Distinctive Work


“I feel ridiculous in these leiderhosen,” Hannelore told Urs.  “Are you positive this was the only job you  could get us?”



“Relax,” he said. “We’re a cinch to do well. All we have to do is pop out the clock door every fifteen minutes and play ‘Ach du Lieber Augustin’ on our tuba and accordion.”



“Each hour, of course, we note the time,” he reminded her.  “It’s quite simple. You’ll see.”



“You just don’t get it, do you?” She reminded him.  “We’re in a clock! That doesn’t bother you?”



“You’re such a stick in the mud,” he replied.



Welcome back yet again to Rochelle’s

Friday Fictioneers.   Read all about it at her link.   J. Hardy Carroll has supplied this week’s photo prompt.




Major Adjustment


Clarence, recently widowed after sixty years of marriage, liked to reminisce about his wife Mabel.  A resident at Wilkes~Barre’s Little Flower Manor, he always played Kate Smith’s “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” when he felt nostalgic.



“That was our wedding song,” he cheerfully told visitors and friends.  Everyone noticed that he wasn’t handling things well but he never admitted it until he was alone in his room.



That was where he felt free to stare into space, in dead silence.  Until he admitted his problem, no one was able to help him.



Welcome back to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers. Read all about it on her page.  This week’s photo was supplied by Gah Learner .


Uneasy Lies the Head That Wears A Crown


D’Artagnan and Mecthilde~they always have pompous names~were looking into their mirror in dismay.



“I don’t understand, darling,” the queen said.  “Is it a threat about tomorrow, a reminder of yesterday?”



They’d  been plum horrified for years about the one disadvantage of their family’s curse. Their mirror kept showing them things, but without an explanation.



“Robespierre,” she asked their page, “Might you know where we could find someone who could help us interpret these messages, please?”



“Alas, Madame,” the servant admitted charily, “The cost of leadership is high.  One must always rely only upon one’s wits.”



Welcome back yet again to Rochelle’s  weekly Friday Fictioneers. Read her blog to find out what it’s all about.  This week’s photo prompt was generously contributed by Nathan Sowers and his grandmother, Dawn M. Miller .


The Willoughby Moment


Last night, as I often do, I took a ride on New York’s subways and the L.I.R.R.  I was confronted by the usual cast of characters~the bad musician, the disgruntled black radical on his soap box, and the young woman who routinely loses control of her bodily functions in one of the cars.



“Just once,” I told the conductor, “I’d really like to see a halcyon scene like that inside these cars.”





“Sir,” he explained.  “That’s a Willoughby moment.  We pass by here daily so each passenger can enjoy a respite from all the inevitable insanity.”



Welcome back, yet again, to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers. Read all about it, please, at her site.  This week, Sandra Crook supplies the photograph.

take me home country roads

‘Marry Arthur!’ they said!  ‘He’ll take you places you’ve never been!’ they said!” was all Gladys could pronounce.

“I know. I know.” her husband timidly replied.

“I love you, honey, ” she reminded him, “But Tucumcari, New Mexico. population forty- su’um?  For our honeymoon?!”

“On the bright side,” he reasoned, “It’s one of those quaint places where everyone’s named after someone in the Bible. Isn’t that so nice?”

“My big fear is,” she said, “We may be stuck here in big trouble. Remember Lot’s wife?”

Jean L. Hays supplies this week’s Photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers as Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us in a weekly attempt to write a story of one hundred words based upon a photo prompt.

so tired of waiting

“Hey Ophelia,” the terrified psychiatric patient asked the new nurse at Good Samaritan Hospital. “What’s that room outside for?”

“Never mind, Mr. Schmedlap,” she chided him.

Young pretty Ophelia, a recent graduate, specializing in psychiatric nursing, knew all about the kinds of patients who ended up in those separate rooms, isolated from all the rest.

“Just relax, Sir,” she advised, “And read your Newsday.”

In her imagination she couldn’t help wondering, “Will he be one of those people I keep hearing about?”

“Only time will tell,” she thought.

She went about her rounds. He kept busy. They both waited and hoped.

Each week Rochelle Wisoff~Fields leads us in Friday Fictioneers. Please read our hundred~word stories. This week’s photo prompt was supplied by Roger Bultot.

welcome to willoughby


I was born and raised in Willoughby and wouldn’t think of leaving. My job is really important. I work in a band playing nineteenth century music to entertain tourists who come here wanting to escape their dull ordinary lives. Harried city slickers regularly visit to listen to authentic versions of songs like “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” and “Oh My Darling Clementine”.

Beware of one thing, though, if you dare visit. Our village is perhaps too authentically anachronistic. Some poor souls plum forget that it’s all in illusion. Willoughby plays nasty tricks on them. Think twice before coming here.

all we need is just a little patience

There are different waiting periods for different circumstances. Some things take only minutes and some can even be expected to take decades. Each individual should find out what the average time is for the specific goal he’s after and take it from there. Of course often someone may be expected to be kept waiting for an inordinate length of time. Under those circumstances it pays to be at least a bit pushy.  I most certainly don’t ever intend to wait for an hour on a phone while some nasty customer service characters subject me to annoying music while they feel free to twiddle their thumbs. Still, one must accept what one must accept. Unfortunately I’ve always been quite impatient and that never works out to anyone’s advantage.  The only answer to the question about how long someone should wait for something is, as long as it takes.

moody blues

Unfortunately I’ve never really noticed whether I’ve been any good at paying attention to the signs that may point to someone else’s happiness or unhappiness. I can understand that there are ways someone can recognize another’s mood up to a certain point, through his gestures, facial expressions, tones of voice and other mannerisms.  Perhaps I’ve simply never been any good at figuring those kinds of things out though. At the very least I’ve most certainly never really paid a significant kind or degree of attention to anything of that nature. If it’s not at least relatively obvious then I shouldn’t suppose I can be expected to recognize it. A lot of times someone will try, often unsuccessfully, to hide his true emotions. That may be a part of my problem. Confusing  signals can lead to frustration.

let it snow let it snow let it snow

If ever I could count on the unquestioning service of a perfectly obedient robot that could be available at all times to relieve me of only one nightmarishly awful chore, I should very much like to have one that would shovel snow for me.  When it comes to difficulty all other chores very much seem to pale by comparison.   This is made especially true by the fact that it’s always outside in miserable weather.  Bad weather in general has always bothered me.   Snow and ice get me crazy.  I’ve never been known for an abundance of physical strength  and shoveling is one of the things that require quite an exceptional degree of endurance. By definition a robot doesn’t have to deal with frustration and exhaustion.  All it needs is either a plug, battery or some other power source.  Unlike me it will never complain about hypothermia or boredom.  I should only need it for part of the year anyway, although winter, when it gets here, seems so unbearably long.