A man walks into a bar . . .

but it isn’t a bar. 

This prompt comes from, The Pocket Muse; Ideas & inspirations for writing,” by Monica Wood. I offered this prompt to two different sessions; once for 10 minutes, the other for 20 minutes.

When I give a prompt, I always add that they are just “suggestions” and writers are free to write on any subject or theme. I also encourage them to alter a prompt when needed. “What you write today is what you’re supposed to write.” I heard that line at my AWA training and try to say it at each session. It helps to take the pressure off and get folks writing, not thinking (aka, being self-critical).

I hope you have as much fun reading these as we had writing them!

StockSnap_L2M7OAQ85S

 

A Man Walks into a bar . . .

Scott Keene

The place was called, House of Hades, and he thought it was a bar. He thought the martini glass in bright blue and pink neon had been a dead giveaway. But he was wrong.
Inside, the light was dim and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. There was a long counter that would have served as a bar, if this had been a bar. Behind the counter, there was a man who was dressed more like a card dealer at a casino than as a bartender.

The floor and walls were coated in shiny lacquer that gave the entire place the feeling of being ultra clean. There were little tables that looked more suited for children’s playtime than the kind of tables where adults might enjoy a cocktail over easy conversation.
Along the back wall, there was a sign for a restroom – non-gender specific – and what looked like a heavily-curtained doorway. A doorway to what, he wondered?

He was about to turn back for the exit when the man behind the counter handed a slender volume toward him—a notebook of some sort. He took the book, and the man said nothing to him and made no facial expression of any kind.

He opened the book. There were no pages inside, just the front and back cover of what appeared to be some kind of menu.

Scott Keene likes to create scenes that pull the reader into a moment in time – moody, tense and mysterious, leaving the reader craving more, but not (he hopes) in a frustrating way.

 

A Man Walks Into A Bar
Danita J. Kurtz

A man walks into a bar. It isn’t an ordinary bar, but a cacophony of humanity flowing in from everywhere to this lonely spot at the edge of the world. Each person struggles to maintain their sanity as news of aliens from a planet far away races closer to earth.

Life was normal just as recently as last week. People went to work or attended school, all following a pretty regular routine. Normality ended when breaking news interrupted a regularly scheduled program and showed space invaders traveling in ships as big as planets, warp speed toward earth. Fighter jets from various nations were caught on film being vaporized in mid-air while trying to protect earth from imminent danger. This alone caused world-wide panic.

Anyone with means packed what they could and rushed to this remote location reported as the only place on earth not in the ships projectory. Humanity gathered in what, on any ordinary day, could be considered an oasis. Today, it is known as ground zero for frightened travelers and resistance fighters planning strategies to keep earth safe.

Around noon, I watched him walk into the bar and was relieved to finally see someone who looked like me. He could even be from my tribe. I based my opinion solely on his features; the strong aquiline nose, the tinge of olive skin, and the proud look of my people etched prominently on his handsome face.

I, myself, arrived only a week prior and worked behind the scenes to stamp my own ticket to who knows where. The surge of humanity vied ruthlessly for limited space on the two newly constructed rocket-condo ships with a capacity for just 200 passengers and 50 crew members.

I hung around fellow outcasts. We represented different ethnicities making us somewhat invisible to the smug people waving useless cash, now considered less important than toilet paper. Tickets were supposed to be given to the world’s top scientists, physicians and other persons picked for their importance. However, a fat guy named Frankie was heavily influenced by cash, just in case peace did not prevail. He was determined to become rich off the wealthy clientele trying to buy their way out of here.

I was lucky enough to snag two crew tickets due to my skill with engines. My Dad taught me everything I know, and I took full advantage of that knowledge to prove I deserved passage. That’s when I discovered an extra ticket stuck to the bottom and kept it hidden in a special pocket located over my heart. When I saw him walk in, I knew, somehow, instinctively, my extra ticket would be his for the asking, but I had to know for sure. I fought my way through the maddening crowd and made it to his side.
“Hi, my name is April Spring Flower,” I managed to whisper loud enough for his ears alone, keeping both fingers crossed behind my back.

