Friday Flash 55 — never mind

"The mind is everything. What you think you become.”

-Buddha

The Collator by Eric Joyner


Thinking about No-Mind without a mind, Roby wondered if one must have a mind to comprehend the meaning of No-Mind.

Was I once molten debris from a supernova’s collapse? Could I next be a tree, then turtle, then Turk? Was this boulder once my brother? Is the Earth my mother? Humans must have deeper thoughts....

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Friday Flash 55 — the ice ship

Set Designer: Rhea Thierstein
Image: Tim Walker


The elephant in the room was the ice ship. The house was magnificent in every way except for, well, you know. Even the ice sculpture was perfect, just not inside the perfect room that they had always dreamed about, like a sculpture itself.

"We can work with it," said the Ms. and the Mr. agreed.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Combo: Mag 150 and Friday Flash 55

She never spoke of it afterward — the day she slid into and out of ivory lace that played so teasingly against pink that pink had a patina, the day she stood barefoot at the rough cabin door and sought meaning in ether rising from shoe prints pressed into the mossy path, imprinted into her memory.

:::

Written for The Mag: Mag 150 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image by Daniel Murtagh)

and also for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Friday Flash 55 — in living color

Image by Skip via Pixdaus

I will return here in winter and doormats will trap muck from my boots.

 Some curious snowflakes will race inside ahead of me, pushed by icy gusts.

  Then— like rainbow lace— they’ll flutter on drifts of painted air, will dance

 in shafts of bright all the way to the top in living color before dying.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man. 

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Friday Flash 55 — Felix & Puff

Dragon flying over beautiful clouds with tongue by Stephanie Roeser


When Felix was five he sketched himself parachuting, while singing
"Puff the Magic Dragon." He believed Puff was not dead in a cave,
but flying high where he wanted to go someday.

Felix forgot about Puff when he grew up but Puff remembered. Gliding
over New Mexico, Puff waited for Felix to make supersonic history.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man. 

 The picture that proves Felix Baumgartner always dreamed of reaching for the skies

This is the picture proving that even from the age of five, Felix Baumgartner, the world's first supersonic skydiver, dreamed of reaching for the skies.  [Source: The Telegraph-science]

(For a real trip visit Felix Baumgartner's website here.)

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Friday Flash 55 — new Obama campaign canvasser

This volunteer was waiting outside Obama headquarters on Thursday morning, an early bird. Although the crew was dazed from the debate, and the guy had done something artsy to his appearance, he still seemed familiar. "Hello, boys and girls." he said. "Put brochures right here on my PBS clipboard. I will work dawn to dusk."
                                                                                                                                       Contemplating by Paul Johnson



Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Friday Flash 55 — outcast as angel

A Morning In Tilden 2 by Michelle Sixta

The outcast as angel. That is how she saw herself. While working at forgiving herself 

she had long since forgiven those who shunned her. She was angelic in that way and 

in the way her downcast eyes sought the lowly, interceding long enough to buy them 

time, enveloping them in layers of light while crying.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Mag 126 — She

She happened to have loved him. Why would you care if he —or she— were married to others, if he was French or Arabian, or Texan like your kin?

Regrets? Hell, no. She happened to have loved him. She will, years from now, regret that she happened to have smoked, but she will never find fault with the mystical connection she had with that man.

You, on the other hand, may later regret that you planted your butt in a chair at work all week—including lunchtime, and that you returned home to plant it again in a recliner while you criticized women who look like her on TV:

Hair's a mess..... Skirt's too short.....Is she even wearing a bra?..... Is she part Black or Hispanic? Well, I guess false eyelashes are making a comeback..... 

It's a shame that planting your butt in church pews all those Sundays didn't produce something more beneficial than condemnation of those who aren't like you.

Like her. She doesn't know you but if she did she might ask you for a light. She would smile and you would see how gracefully her eyes held tears that you would never see fall. She would not even notice your flag pin, nor the political or religious material you clung to, as she fanned smoke away from your direction. You might think her detached, but it is only that she understands transparency and flux. Everything is temporary in her world and the lack of importance she attaches to you could offend you or you might use it as a pinpoint from which to free her from your judgment and to see yourself.

She happened to have loved him.

Written for The Mag: Mag 126 that inspired with the above photo prompt

 (Yesterday's Dreams, by Jack Vettriano).

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Mag 119 — the dancer

Her beloved apartment was a six-floor walk-up in one of the older buildings near the park. The stone masons who toiled to craft the impressive slabs that distinguished it from the nearby structures composed of brick and wood were the same craftsmen who built the grand, sweeping curved drive leading to the marble conservatory across the river. Her great-grandfather was one of them.

