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the bookworms

“Whenever I see a daffodil,” chanted Francis to his friend Gunther, “I can never forget my girlfriend Muriel, the English major. Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud’ was always her favorite.”

“Oh I know that poem,” Gunther mused. “Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy were walking near a lake at Grasmere in Cumbria County. He was inspired by a shore lined with daffodils. It’s a classic of English Romantic poetry.”

“Wow!” Francis reminded him.” I wish we could get away from this dreary city to that relaxing environment.”

“Well,” Gunther nudged him, “Your habit of hanging around with bookworms helps.”

This week’s photo prompt was supplied by the Reclining Gentleman. Rochelle Wisoff~Fields, each week, guides us with Friday Fictioneers.

you know my name (look up my number)

My Name Is Larry

  1. My name is Larry. Officially I’m named Lawrence, after my mother’s father, who died in late August of 1959, slightly over two weeks before I was born.  Although I never got a chance to get to know my grandfather, I grew up constantly in touch with my Uncle Larry and my cousin Larry, on my father’s side.  Among my father’s relatives there have even been nine Joseph’s, and a bit too much repetition of other names too. Throughout the years, in order to differentiate from among us Larry’s, I was too often referred to as Little Larry, and even Baby Larry.  My niece and nephews, knowing that my full name is Lawrence, have often asked if I have ever gotten any mileage out of that variation of my name.   I remind them that under official circumstances it frequently comes up, in school, work, and anywhere else that may require me to be a bit formal.  Sister Miriam Therese, of the Sisters of Charity, was my fifth grade teacher at St. Gabriel’s in East Elmhurst. It was in her class that I was first reminded constantly that my name was Lawrence. She was quite strict about each student’s always being addressed and referred to by his first name.  Around the time of my twelfth birthday we moved from Jackson Heights to Lindenhurst. When kids in my new schools, Copiague Junior High School, and then Our Lady of Perpetual Help, asked me what my name was, I took a chance on introducing myself as Lawrence. The Copiague kids stuck with it for around the next three years. Somehow after that it faded away entirely.  In my Catholic school, though, things were a bit different. The first kid I met there was Jerry Antonacci. He asked me my name. I introduced myself as Lawrence. He then asked if he may call me Larry. I said yes and that was the end of it. Unlike certain other names, such as Anthony, David, Michael, and Peter, the name Lawrence simply doesn’t strike people as that interesting as far as always calling somebody by his full name. I see no point in ever bothering to change it. There have been times over the course of my lifetimes when it has struck me as somewhat annoying.  In general, though, it’s quite nice.

John Jr. online

anne’s bird poems

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melanie lynn griffin

emotional fitness training

Sparks From A Combustible Mind

daily post

leary2

tempus fugit, memento mori

“I’ve always been in the habit of visiting graveyards on Ash Wednesday each year,” Clarence reminded Gertrude. “Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”

“It’s so cold and windy,” she gasped, “but it’s a really good way to get ready for Lent.”

In the distance was the world they’d have soon to return to.

“Most of the time we have to play Martha,” she went on, “but it’s always necessary to give the regular doffing of the hat to Mary too.”

After a few hours they went home, back to their usual routine.

chateau-de-sable-ceayr

castles made of sand fall into the sea eventually

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fleener,” Doctor Fensterblau told Mabel as Harry’s favorite Hendrix song played in the background.

“We couldn’t save him.”

Just then Harry was greeted by a tall, dapper, gaunt stranger.

“Ah, welcome, Mr. Fleener!” exclaimed his host in an ominous voice.

“I’m Mr. Monahan. Do sign in at the gate, won’t you?”

“Where am I?” Harry demanded to know.

“You’ll get your explanation in good time, my friend,” was Monahan’s reply.

Harry thought back to his French classes. “‘Sable’ rhymes with ‘diable’, he mused.

“That’s not all they have in common,” Monahan reminded him.

Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us weekly in Friday Fictioneers, an attempt to write a hundred~word story based upon a picture. This week’s photo prompt was supplied by Ceayr.

hh-spinet

all the young dudes

It was the second week of our junior year at St. John the Baptist.

Mike, Bill and I were listening to “Fame” in our music lab.

“Lennon co-wrote it,” I boasted,”So it must be good.”

Mike reminded us of “Jet” from McCartney’s “Band On the Run” album.

“I thought the major was a lady, suffragette,” he intoned.

When we weren’t too busy ogling all the lovely girls in school, we were always talking about music.

Eventually, to avoid trouble with Sister Christophine, we sat down and behaved. In our heads, though, we were grooving to Bowie.

Each week we, along with the help of Rochelle Wisoff~Fields, attempt to write a hundred~word story, Friday Fictioneers, inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo prompt was provided by her husband, Jan W. Fields.

amy-reese

the in crowd

“The Limelight is the most happening club in all the Village,” intoned our notorious sidekick, Boy.

Since our school days, Boy has always been hep to the jive, so we reckoned we could trust him.

“Always make sure you tell ’em you know Effie,” he assured us.

As we walked inside, the bouncer stamped our hands, as a Charles Mingus-type bassist played “Good-Bye Pork Pie Hat” in the corner.

“I like it here,” I thought. “The espresso is strong. The vibes are hep. The existentialist oddballs are good for a laugh. I’ll stick around for a while longer.”

Rochelle Wisoff~Field leads us in our weekly attempt to write a fictional story of one-hundred words, Friday Fictioneers. This week’s photo prompt was contributed by Amy Reese.

melanie-greenwood

yet another beckett moment

“I’ve always had such a fondness for airports,” Albert told the pretty stewardess he met at the local terminal.

“When I was a boy, I lived within two miles of La Guardia, and my father practically always worked at Kennedy. In 1981 I even flew to Buffalo on the same plane as Cab Calloway.”

She kept him company as he waited for a friend of his, whom he was expecting within a half hour.

Hours went by and his friend never showed up.

“That miserable Godot has done it again!” he complained. “That’s at least the second time I know of”.

This week’s photo prompt is supplied by Melanie Greenwood. Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us weekly in Friday Fictioneers, an attempt to write a story of only one hundred words.