Somewhat surprised, he turned and looked straight at me. He grinned
“Hello April Spring Flower, my name is Tony Grey Wolf,” he answered quietly. His confident voice and brown eyes that strongly resembled his animal spirit, the wolf, put me at ease.
“I walked many days only to find you here.” He said wearily. “And I like what I see,” he continued before flashing me a tired, but gorgeous smile.

My nerves vanished and I felt relieved to find my soul mate. If survival was indeed in our future, then I think we will get along just fine together.

Danita enjoys writing for young adults and is currently seeking publication for her first book in a series that introduces Altea, a girl striving to become a warrior in an era when females are strictly forbidden such knowledge. She hopes to inspire the love of reading in everyone and encourages all writers to write for the sheer joy of writing.

 

A Man Walks into a Bar, but it’s Not a Bar

Sally McCarty

If he were less vain, he would have been wearing his glasses and might have seen what was printed on the small sign across the street, the one next to the big sign that said Eat, Drink, and Be Merry. He had asked a buddy on his construction job where he could chill out with a cold beer. The buddy responded by pointing in the direction of the big sign, so he headed there after clocking out.

It looked like the door under the sign was the entrance to the cleverly named bar, but when he got inside, he had to blink a few times to believe what he saw. The small print on the adj­­­­­­­­­oining sign, the one that his vanity had caused him to miss, read,  F­­­­or Tomorrow You May Die.  Instead of a cleverly named bar, he was in a cleverly (some would say deceptively) named funeral parlor.

As he looked around, still stunned, he made an even more fatal (pardon the pun) error – he made eye contact with a salesman. And quite the persuasive salesman he was. So much so that the next hour, the one he had intended to spend pounding down a few cold ones, was spent planning his funeral.

He chose a manly-looking mahogany coffin with bronze handles and a woodsy scene inside the lid screen-printed on the camouflage silk lining. He specified that only Kenny Rogers music should be played at the funeral service and named one of his hunting buddies to present his eulogy. After working out a few other details, he wrote a check for the down payment (good thing it was a payday). Then, still craving that cold beer, he asked the friendly salesman where the nearest bar was.

“Right next door,” he said. “Under the sign that says, Eat, Drink and be Merry. Our doors are so close together and our sign is so small that people get confused and walk in here by mistake. We get a lot of business that way,” he chuckled.

Sally Baker McCarty is retired from a career in health insurance regulation, advocacy, and policy analysis. She is new to Long Beach and new to creative writing. Sally is anxious to develop her creative writing skills and to see the stories that have been swirling in her head for years materialize.

 

A woman walks into a bar . . .

Desiree Kannel

“She’s like a Barry Manilow song come to life.”

“Who?” Marty asked as he let the last ounce of almost too cold coffee slide down his throat. He set the oversize, blue mug down on the small round table that sat between them. It was his first date with her, Allison, but his seventh try at online dating. She had picked the place. Obviously.

Marty never understood the whole coffee house culture; folks wasting whole afternoons slurping down cups of $5 coffee, eyes glued to laptops. He was more of a Folgers and big screen kind of guy. The place she had picked looked like it belonged on the streets of Paris, France; not Corona, California.

But so far, the company and the conversation had outweighed his slight annoyance with the venue. After six unsuccessful first dates, this number seven held promise. Reason number one? She was funny and didn’t take herself too seriously. Her last statement peeked his interest, and he leaned in to hear more.

She lifted an eyebrow and pointed her head towards the past middle-aged woman who had just walked through the door. The first thing Marty noticed was that she was overdressed. The second was that her overdressed clothes had seen better days. He turned back to Allison for an explanation.

“Oh, it’s some crazy urban legend,” she began. “Poor Thing still thinks this place is the bar where some gangster shot her fiancé.”

Desiree is the founder and lead facilitator of Rose Writers Workshop. She began her creative journey about 15 years ago after a series of jobs that barely paid the bills and made her miserable. She started Rose Writers in 2008 and has never looked back.

 

Thanks for reading!

