tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137194332024-03-16T11:53:01.419-07:00Blogs AwaySubrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.comBlogger377125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-76090447817443610852022-11-09T23:48:00.002-08:002022-11-09T23:50:09.627-08:00Invisible<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4gXza_Vzd34GT3KHgZAxGfLo9PbFmYsGydA9cDojEDeYTPeuEbbnxB4Xf3qSUqP3IplnSj5ektnbWViC4wGvzhWbstZDLznYzVPbVc9WT3pB6P1zvP8dBU40PMZL5caRMlAKDKXUvcIYnFHz5jbTym41Q215_2pz8JCpdlNJWbEJOjYGfOY/s839/dales-shadow.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="839" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4gXza_Vzd34GT3KHgZAxGfLo9PbFmYsGydA9cDojEDeYTPeuEbbnxB4Xf3qSUqP3IplnSj5ektnbWViC4wGvzhWbstZDLznYzVPbVc9WT3pB6P1zvP8dBU40PMZL5caRMlAKDKXUvcIYnFHz5jbTym41Q215_2pz8JCpdlNJWbEJOjYGfOY/w320-h240/dales-shadow.webp" title="PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px;">PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Looking back she could never tell of the day she became invisible. Perhaps it was a gradual process over the years of being ignored and having her opinions go unheard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her own family would make plans without her, barely remembering she existed except when they wanted something done.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes she would see them enter a room, scrunching their eyes and scanning the room till they found her. They would come over and make desultory conversation till the words tapered off and they wandered away.</div><div><br /></div><div>As time went by she found the invisibility liberating, enjoying the freedom that came with it.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2022/11/09/11-november-2022/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/dbea9bc7eaa14f23a56b4f57598ee99a">here</a>.</div></div></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-87563606481423752132022-11-04T23:28:00.003-07:002022-11-04T23:31:57.280-07:00Driving Me Crazy<div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0BmFUmPslQeU-z2whryE8SFIftxRJm_6MrLlU2hme9ijwu8x0l8xhi71-jeephDjMKhsJUQtKbRI7sypDFZnkOPjDSZ51M4J2THuWqlC1AIvQCP6jiB6DbowtRoGoSlYKB6Yh0rfcbhv1BEH77lR_kHm3Np7m6TB27VnWL7SvNEp0NhiQEo/s782/brenda-cox-buildings-with-green-car.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="603" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0BmFUmPslQeU-z2whryE8SFIftxRJm_6MrLlU2hme9ijwu8x0l8xhi71-jeephDjMKhsJUQtKbRI7sypDFZnkOPjDSZ51M4J2THuWqlC1AIvQCP6jiB6DbowtRoGoSlYKB6Yh0rfcbhv1BEH77lR_kHm3Np7m6TB27VnWL7SvNEp0NhiQEo/s320/brenda-cox-buildings-with-green-car.jpeg" width="247" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px;">PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Say Boss </div><div><br /></div><div>Ya Tony?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ya gotta get me another car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wassa matter with dis one?</div><div><br /></div><div>Folks don’t take me seriously Boss.</div><div><br /></div><div>Explain yourself Tony.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday I drove downtown to make da hit on Fat Albert. His weasels were lurking around with his henchman Crosseye. He look across da road and say ‘Hey Tony, didn’t know youse worked for Santa, how’s de Elf Mobile?’</div><div><br /></div><div>Den the weasels start sniggering. I gets mad and shoot all five and finish Fat Albert.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ya done good Tony.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now my street name be Tony Da Elf Mobile Driver, who’s gonna be scared of dat?</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xuZA6qiJVfU" width="320" youtube-src-id="xuZA6qiJVfU"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">It's a dialogue only story this week or as I sometimes call it 'my weakly offering'. I hope it works.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2022/11/02/4-november-2022/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/34bc6e4db98441bd8c0e25ea9f960e86">here</a>.</div></div></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-52358275739436625352022-10-30T05:09:00.003-07:002022-10-30T05:09:48.145-07:00Alone Again<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDS_Cz2NMys3R4wwRDHDlWyDCN9whaaNB7ZrqJ2fyNgepIqav-xQ9Iv1yblSeMR0iC2LqydZhqOEr9WFHw1-lTv5n7ibEA3_Eu4T8KvAntPsarYPQRUZAjPz7ukYWUyBrVAmo_dveqG6W6Pvbf24OIbc-02CiY6XpkTU2Qnb20JWFGekYUUY/s1024/bill-reynolds-camper.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDS_Cz2NMys3R4wwRDHDlWyDCN9whaaNB7ZrqJ2fyNgepIqav-xQ9Iv1yblSeMR0iC2LqydZhqOEr9WFHw1-lTv5n7ibEA3_Eu4T8KvAntPsarYPQRUZAjPz7ukYWUyBrVAmo_dveqG6W6Pvbf24OIbc-02CiY6XpkTU2Qnb20JWFGekYUUY/s320/bill-reynolds-camper.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://pluviolover.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">Bill Reynolds</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>What great campsite he ruminated. There is something to be said about living in nature. His fingers rummaged through the esky seeking another beer can. </div><div><br /></div><div>Except he wasn’t meant to be alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>The love of his life who he had met last week was to be with him. </div><div><br /></div><div>He even had a ring that he had planned to put in her breakfast bowl as a surprise. </div><div><br /></div><div>The trip was a surprise. She thought they were going on a picnic. </div><div><br /></div><div>He should have never told her about the weekend plans at the service station. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least she left the beer behind. