Posted tagged ‘G-man’

To the G-Man – Friday Flash 55

March 21, 2014

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Re Tempus Fu(Mr.G)it- (It’s Latin, so it’s okay!)

Why does time have to march
even in March?

Why can’t we keep the spring
Springs?

Our hips stay
hip?  Our black clothing only
mean coolness?
Our wrinkles lipsynch
how oooh we are laid-back,
our lovehandles
that we
are love-
handled?

And why, oh why,
are our poems not everlastingly
kick-ass?

*********************

55 for the G-Man!  This is his second-to-last week of hosting Friday Flash 55.  He’s had a long and honorable run and needs to concentrate on his Harley–best to him always.

PS – the photo is outside a plane window.  Yes, I know planes don’t march!  But they do something else that time does — fly!

“Vacuum (Swept From the Closet)” – Flash 55 (Excerpt ha! from Nanowrimo)

November 16, 2012

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Vacuum (Swept From The Closet)

“Are you drawing that vacuum cleaner?

It had been pulled from the closet.

“You are! You’re drawing that vacuum cleaner!”

He inhaled/exhaled concentration, fumes of marker slashes, too, in the air.

“Since when are vacuum cleaners great art?”

In-out, till, with renewed compression of breath/stare, he flipped the sheet over the spiralwired pad, began again.

*******************************************

Agh!  I really am trying to work on Nanowrimo.  A bit.  A difficult week.  Here’s a 55 word section for the G-Man

“Spined” – Flash Fiction 55

July 20, 2012

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Spined

The sweetest part, he said, jamming the core across her clenched lips/teeth; I’m telling you to try it, and, when she stuck out her tongue, slapped her.

You’re only hurting yourself.

As she tasted sting over blood, even over pineapple, she couldn’t quite believe that, and would not, she swore, even if she could.

************************************************

Yes, I know this is both a bummer and a bit out of character, and I almost hate to tell it to the G-Man because I like Fridays to be more cheerful, but it is 55 words, and part of a larger story, and well, all I could come up with today.

DO have a nice weekend! (And sorry, and thanks.)

Milkweed – Hollow Stalk, Promise (But Great Pic)

July 13, 2012

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Hollow Stalk (and Promise) Man

Man, pocketing with others
empty breeze, 1930s,
promised the two kids
ten bucks for a milkweed, root
unbroken.

They dug the whole hot day, splintering, till, going wide, deep,
(unbroken) carried dirt-dripping triumph, delicately.

Alone, balking more
than the damn plant, he ditched them
with only a memory, though that grew
quite dear, over time.

*********************************************

The above is my Flash 55 Fiction for the G-Man, Mr. Know-it-all, who is wonderfully BACK!

My pic is of milkweed which seems quite attractive to butterflies.  It is undoctored – there’s the shadow of a third swallowtail in there–crazy.

Friday Flash 55 – Talking About A Minor Accident

December 9, 2011

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Minor Accident (Much Spoken of)

“It might have been a good idea to do yoga BEFORE that glass of wine,” said the door jamb to the hand that had just banged it. At least that’s what the jamb implied.

“Your fault,” the hand replied sullenly–well, silently. (Mad.)

“Shush,” I tell them both. “We’re trying to do some yoga here.”

The above story (minus title and any ouches) is 55 words, so go tell it to the G-Man.

And have a great weekend.

(And check out NOSE DIVE.)

THANKS!

Friday Flash 55 – 99 Percent at Downtown NYC Subway Station

November 4, 2011

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Varying Percentages At Fulton Street Station

Yesterday, cop at the subway by Occupy Wall Street dressed as a hippie.  Today, the guy wears plain clothes; i.e. his uniform.

He got two occupiers though, fare-skippers, thoughtful faces hangdog now, betrayed; victory in his stance, scribbling–as he mumbles ‘sorry’–tickets.

Just behind, tourist wedges around the turnstile, card outspent, confused, unseen.

I am telling this 55 word story (minus) title to the G-Man, also to Occupy Wall Streeters who get on the train at the Fulton Street Station, usually with metro cards, but sometimes perhaps without.  The station looks abandoned at the bottom entrance;  it isn’t.