A Bit of Holiday Wisdom

I baked my father a sweet potato pie for Christmas. Something I haven’t done in years. When I was in high school, my dad – who was missing his mother’s cooking – had me call her in Texas to get instructions on how to make his two favorite dishes: smothered pork chops and sweet potato pie. I remember listening to her directions in between that deep, throaty laugh of hers.

This was not a recipe to recite from; just her memories and experience.

“How much cinnamon?” I asked her.

“Just enough,” she answered. And then that laugh.

Making that pie yesterday brought back memories of her and the other women in my family who have passed on; strong, smart and loving women who worked harder and longer than I know I ever will.

This morning, I stood behind my daughter as she made her first baked macaroni and cheese casserole. She was glad that I was “finally” teaching her how to make it.

“I want to learn how to make your peach cobbler too,” she said while I cautioned her to keep stirring the boiling macaroni.

Through all of this, I realized what this thing we call the Holiday Season is all about. It’s the time when we make time to do those things we don’t normally do; a time when we reminisce with family about those who have gone before us; a time when we look at those that are still here, and silently thank God for their presence in our lives.

So, whether you say Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays or Happy Chanukah, may the Spirit of the Season be in your hearts, and carry you through the rest of the year.

Holly

Holly

Sucking Lemons; A short story, Part 1

        A letter from my granddaughter Allison came today. She updated me on her roommate situation, her classes at the university, her new part-time job at the coffee shop, and how the rain and overcast days were starting to get to her. She asked about my bingo games, how things were progressing on my Soaps, and asked if the nicotine patch was working. She signed the letter with love and wrote, “Tell Mom I said hi.” She must think I’m crazy. I lit another cigarette and hid the letter in the bottom dresser drawer along with the others.

When Allison was growing up, not a week went by that her mother didn’t remind me of how I had failed her. But over 30 years of parenting, and 18 years of grandparenting have taught me a couple of things. First, never get into an argument that starts with, “You were a lousy mother,” because there is nothing that can be said to change the mind. Second, some kids you just cannot please, no matter what, so the best thing to do is just get on with your own life and hope for the best.

            The trouble with my daughter, Elizabeth, is that she’s been so busy trying to not be like me, that she hasn’t taken any time or trouble to be herself. Whenever I dare to mention that she should go out or get a date or something, she acts like I’m asking her to abandon her daughter on the church steps. She then tells me how she doesn’t have time for “that stuff,” because working and looking after Allison takes all her time. After that it’s her speech about sacrifices and how that goes hand in hand with good parenting.

Did I do the bake sales, PTA meetings or Girl Scouts? No. Not my thing. But I did go through a morning sickness that would have made the Devil beg for mercy. And then those damn stretch marks, followed by a heartburn that kept me up all night. I don’t think I got three straight hours of sleep the whole pregnancy. Some days were so bad I thought I was going to die. And if that weren’t enough, my husband had gone off to fight the Vietnamese way on the other side of the world, and my dad was too busy telling me “I told you so” to be of any help. It was just me alone and getting fatter and sicker every day. And then that officer from the Army came one morning while I was forcing dry toast down my throat. Elizabeth popped out that same day, about six hours later. According to the calendar, she was five weeks early and of course the doctors said it was the stress of finding out about Elton that brought it on. But I wasn’t stressed. I was pissed thinking about how I was going to raise a baby all by myself. Did I sacrifice? You bet your ass I did. I had to move in with my cranky dad, give up all my social activities, and spend the best years of my life breastfeeding, changing diapers, and cleaning up vomit. Dad was about as much help as a bump on a log. He’d bounce his granddaughter on his knee once in a while, but I couldn’t even leave her with him for a bathroom break without him accusing me of dumping her on him. In my opinion, those first five years constitute the biggest sacrifice any mother should have to make for their child. After my dad died and I got the house and a nice little inheritance, I declared my sacrificing days over. And that’s when the problems with my daughter started.

            Now that she’s older and a mom herself, I can see how Elizabeth confused this idea of sacrificing with suffering and misery. So I had a little fun now and then. So I dated, had my gentlemen friends over. They weren’t all bad. One or two of them had some real potential. And this was the ’70s—everybody smoked and had an occasional cocktail back then. We never did any of that illegal stuff; that’s where I drew the line, but anything up to that point was all right, and seeing that this is a free country, and that I was a grown woman with the natural wants and tendencies of any other woman, I had a pretty good time. But every visitor would take one look at my daughter and ask what was wrong with her. Not wrong like she was retarded or something—wrong like she looked like she had been sucking on lemons all day.