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/D_P-v1BVQn8" width="320" youtube-src-id="D_P-v1BVQn8"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2022/10/26/28-october-2022/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/1f28239660924165879eb2c18e30570b">here</a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-39811691481229454302022-10-14T05:47:00.000-07:002022-10-14T05:47:05.410-07:00The Happy Place<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPjSSnJJahMeBfucw-Oy6seMYjU1CDiYF63shz5gvectBRUeqoFajYkjYxoUrUa7wDChB-zylMmum0NtOp2Lgen4VtciiHNsI5KEbn0SzOF9-k5ZlFpVDYtFEU8IdYgszmG_kp-04hYDOjyHtp7p0oiPdEC4ApBH64y4lZSbtJ6Shih2bCkQ/s1024/roger-bultot-playground.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1024" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPjSSnJJahMeBfucw-Oy6seMYjU1CDiYF63shz5gvectBRUeqoFajYkjYxoUrUa7wDChB-zylMmum0NtOp2Lgen4VtciiHNsI5KEbn0SzOF9-k5ZlFpVDYtFEU8IdYgszmG_kp-04hYDOjyHtp7p0oiPdEC4ApBH64y4lZSbtJ6Shih2bCkQ/s320/roger-bultot-playground.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><div>There are only two of them left in the playground now. The incessant showers during the day have left it slippery and bereft of visitors except for them. Neither one of them is willing to walk away from their happy place.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Look at me mommy I am balancing” his voice reverberates through the air. She closes her eyes capturing his movement on every swing and slide here.</div><div><br /></div><div>He finds her drenched standing at the edge of the empty park where their son used to play. Her eyes moisten as she sees him. Their hands interlace as they walk quietly away.</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div>Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2022/10/12/14-october-2022/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a feeling that many of the stories this week will reflect on that terrible massacre in the daycare centre in northeast Thailand. What is our world coming to?</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/2bbd8eb892814be18a783bc7dffdfac5">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-30046628759705289322022-10-05T07:39:00.001-07:002022-10-05T07:39:54.256-07:00The Departure Lounge<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpfEMQ3kIYRF-tRrAfR3AkibRG9r4LCgIIpUtYdL89flrtIH8K2UpqWGjvaUSdBwriTnWWOaPSyRXmN6Q_Q75IpM6R0nsb1JfsPrELpae80a0k9hbiyYa46YLZazv6wStiVDyIJQPVkjwUFzUgcKT_p3wyWu3EbMoLY42D7SGdGY38fXCLFI/s320/FF-Rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpfEMQ3kIYRF-tRrAfR3AkibRG9r4LCgIIpUtYdL89flrtIH8K2UpqWGjvaUSdBwriTnWWOaPSyRXmN6Q_Q75IpM6R0nsb1JfsPrELpae80a0k9hbiyYa46YLZazv6wStiVDyIJQPVkjwUFzUgcKT_p3wyWu3EbMoLY42D7SGdGY38fXCLFI/s1600/FF-Rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>“Is this seat taken?” I ask.</div><div><br /></div><div>The trick is to inject that note of shy hesitancy. Makes you seem vulnerable and needy and there are always those kind pottering around airports. </div><div><br /></div><div>He briefly looks over his book and tells me to take it. </div><div><br /></div><div>As always he is drinking coffee in a cup. For me those takeaway cups with lids are an occupational hazard.</div><div><br /></div><div>They chose me for my ability to slip something unnoticed in a drink, a task done many times before for the Supreme Leader.</div><div><br /></div><div>Never walk away afterwards. And it helps to raise an alarm to avoid suspicion.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div><div> Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2022/10/05/7-october-2022/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>Wow! I can't believe I've not written anything for over a year now. I suppose writing code does not count either. Well one way to ease back into Friday Fictioneers is to start by having a body count.</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/6214078f7f254372bd942514f18044a2">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-90000919627436401522021-08-22T07:05:00.002-07:002021-08-22T07:05:43.062-07:00Fake News<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7YuKtrmsr70/YSJYndc6uiI/AAAAAAAAOqo/a9VIEowHuWcMA5Zz87EBiMrbiWM2ARtiACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/harley-lisa-fox.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7YuKtrmsr70/YSJYndc6uiI/AAAAAAAAOqo/a9VIEowHuWcMA5Zz87EBiMrbiWM2ARtiACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/harley-lisa-fox.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT© Lisa Fox</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We live in a world of fake news and disinformation is pushed down our throat. It happens with such regularity that we miss out on the real stories and focus on the fake ones pushed on to us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Especially those fairy tales where the Prince Charming rescues the damsel in distress. Just think why would a very capable Cinderella wait to be rescued out of drudgery? Cinderella did not come in a carriage magically materialised out of pumpkins. Cinders rode her Harley to the ball. And she slipped him her number on leaving.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The bike? It’s a museum piece now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">***</div><div><br /></div></div></div><div><div><div>Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/08/18/20-august-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>I am probably the last one in this week. Have missed a few episodes of FF this year, so what do I do but fall back on fracturing a fairy tale yet again.</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/f4f1c0bd0e314636ad1b81176a130931">here</a>.</div></div><div><br /></div></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-80179770804449054442021-08-04T07:10:00.001-07:002021-08-04T07:10:54.886-07:00Gone Fishing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HxiF3__yXU8/YQqfETYNqnI/AAAAAAAAOEg/5n6zOzj251wWz2WpaVenlzjfSvfdyr1PgCLcBGAsYHQ/s653/jen-pendergast-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="490" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HxiF3__yXU8/YQqfETYNqnI/AAAAAAAAOEg/5n6zOzj251wWz2WpaVenlzjfSvfdyr1PgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/jen-pendergast-1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT© Jennifer Pendergast</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><div><br /></div><div>That eye is the perfect spot to fish I tell him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eye? He sounds confused this young pup I am saddled with training.