"How will I know when I've made it to the top?" she had asked her father once when she was a nine-year-old ballet student dreaming of fame.

She remembered her father's reply. "It isn't important how high you go, Sweetie. What's important is that you live your life so that you can always hold your head high."

Now, years later, she enjoyed nothing more than gazing out from her window over the tops of the row of cherry trees at dusk, admiring the angles and patterns they cast on her small dance studio across the street.

Written for The Mag: Mag 119 that inspired with the above photo prompt (House At Dusk, 1935, Edward Hopper).

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Mag 117 — forgiveness

Sitting on either side of Manuela at the table, both boys were thinking the same thing. She was the latest arrival at the center and would be asked by the missionaries to offer the blessing before all the children were allowed to eat. She seemed in shock and detached and they wanted to warn her about the rule.

Hoi said, "You will be asked if you want to say grace before the meal."

Banjo added in a whisper, "It will not be a request, but an order."

Manuela smelled the fishy broth and sweet fruit in front of them. She was no longer starving because she had been given hard bread, rice, and juice while en route to the center, but the thought of fresh food made her stomach rumble. The sound reminded her of nighttime warfare in the hills miles from her father's house. She sighed, remembering how the faraway rumbling grew closer and closer, then shivered thinking about the end of her world.

"I will do what I must to survive," she told them. Her words held forgiveness for the boys who three months before had slaughtered her family while she hid under her cot — boys as young as Hoi and Banjo.

Written for The Mag: Mag 117 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(The Meal, Paul Gauguin, 1891).

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Mag 113 -- the town blushed

Greetings. How many of you are there?

Halo there!
It is I, alone.

Tell me true, have you been painting the town red?

No. The town blushed, and my clothes became flushed with color as I brushed by.

What of that handsomest of men over there, 

the one carrying the naked paper doll? 

I bow to him, indeed I do. And why? Because his face blushes, but his hands stay cool to keep the flowers he holds fresh.

 

What will he do with the bouquet and that pale paper doll?

He has shown the doll to the driver of the carriage so he will recognize the girl when he finds her inside the town. The horses are very strong, very swift, so it will not take long to find her near the gold statue. The driver will whisper to her to jump on board for the journey out of the village where her love awaits.

 

Then her love will present the flowers to her?

Yes. And he will kiss her lips...it has been long since they were parted.

And what of you, after they are gone what will you do?

 

I will continue taking my census of sinners.
Tell me what you will now do.

I will come to my senses and get the hell out of here!

Written for The Mag: Mag 113 that inspired with the above photo prompt 

(Red Roofs, Marc Chagall, 1954).


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Morning

Image by Micah Holtgraves

When morning came to this place like a meditation on harmony and hope,
he took a photo to remember that seeing clearly and moving forward
were perhaps the truest ways to honor the love that grew there
before withering into petals of mourning.

Still, his eyes occasionally traced the low horizon that birthed the sun.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words- For the G-Man.

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Mag 112 -- crack

The teacher showed this image to her third-grade class a few days before spring break.

"What do you think it means?" she chirped.

From a cacophony of laughter, and a crowd of pronouncements: 

{"That's dumb." "She is broken." "Are the eggs bleeding?" "It is about space travel." "She's an alien." "She's hot." "She's dreaming." "It is a bad dream." "She's allergic to dogs." She lost her job and can't take her dog with her." "Is she homeless?" "She is queen of the egg people." "It's the end of the world." "She is searching for food." "It's about coloring eggs."}

Leslie's thin voice emerged and, in a matter of moments, prevailed.

"It's about my mother and crack, and how she can't take care of me anymore. You can pretend that I am the puppy watching her go away."

The teacher moved on to the next image, while making a note to ask for Leslie's records at the end of the day.

Written for The Mag: Mag 112 that inspired with the above photo prompt 

(image by djajakarta, Egg Island).

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Mag 111 -- architect's obituary

(Obituary con't.)

a quirky nest retreat (its location a secret 

to this day) and the frosted glass Polar 

Institute Building are among his most 

famous buildings.

The celebrated architect, whose vision-

ary minimalist work was prized world-

wide, publicly announced his retirement 

after the surprise closing of his head-

quarters in Milan. He later shunned the
media, agreeing to only one interview 

before his death. When asked to sum his 

life he said:

"It was a life -- not belonging to me but 

to art -- lived in fits of passion with

intervals of meditation. Passion was the 

work itself and meditation fed the 

creative spark. I lived, I will die. My 

buildings will live beyond me, some

more appreciated than others. And

the nest is history."



Written for The Mag: Mag 111 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image: ParkeHarrison, Study of Nest 1994.


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Intimates

She finally loved herself for who he really was.

