1. A
2. F
3. I
4. L
5. N
6. V
7. X
8. Z
9. E
10. H
11. K
12. M
13. T
I’m also quite partial to W and Y (not necessarily in that order).
The other ELEVEN (one of my favorite numbers, by the way) I only use because I must.
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More T13s Here
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I’m very happy that my (174-word) flash fiction, Dejaburger, has been accepted for publication in Potato Soup Journal.
Projected publication date is Valentine’s Day, 2/14/19. This date’s perfect because Dejaburger is a Mother/Son story, and 2/14 would have been my mother’s 92nd birthday.
Ably edited by Julie Howard, PSJ might, technically, be considered a “fledgling” but I can attest to this: if Julie and her cohorts keep publishing the fine work they’ve presented so far, we’ll all still be enjoying a Potato Soup Feast for some time to come.
You should definitely check them out.
I’ll post a link to Dejaburger when it’s published.
Full Disclosure: I am NOT a pet owner, for a wide variety of excellent reasons. When my Blogamigos talk about their pets—sometimes referred to as “furbabies” (ick)—I often make jokes about barbecue suitability. No serious harm intended, I assure you.
Here’s something a little less virulent, for today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt:
Cats, cats
The museful pet
The more you have
the more you get
The more you get
the more you want
(a Buddhist’s cat
might be his aunt)
So keep your cats
and keep them well
they might come back
you just can’t tell
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RDP Sunday – PETS
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I usually post my Sixer much earlier on Saturdays than I am doing today. But there’s a really good reason. I got totally lost, mesmerized by the latest issue of The Cabinet of Heed.
If you’re not familiar with this particular publication, I urge you to get acquainted ASAP.
I’m not in the current (just released) issue (#16), though I consider myself lucky that they’ve chosen me in the past (“Coyote”), last February.
The Cabinet of Heed publishes regularly, every issue containing around twenty absolutely fantastic works of poetry and short fiction.
The Cabinet is scrupulously polished and buffed by its faithful servant, Mr. Simon Webster.
I started reading the current issue as soon as I saw it announced in my mailbox this morning, and I just couldn’t stop. That’s why I’m a little late posting my Sixer.
Check it out. You won’t be disappointed.
THE CABINET OF HEED
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Six Word Saturday
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I don’t know why it took me so damned long to procure my hard copy of Blackbird Dock, the 2018 Summer edition of The Linnet’s Wings. It is a gorgeously produced, 120-page assemblage of fantastic literature (if I may say so myself) and absolutely stunning artwork.
I hereby offer my huge thanks to Oonah Joslin and all of the other editorial and production folks at this outstanding publication for having consistently delivered such a beautiful and totally satisfying product. And to all the other contributing authors I can only say that I am honored to be included among you.
You can read my meager contribution “The Skip“ HERE.
(for vic mizzy)
She’d rather have stayed in Manhattan.
Here, in the land of acres and acres
of nothing but green, in the land
where there’s nothing lacy, no Times Square,
no Park Avenue anywhere to be seen,
only fresh air and endless chores,
she still longs for a little Fifth Avenue Saks
or Macy’s, or any of the other stores.
He, on the other hand, still neatly attired but
at least more comfy in his business suit and tie,
attempts to fix the ancient tractor, imagines
that life amid greenery will set him free;
thinks he only needs to walk down the road,
visit the General Store, talk to the neighbor’s
pig, purchase a bag of Mr. Haney’s Magic Seeds.
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RDP Friday — CHORE
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The “out-of-standard” task today from the Imaginary Garden is to write about a “lesser-known cryptid.”
(A cryptid is an animal presumed to exist by people, even though there is no valid scientific evidence to prove it is real. And oh sure…there are a few that come to mind right away: bigfoot, the lochness monster, yeti, chupacabra. Those cryptids get all the attention, all the fanfare.) But…
Lake Memphremagog, +/- 40 sq mi of water bordering Vermont (US) and Canada, has its own alleged “monster”:
I know the things they say about her.
I’ve lived here long enough, sat around
plenty of late-night campfires, heard
all the close-call “She-almost-ate-my-
baby” tales, listened to about a million
women say, “My-husband-says-he-saw-her-
but-he-was-really-really-drunk,” watched
the eager tourists rent their rowboats
and set out for the lake’s deepest middle,
only to return deflated, with nothing but
empty cameras and really nasty sunburns.
But I can tell you this: Memphre’s out there,
swimming around. She is. She is. She is.
I’ve never really seen her but I know she’s
there, swimming. In the shallows.
I don’t swim in the lake that often, and
I only swim in the shallows, but she always
shows up to swim with me; always waits
until I’m relaxed and treading water; always
swims up real slow and makes a pass or two
between my thighs, then swims away. I know
she must like it at least as much as I do.
She always comes back for more.
So don’t tell me there’s no Memphre. Don’t.
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More monstrous poetry at:
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads
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