</div><div><br /></div><div>Those little thick circles of ice, I inform him, the hole suggests a good catch.</div><div><br /></div><div>Confusion doesn’t last very long in the ambitious tyke. I can see the gears in the brain whirling.</div><div>Bring back fish, become hero.</div><div><br /></div><div>Without hesitation he steps forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is a little gurgling sound at the end that a drowning person makes just before water rushes into the lungs. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love that sound. And winter is the perfect time to set traps.</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div><div>Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/08/04/6-august-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/74b17bbd0f174cf6a790a931f52c45b6">here</a>.</div></div><div><br /></div></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-49686718686662674712021-07-31T07:46:00.001-07:002021-07-31T07:47:03.997-07:00Selfie Before The Cart<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kuY51wjO0Po/YQVghBaOOYI/AAAAAAAAN3Y/x9ImZfAuv54gHIHdzGy5mZxfrqqKmFduACLcBGAsYHQ/s798/roger-bultot.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="599" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kuY51wjO0Po/YQVghBaOOYI/AAAAAAAAN3Y/x9ImZfAuv54gHIHdzGy5mZxfrqqKmFduACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/roger-bultot.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f4f2e7; color: #888888; font-size: 12px;">©Roger Bultot</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>For a long time Mr Patel had resisted the pull of the social network.</div><div><br /></div><div>‘Have no time man” explained his absence from the digital life.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Don’t trust technology man” was oft repeated.</div><div><br /></div><div>A lifelong bachelor, he was married to his work. So when he was made redundant, we worried about how idleness would impact him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately a lifetime of frugality meant he had no financial worries.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he sent me a friend request. Mr Patel was on social media.</div><div><br /></div><div>After keeping his life private for years, Mr Patel was sharing everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>His motto now was “I selfie therefore I am”.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/07/28/30-july-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>I've missed the last two episodes of the FF. Mostly due to not posting on time, so will be fashionably late this time, after all I blog therefore I am ;-)</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/70984b0e1f37422d94ad11102feed5bf">here</a>.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-73506387175722179542021-07-09T05:30:00.001-07:002021-07-09T05:30:45.159-07:00Stumped<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CUpl_UlN9AE/YOg_Enf6gCI/AAAAAAAANjg/WiwnXgVLi9MyMAu4vZ4hZDuXPlHYPEqNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/stump_7jul.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CUpl_UlN9AE/YOg_Enf6gCI/AAAAAAAANjg/WiwnXgVLi9MyMAu4vZ4hZDuXPlHYPEqNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/stump_7jul.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT ©</span><a href="https://castelsarrasin.wordpress.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;"> Sandra Crook</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div><br /></div><div>“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “I am stumped”.</div><div><br /></div><div>“And yet I am not convinced,” I answered. “The great Sherlock Holmes stumped?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Well perhaps flummoxed then” he replied taking down the old and oily clay pipe, and, having lit it, he puffed away.</div><div><br /></div><div>“But Holmes, why?” I questioned.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sherlock Holmes chuckled.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I am convinced this is the work of the Purple Wraith. She who posts pictures online every week, seeking precisely one hundred words. I fear this week, I too have been lost for words.”</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for the <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/07/07/9-july-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>It's <a href="https://castelsarrasin.wordpress.com/2021/07/07/the-sisterhood-friday-fictioneers-july-2021/">Sandra's</a> photo this week, she who spins out impossibly good fiction each week that just leaves us wanting more. </div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/70984b0e1f37422d94ad11102feed5bf">here</a>.</div></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-44095533916184155832021-06-30T07:08:00.008-07:002021-06-30T07:08:57.426-07:00Fairy Tales<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VkVcpd5epA/YNx50O2KP0I/AAAAAAAANas/ZUeTuwi3epsSTfnZ4DneHTGBOBrbaKb-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/russell-van.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VkVcpd5epA/YNx50O2KP0I/AAAAAAAANas/ZUeTuwi3epsSTfnZ4DneHTGBOBrbaKb-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/russell-van.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, "Nimbus Sans L", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #777777; font-size: 13px;">Copyright Russell Gayer</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>If truth be told then the carriage that Cinderella went to the ball in was not a pumpkin. It was a lemon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew that lemon. It was in Honest Al’s yard and I bought it for the Fairy Godmother when she was looking for a van. When you have magic backing you up any lemon will do. I worked for that witch and the things I could tell you would churn your insides.