They were intimates together in that body that bled no more, was growing hair where it always belonged. His doctors promised her that surgery was feasible once the hormones adjusted.

He told her it was time to cut their hair and call their folks in Natchez.








Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words- For the G-Man,
and also
for The Mag: Mag 110 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image: Duane Michals).


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Friday Flash 55 -- Walt and Anna

CNN photo

So it has come to this...thought Anna, as Walt amused himself on his smart phone. She reflected beside the reflecting pool on how the years had separated them. 

Walt smiled delightedly as he confirmed their Netherlands vacation with Expedia. Soon, he would surprise Anna with her dream trip to the land of her ancestors.

Links to more weekly FF55s (works of fiction in 55 words)
are at Mr. KnowItAll, the G-Man. 

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Mag 105 -- phone booth on the playa

There is a phone booth situated on a semi-desolate playa, in the middle of nowhere, really, because the lights visible against the mountains on the horizon are far away in another state of mind. There is no phone inside the booth and the location obliterates cell phone coverage. Still, it stands as a beacon for late-night communicators. Knowledge of the phone booth's existence is passed from one communicator to another not by word-of-mouth, but from state of mind to mind. Only the most sensitive among us will ever be privy to its playa power but for those who are nothing in life will ever be as welcome or astonishing as what happens there.

The Operator always knows who arrives at the booth and who the caller is longing to talk with once again. Neon collages, depicting the caller's memories of the loved one who has passed, appear on the glass walls as the connection is made and their lifetimes together are displayed in changing holograms for the two late-night communicators. For some, it is a dizzying circus of the senses. Others have found complete redemption there. The loneliest have been known to return night after night until madness sets in. The most grateful visitors find fulfillment. A few have passed beyond peace and disappeared onto the dark playa, needing nothing more from this life.

This is how to get there:

Written for The Mag (top image by Eric Mahoney) with a heart full of sorrow, as the health of our dear Old English Sheepdog, Abby, failed so suddenly this week and she left us on Feb. 23. What I wouldn't give to be able to communicate with her, to squeeze her one more time....

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Mag 104 -- floating

Just like this, she would call to the children before closing her eyes and putting her head back into the water.

They lay on their stomachs at the end of the pier and watched as their mother sank deeply into meditation while her legs slowly moved from beneath the water and floated to the top. Her arms spread out from her body and relaxed into position. Her fingers moved in rhythm with the small ripples lapping toward the shore. When larger waves came, pushing the water toward her, the angles of her body surfed what came her way. It seemed that her hair tried to follow the waves as it fanned out as far as it could before bidding farewell to caressing splashes. 

Aren't you afraid? The water is so dark! (her young son) 
How do you do it; how do you stay up? (her tiny daughter)
Silence smiled. (no replies, so deep was her relaxation) 

The children thought her so beautiful, their mother. But she seemed to belong less to them when she bobbed in the water and they gazed down from the pier. It was as if each time she went out there to float they lost her a bit more, as if a drop more of her love stayed out there when she returned to them.

Toweling off, she would shake her head to release water from her ears and her hair would send sprays that dotted the dry planks of wood underfoot. The sparkle of moonlight in her eyes was what the children searched for then, for when they saw it they knew she was back with them.

Howdoyoustayupinthewatersodarkhowdoyoufloataren'tyouafraid? they asked again and again.

They waited for the same mysterious answer she always gave, the words that both assured and excited them:  
There is nothing to fear. Many are there to hold and protect me. 

Visit The Mag to read other Mag 104s inspired by the photo prompt above (image by Christophe Gilbert).

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Combo: Mag 102 and Friday Flash 55

Bre’s eighth birthday bash was smashing:
Crepe streamers waved and twirled high above
A festive array of bright hats and marbled party blowers.

Giant beach ball Pinata was hit and came crashing.
Young girls sang loudly with Bre’s karaoke gift.
Bieber surprised her on Skype!

…While dad and brother were a-bout foils in the backyard.

                                                                    MLydiaM ~ February 2012


I first read about the poetry form called Sevenling* in a post last month by Grace at everyday amazing and have been anxious to try it.

The image above, Red Spot II, by Wallisy Kandinsky, is the prompt at Magpie Tales this week. I am also linking this for Flash Fiction 55.

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*Poetry form:  Sevenling - a poetry form of 7 lines.  The first three lines should contain an element of three - three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Then, lines four to six should similarly contain an element of three, connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition.

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Friday Flash 55 -- Her To-Do List

Links to more of this week's FF55s (works of fiction in 55 words)
are at Mr. KnowItAll, the G-Man.

{I created this FF55 at Clkr.com, where it is now a part of the public domain.}

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