Elizabeth was a child who absolutely refused to have a good time. Her dad was the same way, a real stick-in-the-mud.

            She moved out of my house when she was 20 years old, right after she got married. She had graduated with good grades but not good enough to get a free ride at the university, so she stuck it out at the community college for two years and ended up with a piece of paper that landed her a decent job at the local bank. And then she met Dirk. She had reluctantly tagged along with me to the Bingo hall one night, and after about three rounds she got bored and went outside. He was there too, taking a break from his job at the bookstore across the street. The first time I saw them together I knew she was hooked. Just like her daddy had hooked me, so I figured all I could do was just sit back and let the little romance unfold. A few hours before their wedding, I asked Liz what she loved most about Dirk. She answered, all dreamy like, “He doesn’t mind shopping with me. He enjoys it.” The bridesmaids sighed like that was the most romantic thing they had ever heard. I had a different reaction.

            Maybe that’s where I messed up. I knew something was fishy about that guy, but I didn’t say a word. I kept telling myself I knew how she’d react, so I kept quiet and stayed quiet through it all—the courtship, the wedding, everything. But then she came to me one August in tears, telling me how he just confessed to her.

            “He told me that he’s really a gay man,” she cried. When I didn’t answer, she turned on me. “Did you know? Could you tell?”

            I told her no, which was not completely true. Besides, Allison was almost two by then, so what was the point? As far as I was concerned it was a lot more tolerable to have a man run off with another man than with another woman. I’ve had that happen to me more than once, and it sucks. I told her, “Look, at least now you know. He could have kept this secret for years, and you would have just suffered through it, not knowing.”

            “What do you mean suffer? Dirk and I were happy. I was happy.”

            Now she was the one lying. “Oh, please, Liz. The sex couldn’t have been that great with him not being into women and all.”

            She lost it then and screamed at me about how sex wasn’t everything (which confirmed my first thought) and how she and Dirk respected and loved each other on what she called a “deeper level.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I assumed it was a fancy way of saying that something was definitely lacking in the bedroom department.

            “Look,” I told her, “just get a quick divorce and move on. You’ll get the better end of the stick, I guarantee you that. There’s not a judge in Atlanta who won’t sympathize with you.”

            I felt real sorry for my daughter then. She had dreams just like most girls her age, and when they fell apart—when she realized that she wasn’t going to get the white picket fence with all the trimmings—she was at a loss. Luckily, she still had her job at the bank, and she poured most of her energy into that. I got to watch Allison a bit more too, which was nice.

A few years later Liz decided that the public schools weren’t good enough for her daughter, so she made up her mind to send Allison to St. Cornelius, the local Catholic school. But in order to do that she needed my help, and one Sunday afternoon they came over. Allison was decked out in one of those cute, little Navy-type dresses. She had on black patent leather shoes with white frilly socks, and her hat was white with a big navy-blue ribbon hanging down her back. Liz stood there, holding on to her daughter’s hand, and asked me if they could move back home. She said that was the only way she could afford the tuition at St. Cornelius.

            “What’s wrong with the schools you went to?” I asked her. “You turned out all right, didn’t you?”

            “Allison’s too smart for those schools, Mother. I want her to be challenged.”

            I couldn’t help laughing. “Challenged? She’s four years old. What kinda challenging does she need?”

 “She’s almost five but I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Mother. Today’s women need to know how to do more than mix highballs before dinner.”

            “What about Dirk? Is he not paying enough?” I knew he was paying the court-ordered amount but asked anyway.

“This is not about him, and it’s completely my decision anyway.” Allison had been trying to wrench her hand away from her mother to get to me, and Elizabeth finally let her go. I suspect it was a calculated move on her part, including the cute outfit and all. What grandmother could resist? I picked Al up and let her play with the beads on my necklace. They moved in with me three weeks later.

* * *