</div><div><br /></div><div>The National Enquirer wanted to do a story on that scam but the editor was scared of being turned into a frog and covered it up.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/06/30/2-july-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>It's <a href="https://russellgayer.com/">Russell's</a> photo this week, so I hope my take meets his approval.</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/692196d42e66487894a1dbceba0f1d64">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-16114783703300521292021-06-25T05:10:00.002-07:002021-06-25T05:11:12.338-07:00Eye of Hurricane<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J5JrKWutH18/YNXEqYTpr6I/AAAAAAAANOs/cLudQXeEtLEdy5sMZZ93nEWRhj45D5ZKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s820/brenda-cox-2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="610" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J5JrKWutH18/YNXEqYTpr6I/AAAAAAAANOs/cLudQXeEtLEdy5sMZZ93nEWRhj45D5ZKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/brenda-cox-2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://brendasrandomthoughts.wordpress.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px;">Brenda Cox</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>We called her Hurricane Lucy. When she blew into my brother’s life she drove away all competitors for his affection. The timid ones really didn’t stand a chance in her path and the stubborn ones were ultimately cast aside.</div><div><br /></div><div>What about the man in the eye of the hurricane? The clueless one had no idea as the storm raged around him. When it all ended we crawled out of the shelter hoping for peace while picking up the debris.</div><div><br /></div><div>As years went by we just built our own shelters and only emerged when the storm would recede.</div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/06/23/25-june-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/750def04470b4d4eb2caa700c2f2bafe">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I am back after missing the last couple of episodes of Friday Fictioneers. I am at the moment struggling with motivation and lack of belief in my writing skills. But I guess there is no better way to counter that but by writing more.</div><div><br /></div><div>In other news I've been doing push-ups this week to raise money for mental health - this is me </div><div><a href="https://www.thepushupchallenge.com.au/pushuperer/268935">https://www.thepushupchallenge.com.au/pushuperer/268935</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div>One in five Australians will experience mental ill health this year and only 46% of people seek help. It's a complex challenge - for ourselves, our loved ones and, most of all, for the nine Australians who die by suicide everyday.</div><div><br /></div><div>The <a href="https://www.thepushupchallenge.com.au/">Push For Better Foundation</a> aims to engage and educate people in mental and physical health, and raise awareness of the mental health issues affecting everyday Australians.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-39082752388624756072021-05-27T05:46:00.000-07:002021-05-27T05:46:30.779-07:00A Day in The Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RBFSCH3LmpI/YK-Qi81Lc0I/AAAAAAAAMmU/g4FS0haAMZcXeV6Hb-gqFkDpQd9mHXmygCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/m.-rost.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RBFSCH3LmpI/YK-Qi81Lc0I/AAAAAAAAMmU/g4FS0haAMZcXeV6Hb-gqFkDpQd9mHXmygCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/m.-rost.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © Miles Rost</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Oh to be a fly on the wall.</div><div><br /></div><div>How many times did he desire to be an insect of the order Diptera just so he could trap his cheating partner? Too many to count but in the end a private investigator got him the desired results.</div><div><br /></div><div>And last night he celebrated. There was lots of drinking involved and raiding the attic to get that heirloom lamp. Grandma always said it was magical but no one paid attention to her.</div><div><br /></div><div>Grandma also warned him to choose his words carefully.</div><div><br /></div><div>'I wish to be the fifth Beatle'.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bloody musical neophyte Genie!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/usNsCeOV4GM" width="320" youtube-src-id="usNsCeOV4GM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/05/26/28-may-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 99</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/170b4dcf078a439fb284d4e844c099a7">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-20063365699930141742021-05-21T05:58:00.000-07:002021-05-21T05:58:57.703-07:00Exile<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTDnZziEZuQ/YKehzwaNS1I/AAAAAAAAMYQ/FF1VyWvtEGwlUzP_T4xql8PgGmq3P7g7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/naama-lady-liberty.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTDnZziEZuQ/YKehzwaNS1I/AAAAAAAAMYQ/FF1VyWvtEGwlUzP_T4xql8PgGmq3P7g7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/naama-lady-liberty.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://naamayehuda.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">Na’ama Yehuda</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Why would you ever go back they ask? </div><div><br /></div><div>He knows the other exiles have been whispering behind his back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Are you not happy to bask in the glow of freedom? </div><div><br /></div><div>After all he should be grateful not being a part of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet he notices the suspicious looks that people give when he wears the ethnic dress that he refuses to discard.