Hmmm . . .

No, that's a cat.

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I want to start Cleveland Rocks.

And until my husband - who has constituted himself, with my blessing, the Keeper of All Biographical Information for the legendary fictional Chicago and Delta blues session guy my narrator, JP Kinkaid, will be inducting into the R&R Hall - gets me that info, I'm DIW.

Damn it.

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I have apparently sold a novel-length thing.

Yay, Gus!

Tell more. Title? Publisher? Release date? Background? Was it plucked from the slush pile, or was there some other process?

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Moving On

(a slightly different take on picture 2)

"Mama?"

They ignore me, eating like pigs, wolfing down the heavy food, sausage and noodles. They eat and they eat, and I have nothing.

"Mama?"

I don't understand. I came down from my bed. I was sick, so many days, but I'm better now, the illness is past. I want my dinner. I'm hungry. Why are they ignoring me? Can't they see me?

Uncle Jan stands, and takes a picture. "When Wolfgang is better," he says, "we will take one with him."

Above my head, the ceiling grows bright, opens. I wave goodbye. Perhaps, in heaven, there will be dinner.

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(This is done ignoring the caption, which I find off-putting.)

Photo #4. Word count: 100

I was three, watching the buggy approach. "That's your mother's people." Grandfather was in the house before they passed.

I was five; she came back. She stayed a mile away. She never came to see me.

I was 15 when she sent for me.

I was 16; Adeline was born; she sent me away.

I was 22; she was made a deaconess—pillar of the church, her many friends said. At her request, I attended service and luncheon. At her request, I posed with her. There's another—me kissing her cheek—at her request. At her request, I then left.

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Interesting that we consider the folks in Picture 2 to be German.

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Me, I love the caption on #4:

I never knew Mom when she had fun. By the time I was old enough to notice, she was just Mom, bustling around the kitchen, making sure the house was nice for us kids and Dad. She was never mean, exactly, just intent on making sure everything was in its place, done on time, taken care of. But every once in a while, after a glass or two of wine with dinner, she would start talking about her honeymoon to San Francisco, and she’d get the giggles. Couldn’t stop laughing. You’d never know it from looking at her, would you?

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Me, I love the caption on #4:

Don't you think it's sort of mean of whoever-it-was to post that sort of caption about random strangers she found a picture of, and then posted on a website for anyone to see?

Full disclosure: the man totally resembles my grandfather (it's not him; wrong era; wrong location) so I probably feel more protective of them.

To tell the truth though, I always have trouble with doing the picture prompt drabbles. I do them sometimes, but I feel funny, making up the stories. I feel badly I villainized some woman I don't know. I saw someone else slash the two soldiers in another, and wondered what their reaction would be.

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I assumed the caption was what was written on the back of the photo -- no?

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I assumed the caption was what was written on the back of the photo -- no?

If it was, that's different (and funny, if the woman wrote it about herself). It didn't read to me like it was.

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