle Hall is the standard by which war scene art is measured.
The horrors of war are at our fingertips. So, why do we continue to ignore the warning signs? I don’t have an answer. I can only guess it has something to do with mediocre poetry.
Wrong All Along
Greedy and Stingy sittin’ on the sea
First came land
Then came chattel
Then came tribes with a sabre rattle
See what I mean? That is enough to instigate a playground scuffle.
Thanks to Rochelle, who rallies the troops, and her childhood pal Lucy for this inspirational prompt. More Fictioneers are here. For my 100 word story, look out below!
The commander commands, “Pillage the village! Plunder the town! Turn the world upside down!” Teams move out from the shoreline.
Beyond the buildings and parking lots there are miles of unexploited territory. Orders are to fill ’em full o’ lead and kill ’em good-n-dead. Players are motivated to show what they’re made of. They gouge the stoney ground and feed their bloody lust. They crush the citizens into dust.
It matters not the weapons at their disposal. They simply use what’s on hand for the grand proposal, until vulture and vermin victory spied. The battle is over and everyone died.
Yesterday I wrote a great story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. It was funny. Very funny. It was a really, really great story. And so funny. Taking my writing cues from the new leader of the free world, I can say that readers everywhere would have thought “Campfire Girls All Grown Up” was a great title for my great story about old childhood friends who had met life’s challenges head on with the support of their group which they now called The Drunken Poets Society. This great, really great, story takes place at the twenty-second annual Drunken Poets Campout. I was all set to hit publish. Then last night something happened. I went with my son to see John Cleese and Eric Idle in their Together Again At Last…For The Very First Time North American Tour.
If you don’t know who these guys are, what cave have you been living in?
The two comic giants played to a sold out house at the Majestic Theater in Dallas. The first act got off to a slow start. What else would you expect from two old farts? Still, it was entertaining and informative. For instance, I did not know that the first PBS station to broadcast episodes of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in the U.S. was KERA in Dallas, Texas.
Two red armchairs cushioned the iconic, and well-worn, actors as they reminisced about the good old days of Monty Python. Name dropping mixed with comedy sketches and songs, it was like sitting at the knee of a profane uncle and loving every minute of it.
What this has to do with my Friday Fictioneers story, you may be wondering. Or not. Well, last night in my sleep, Eric Idle came to me and said, “Campfire Girls All Grown Up isn’t funny. In fact, Honie, it stinks. Then he sang me a song he’d written just for me. I can’t share it here due to copyrights, quid pro quo trade negotiations, Brexit ex post facto, ipso facto e pluribus unum and all that, but suffice to say, it was really, really, great. Really.
So, this morning I woke up a little hung over curiously sober, and in the light of day I decided to embrace the absurdity of being American. Here’s my new and improved story.
I read the news today. Oh boy! Frackers and hackers have surrounded the backpackers. Obese schizophrenics protest en masse. No one knows for sure what has offended them today, but they are armed with selfie sticks, free with every purchase at Starbucks.
I experience fever then chills then uncontrollable laughter. Nausea follows. I want to run, sleep, and vomit all at once. I call my doctor’s office, calming down on hold while I sing along, “Billie Jean is not my lover.” The virtual nurse comes on the line.
“If this is an emergency, please hang up and call 911. Goodbye.”
Thanks to Rochelle and her trusty companion, Jan, for this week’s prompt. Check out more FF stories here. Thanks for reading.
Julianna’s big sister had entertained her with bedtime stories for as long as she could remember.
“Is this going to be one of your ‘he sold his car to buy strings for her cello and she sold her cello to buy snow tires for his car’ stories?”
“My god, JuJu, how much do you think cello strings cost? No. Just listen. You haven’t heard this one; I promise,” Marie whispered. “Devon was a handsome cellist. He played here with a chamber orchestra before you were born.”
Marie closed her eyes, summoning her courage.
“Nine months to be exact.”
Well, there you have it. My 100 word story prompted by the genius, the poet, Björn Rudberg. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the name of the dame who keeps Friday Fictioneers rockin’ and rollin’. Check out more FF stories here.