</div><div><br /></div><div>A scholar in his land but here he struggles with hopelessness, loss and lack of purpose.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this was not the freedom that he expected it to be.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/05/19/21-may-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 99</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/ddb5576e7a8a416091d5acce9ea13dd2">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>While writing this I was suddenly reminded of a poem by Faiz</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background: 0px 0px rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dawn of Freedom (August 1947) </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This stain-covered daybreak, this night-bitten dawn,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This is not that dawn of which there was expectation;</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This is not that dawn with longing for which</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The friends set out, (convinced) that somewhere there we met with,</span></div><div><br /></div><div>https://urduwallahs.wordpress.com/2014/08/15/the-dawn-of-freedom/</div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-53924580314511599832021-05-13T07:46:00.004-07:002021-05-13T07:46:42.101-07:00Travel Bug<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxvffRKF4Jk/YJ059FFC-0I/AAAAAAAAMWs/4cRgwMb_d5YDPLG-jtJo17dTFTvEc3adwCPcBGAYYCw/s937/roger-photo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="937" data-original-width="797" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxvffRKF4Jk/YJ059FFC-0I/AAAAAAAAMWs/4cRgwMb_d5YDPLG-jtJo17dTFTvEc3adwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/roger-photo.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>They say travel broadens the mind and widens your horizons. </div><div><br /></div><div>The brochure was enticing, come on a trip to the exotic orient. Stay at a hotel with a five-star rating, free WiFi and all the comforts. Located next to a famous market that stands on the silk route taken by Marco Polo.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the sense of being ripped off went away pretty quickly after finding the bargain basement prices in the market. Some of this stuff would resell back home for four times the price.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe travel does widen the horizons after all, I am returning next month for more.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/05/12/14-may-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>To read my other story click here -> <a href="https://subrotopant.blogspot.com/2021/05/treasure-hunter.html">Treasure Hunter</a></div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/722982719a20439e836f6c8fb9b06056">here</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-49093421177167166502021-05-13T07:42:00.003-07:002021-05-13T07:47:56.557-07:00Treasure Hunter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxvffRKF4Jk/YJ059FFC-0I/AAAAAAAAMWo/tGo3r347gQw46oOAVpHLlhiPIB_vWbSGACLcBGAsYHQ/s937/roger-photo.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="937" data-original-width="797" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxvffRKF4Jk/YJ059FFC-0I/AAAAAAAAMWo/tGo3r347gQw46oOAVpHLlhiPIB_vWbSGACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/roger-photo.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-size: 16.8px; text-align: left;">PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The market is as crowded as he had said it would be. The question remains whether I am going to find what I am looking for.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>“I lied about your adoption,” he says.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Now he wants to have this conversation? When the doctors say he could go anytime.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“You were never abandoned by your parents”, he says, “but your mother had no choice”.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“You knew my mother? And said nothing?”</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“In those days a child born from an affair between a married woman and a foreigner would have no future there.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I stand before her stall and our eyes meet.</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/05/12/14-may-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">To read my other story click here -> <a href="https://subrotopant.blogspot.com/2021/05/travel-bug.html">Travel Bug</a></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/722982719a20439e836f6c8fb9b06056">here</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-9378749033818068752021-04-29T06:16:00.001-07:002021-04-29T06:16:58.115-07:00Shadow Lands<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-arcvkIhR1JI/YIqqVhdnk2I/AAAAAAAAMUs/rG38au-8gnEiQUo5nvklTzpMxg6raihoQCLcBGAsYHQ/s900/wet-bar.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="900" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-arcvkIhR1JI/YIqqVhdnk2I/AAAAAAAAMUs/rG38au-8gnEiQUo5nvklTzpMxg6raihoQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/wet-bar.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>They say sometimes in early winter mornings when the mist rises over the lake you can see the shadowy outlines of the departed. Souls of people who found their way into the lake either by purpose or by accident.</div><div><br /></div><div>To make contact with these ethereal shadows you must stand close to the water’s edge and let the mist waft over you.</div><div><br /></div><div> Only some can hear the voices of the dead reverberate in their ears.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stood at the edge of the lake for all of last week with my arms opened in embrace.</div><div><br /></div><div>Join me you whispered.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I did.