Start From Zero (Friday Fictioneers)


Sweaty and uncomfortable though it’s cool, I set my glass down, almost spilling on the painting.  Her painting, which I don’t get, but spent 30 minutes discussing.  Her I like; winning smile, dancing eyes belying the crow’s feet developing next to them, wicked sense of humor.  But I’m boring her, I know.

First date since…since my world ended.  Cancer; six terrible months, then five lonely years.  And now here I am, boring the pants firmly on my date.

If she could see me now, she’d laugh her ass off.  That makes me smile as I reach for my glass again.

*****This post is part the Friday Fictioneers challenge.*****



Filed under Prose, Shorts

Fred Built a Fort, pt. 1


One day Fred built a fort.  Or started building one, to be precise.  He couldn’t say why he started exactly, it was almost as though he found himself building one, as much to his surprise as anyone else’s.  He and his wife kept a stack of mostly warped 2×4’s next to the garage; not that either of them were particularly handy or enamored with DIY, but there always seemed to be some use for them with the little projects and maintenance issues that came up.


So Frank dragged a few boards out to the willow tree in the backyard and started sawing and hammering until he found he had steps up the trunk to a crux where the trunk divided into 2 large branches.  Here he measured, hemmed and hawed, then somehow managed to fix a square frame with sides between 4-5 feet long to the tree securely enough for him to stand on the boards.  Then he climbed down and surveyed his work for a minute before heading back to the garage.  He rummaged around til he came across a sheet of plywood leftover from a patch job in the attic the previous summer.  He half carried, half drug it out to the willow; measured, sawed and hammered, and before he knew it the frame was a platform.


He was sitting there, feet dangling over the side when his wife came out the back door.  Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand she looked quizzically up at him, “Frank?  What’re ya doin’ hun?”  “Oh, just taking a little break.”  “Ok.  Break from what?”  He gestured to the wood and tools below.  She looked down at them, then back at him, “I see.  What’re ya buildin’ there?”  Frank hesitated, shifting about and feeling the sturdiness of his platform, “Kinda…I mean it seems like…it’s a kind of fort.”  Her nose wrinkled, “Uh-huh.  Well I guess Peter and Mary might like that, if they don’t fall and break their necks.  Try not to make a mess back here, ok hun?”  She turned back to the house, took 1/2 a step, then pivoted back, “Say, would you like something to drink?”  “Sure, that’d be real nice.  Do we have any more lemonade?”  “I’ve got the mix, so I’ll stir us up a pitcher and bring you a glass with ice.”  “That’d hit the spot, thanks.”  She disappeared into the house and he started to measure for walls and a roof.




Once the tree fort was finished and decked out with a tin roof and glass windows Frank set his sights on the garden area not a stone’s throw from the willow tree.  It was summer now and he was bursting with energy.  He did his best to ignore the wrinkles of concern above his wife’s nose when he brought home a carload of supplies from the lumber store, choosing instead to focus on his anticipation of the task at hand.  He started by digging out a foundation and filling it with concrete and rebar.  It was hot, heavy work and his wife had long since stopped bringing him cold drinks – probably her silent way of showing her displeasure with his project.


In truth he barely noticed.  By this time it seemed all his free time was dedicated to the fort.  On weekends he worked on it, evenings he designed, re-designed and fretted over it; even at work he found himself doodling additions and surfing the net for materials.  For someone with no construction experience his progress was remarkable.  Yet the further he progressed, the better the project went, the less happy he became.  He harrumphed and scowled and muttered his way around in a kind of daze.  The labor also took its toll, stooping his shoulders and giving twinges and aches in his joints.


By late summer Fred started working on a second story to the garden portion of the fort, with plans to connect it to the tree fort with a walkway supported by angled struts.  His wife went from silent disapproval to vocal opposition, using the always peculiar what-will-the-neighbors-think line of reasoning.  Frank toed the ground, studied his hands and grunted his way through a dozen one-sided conversations on the subject, none of which slowed his progress or dampened his drive.  He felt he was close to getting a grasp on the big picture now, and could almost see the totality of the finished fort, with ramparted walls replacing the rickety pine fence bordering their property and passageways, towers and secret rooms.


He considered taking a leave of absence from work, where these days he was distracted at best, but settled for devoting his 2 week summer holiday to fort construction in lieu of he and his wife’s annual trip to the lake with her family.  She was either near tears or shouting – he had difficulty telling which – when she announced she would go without him and wasn’t sure when she would come back.  He looked concerned and tried to follow the conversation while internally he was calculating the improved construction efficiency of having less distraction, not to mention the gain of work hours by being able to eat and work and foregoing lengthy, confusing conversations.


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The Teacher and the Priest

*****Warning: foul language ahead*****

“Man, I fucking hate my goddamned job,” said the teacher to the priest.  “Don’t I know how you feel,” came the somber reply. 

The 2 of them sat in the back of a darkened little church passing a bottle of communion wine back and forth while willing an old, chipped ashtray with cigarette butts. 

“What’s the name of that Greek fellow who had to roll the rock up and down the mountain for eternity?  Sisy-something?  Anyhow, I feel like him, except my rock has a fucking foul mouth, bad attitude and may well be armed.”

“Thankless work to be sure, trying to teach those who can’t or won’t learn.  Tryin’ to save those who can’t or won’t be saved.”

“Yeah…fuck ‘em.”

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Well what do you have at the end of the day?

Aloof and alone with everything your way;

tired triumphs and empty victories,

hallmarks of your silly vanities.

Proud, haughty and cold,

feeling empty, growing old;

searching for some shred of meaning

in a life of advancing and achieving;

confusing friends for pawns,

getting it right while being so wrong.

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Love + War

battered heart

This is how my world ends*,

this is how my world ends;

with slamming doors and frigid silence;

once everything was given freely

now seems I cannot be spared a glance

and rooms I enter soon are empty.

Knot in my stomach is too heavy to carry;

I knew it would happen, that I’d screw it all up,

but to live through this moment, so tense and scary

is so much worse than I’d thought, and much more abrupt.


This is how my world ends,

this is how my world ends;

with breaking hearts and dishes too;

her anger burns beyond control,

she might now hate me as much as I do

as I sit and watch the end of it all.

All the happiness I’d hoped to bring her

turned to dust in my bumbling hands,

instead I’ve brought sorrow and anger

now, finally, more than she can stand.


This is how hope survives,

this is how hope survives;

with the smallest of nods,

meal served in two portions;

crumbs of hope from the gods

stay of my execution.

Soft touches have ice slowly melting,

a small smile releases the doves;

Tomorrow may well bring more fighting,

but for now I embrace this lopsided love.



*Line borrowed from T.S. Eliot’s poem The Hollow Men

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Filed under Love, Poetry

2 Writers

She wrote like she dressed:

with careful aforethought

and attention which showed

in the finished product


He preferred to shoot from the hip

with a splat and leave it at that;

letting his pen slip and drip

a pile of words and untrimmed fat.


The considerate might take the time,

searching for nuggets less worthless

that the most patient could find;

most would just call it a mess.

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Ghost Town

My life is a ghost town.

Hope long since packed its bags and deserted,

leaving behind the weight of potential unrealized.


I sit in a saloon filled with why’s

slowly losing my grip on the lies,

succumbing to verity

in all its severity

while ghosts of relationships have me caught,

demanding me to be all the things that I’m not.


The well of emotion is dry,

as cold and empty as I;

these regrets replaced by wondering

what the hell has been happening

in this place I thought would be my life

but turned out to be just trouble and strife.

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