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_BADDeIQWVQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="_BADDeIQWVQ"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/04/28/30-april-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/ebc31ac83a7f449790367cb2f396662d">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-20635640901820864462021-04-24T07:15:00.001-07:002021-04-24T07:15:23.412-07:00Alien Invasion<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-66GXt_aFvjM/YIQnUNrOlZI/AAAAAAAAMKM/ykfeSREtxZkM5hnkITqQqKtVgAoozPW9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s899/stewart-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="899" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-66GXt_aFvjM/YIQnUNrOlZI/AAAAAAAAMKM/ykfeSREtxZkM5hnkITqQqKtVgAoozPW9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/stewart-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>f I had to go back in time and think about the moment in life that changed our lives forever it would be the day when the aliens made their appearance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before that we lived in harmony. The world we inhabited was not perfect with the occasional wars and times of conflict but those were but small niggles in our history.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your declaration of love for another was a relief in the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>It explained the bursts of anger, disappearance over periods of time and rewriting of our history.</div><div><br /></div><div>I prefer think that the aliens took over your body instead.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/04/21/23-april-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/d3141574113247a1a1393b6961e99992">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-44344579650532339802021-04-15T07:00:00.002-07:002021-04-15T07:01:05.824-07:00River of Memories<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MbXRtJIbMHU/YHhGmEFoAOI/AAAAAAAAMGo/9QXzAKg1KPcjno2hM22D0kNdYC_EZpg3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s830/anne-higa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="596" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MbXRtJIbMHU/YHhGmEFoAOI/AAAAAAAAMGo/9QXzAKg1KPcjno2hM22D0kNdYC_EZpg3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/anne-higa.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://annehiga.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">Anne Higa </a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Every time we visit our Great Grandfather he regales us with tales from life in a bygone era. With all the memory keepers gone one can’t even cross check those stories.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once a fortnight we take him out on trips to the Mall. Last week my brother wanted to show him the new river that management had started.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gramps took one look and chuckled.</div><div><br /></div><div>“That’s a river? When we lived above ground, civilizations flourished along the banks of mighty rivers.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Gramps is such a hoot but I had to remind the caretakers to adjust his meds again when we left.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/04/14/15-april-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/c25e1b74bf794b898a05cabf3326b068">here</a></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-56626214752223325662021-04-11T07:36:00.000-07:002021-04-11T07:36:19.049-07:00Serpent's Den<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfPI5vvbiPY/YHMG5LqKogI/AAAAAAAAMBA/1BrHv8EMwNkxMSHalILdYaj60ZxKDB3IgCLcBGAsYHQ/s762/brenda-cox-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfPI5vvbiPY/YHMG5LqKogI/AAAAAAAAMBA/1BrHv8EMwNkxMSHalILdYaj60ZxKDB3IgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/brenda-cox-photo.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://brendasrandomthoughts.wordpress.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">Brenda Cox</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>It was late at night but the market was bustling. <div><br /></div><div>The young backpackers fascinated by the crowds and the restaurants packed with people, revelled in the scenes unfolding before their eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>‘Far out man, this is so cool’</div><div>Their young handsome companion smiled and not for the first time the three young travellers felt lucky having him around. </div><div><br /></div><div> Slim, lithe and muscular with wide cheekbones one felt like being in the presence of a movie star. </div><div><br /></div><div>The women found his French accent so adorable. </div><div><br /></div><div> “The night is still young’, said <a href="https://www.menshealth.com/entertainment/a35924450/charles-sobhraj-alain-gautier-now-the-serpent/">Alain Gautier</a>, “Let’s party” </div><div><br /></div><div> He had plans for them all.</div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/04/07/9-april-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/de0ca040d9fe4d57a28e09bdfe5f22b2">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I am watching the Netflix series <a href="https://www.netflix.com/title/80206099">The Serpent</a> a fascinating recreation of the cold blooded serial killer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Sobhraj">Charles Sobhraj</a> aka Alain Gautier aka the serpent and thus this flash.</div><div><br /></div><div>In other news my sister's beautifully written historical fiction that brings alive an opulent and turbulent time in India's past through the eyes of a Portuguese priest is available for download. in Amazon -<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ships-Shahs-Histories-mysteries-Indian-ebook/dp/B0918BZGGT/ref=sr_1_1?crid=X4I7TVLDBOES&dchild=1&keywords=of+ships+and+shahs&qid=1618151696&sprefix=of+ships+an%2Caps%2C359&sr=8-1"> Of Ships and Shahs</a></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-73632131553483717072021-03-31T06:49:00.001-07:002021-03-31T06:49:35.191-07:00Knead To Know<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkPSBb6q8z4/YGR5amsNirI/AAAAAAAAL-A/McC6tUMHVGkm2rxpdDoUp-7wlneZXIFvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s900/jennifers-bisquits.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="900" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkPSBb6q8z4/YGR5amsNirI/AAAAAAAAL-A/McC6tUMHVGkm2rxpdDoUp-7wlneZXIFvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/jennifers-bisquits.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://elmowrites.wordpress.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">Jennifer Pendergast </a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The Inspector sat across the table from the old couple conducting an investigation.</div><div><br /></div><div> It has come to our attention that a young individual referring to himself as a gingerbread man was observed being chased by the two of you. Furthermore no trace of the said individual has been found.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn’t us officer we couldn’t catch him. </div><div><br /></div><div>All we wanted was to nib.... hug him.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have had reports of weird doughs sighted here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Officer we would have reported any baking and entering.</div><div> </div><div>Inspector, said the sergeant, we found a bunch of deleted cookies.</div><div><br /></div><div>Are we going behind jars officer?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/03/31/2-april-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/6016688f75954fe488b0a1679619e121">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd put up a video by Oreo Speedwagon but maybe I'll stick with Beatles and 'All you knead is love' ;-)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4EGczv7iiEk" width="320" youtube-src-id="4EGczv7iiEk"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-15546404003860463642021-03-21T04:53:00.004-07:002021-03-21T05:16:27.483-07:00Secrets<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_eWKnqLz-1k/YFcyqnkiPgI/AAAAAAAAL50/F1xieXTHVekK3C5bzHAB5FpgfaCbYlTBACLcBGAsYHQ/s600/liz-young-5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_eWKnqLz-1k/YFcyqnkiPgI/AAAAAAAAL50/F1xieXTHVekK3C5bzHAB5FpgfaCbYlTBACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/liz-young-5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The tree in the temple compound is mutating. The villagers have noticed the changes and each day I see them gathered around whispering in huddled groups.</div><div><br /></div><div>The stout, branch-supporting pillars take years to grow. Now each night a new snakelike, aerial root grows downward clawing its way to the ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>The elders claim that it is the result of our sins. The unnatural growth fuelled by lust and avarice. They come to me for absolution with their panicked eyes seeking redemption.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grant it easily but I know the truth. Each lie I utter brings forth a new twisted strand.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/03/17/19-march-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/cb9c3ed938584695936b7066b213a291">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I am little late this week, I was on on a personal discovery this week that I blogged <a href="https://subrotopant.blogspot.com/2021/03/my-grandfather.html">here</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-83096580643517348422021-03-20T06:32:00.003-07:002021-03-24T06:32:58.226-07:00Discovering My Grandfather <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xwhpPPe2YRY/YFX2Ak3SqvI/AAAAAAAAL5o/JCdbSOmsaXkkXTeHEV0TUE2IMQnQetwpACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xwhpPPe2YRY/YFX2Ak3SqvI/AAAAAAAAL5o/JCdbSOmsaXkkXTeHEV0TUE2IMQnQetwpACLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h320/image.png" width="240" /></a></div><br />I’ve known my paternal grandfather Professor Krishnanand Pant only through photographs. Black and white photographs from another era on the walls of the vast house he left behind that bore his name - ‘Krishna Kutir’. Growing up I learnt that that he was a learned man; the head of department of Hindi at what was then the prestigious Meerut College. <div><br /></div><div>I have grown up surrounded by books and the house in Meerut was no exception. Visiting the house during the holidays I was drawn towards the bookshelves and the many books in the house. But amongst all the books there were many written in a script that my sister and I had never seen before. But to us children they were just strange and mysterious books and we never paid any attention to them. </div><div><br /></div><div>When my father passed away he left behind images of his life, old grainy black and white photographs painstakingly pasted in albums and scrapbooks.
I’ve kept them all and at times I take them out and go through the pages. In his scrapbook there were news items and tributes paid to my grandfather after he passed away in his sixties. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had been always been curious to learn more about this man whose smiling face reminds me so much of my father and my father’s family. Sometimes when I laugh in a chortling manner I get reminded of my father's and uncle’s laugh and wonder whether my grandfather laughed like this too. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is one advantage of living in an information age. So through the power of Google with random searches over the years I have been able to gather bits and pieces of information. </div><div>- Government gazettes from 1920 giving notifications of job appointments in universities. </div><div>- Little snippets that brought forth some more information to light, teasing me but not enough. </div><div><br /></div><div> Then this year while between projects I wanted to expand my my searches and did I find more information!
I found that his name was listed in Sahitya Academy’s first edition of ‘Who’s Who of Indian Writers’ published in 1961 </div><div> <a href="https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.278465/page/n255/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.278465/page/n255/mode/2up</a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sTeCyb4yaJc/YFXwhOXn6WI/AAAAAAAAL4o/JF32fQvSJKsGHz4vipubOdzdrlV5ZBhxQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="622" height="174" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sTeCyb4yaJc/YFXwhOXn6WI/AAAAAAAAL4o/JF32fQvSJKsGHz4vipubOdzdrlV5ZBhxQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now finding your grandfather’s name in such a prestigious institution was a proud moment that I shared with the extended family group that I have on Facebook. But this also gave me some concrete names for books to search. </div><div><br /></div><div> I wanted to find the books that he had authored and I found two on archive.org. The major work is Prabandh Sagar co-authored with Pandit Yagyadatt Sharma
This book can also be found on multiple websites <a href="https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.401740?view=theater ">https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.401740?view=theater </a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CTyuHEoNFGs/YFXxDHjaeHI/AAAAAAAAL4w/7I_6wFe9JnopjxZeRW9MPOSU1Elv7LDUQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="444" data-original-width="288" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CTyuHEoNFGs/YFXxDHjaeHI/AAAAAAAAL4w/7I_6wFe9JnopjxZeRW9MPOSU1Elv7LDUQCLcBGAsYHQ/w260-h400/image.png" width="260" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> The next work that I found was Aalochna Ke Sidhant
<a href="https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.346639 ">https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.346639 </a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OfU3tod1WzM/YFXxOeVMcsI/AAAAAAAAL40/k-YQct-g-bkPa2hmhw8wfXnDpkI3KvQxgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="363" data-original-width="543" height="268" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OfU3tod1WzM/YFXxOeVMcsI/AAAAAAAAL40/k-YQct-g-bkPa2hmhw8wfXnDpkI3KvQxgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h268/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div>The search for finding the books Hindi Sahitya ka Vikas and Kavya Dipika is still on and I hope to find them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh and those books in in the house? It turns out that he was also a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prakrit">Prakrit</a> scholar and those books were written in that ancient language. He was also a Sanskrit scholar and I found an acknowledgement of that in his colleague Professor B. R. Chatterji’s book on <a href="https://archive.org/stream/indiaandjava035468mbp/indiaandjava035468mbp_djvu.txt">India and Java</a> where my Grandfather had translated the Sanskrit inscriptions from Java, Sumatra and Borneo. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w0s04ASYKpI/YFXxgSADG7I/AAAAAAAAL5A/PDQCAE7FDjoX2MmAx786jWrSeLyA32x7ACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="692" data-original-width="692" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w0s04ASYKpI/YFXxgSADG7I/AAAAAAAAL5A/PDQCAE7FDjoX2MmAx786jWrSeLyA32x7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> But these are all works of academic excellence, works to admire the scholarship of the man. But in my search I finally came across a very personal piece penned by him. About an incident that affected him greatly and reading these words I really felt as if my Grandfather was addressing me. Talking to me about something that left a lasting impression on him. This time I felt connected to the man in the photograph with a gentle smile that played across his lips.
From page 25 onwards in the link
<a href="https://www.anandamayi.org/anandavarta/Vol5No3.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0Z1wdB-skr804lQjb-rPKPzXWwIbZbp7yodMCF9roXe9bply_vMCkZz1g">https://www.anandamayi.org/anandavarta/Vol5No3.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0Z1wdB-skr804lQjb-rPKPzXWwIbZbp7yodMCF9roXe9bply_vMCkZz1g</a></div><div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yiyxEKVFuF8/YFXyGm7f07I/AAAAAAAAL5I/MwatEY4zfKc_h8710jo5HwEKvkjjYATtQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="974" data-original-width="692" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yiyxEKVFuF8/YFXyGm7f07I/AAAAAAAAL5I/MwatEY4zfKc_h8710jo5HwEKvkjjYATtQCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/image.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BzswN4XuByU/YFXyZ1jQi5I/AAAAAAAAL5Q/PwhwsrfHIOs6x0jMBaCHNt0fehcdiTG0QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="931" data-original-width="692" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BzswN4XuByU/YFXyZ1jQi5I/AAAAAAAAL5Q/PwhwsrfHIOs6x0jMBaCHNt0fehcdiTG0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/image.png" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-E-qx_lz7tGA/YFXyiaxIYPI/AAAAAAAAL5U/j0dZmfc3ZSEp2F0gG0MAk7uflQ6f6TlQgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="951" data-original-width="692" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-E-qx_lz7tGA/YFXyiaxIYPI/AAAAAAAAL5U/j0dZmfc3ZSEp2F0gG0MAk7uflQ6f6TlQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/image.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DhWhEg9W_To/YFXypLqf0FI/AAAAAAAAL5Y/KvlXsj7dOHojl1u6_OneSbL6gTjv6293QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="979" data-original-width="692" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DhWhEg9W_To/YFXypLqf0FI/AAAAAAAAL5Y/KvlXsj7dOHojl1u6_OneSbL6gTjv6293QCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/image.png" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...<br /></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-64470336480395243732021-03-10T05:03:00.001-08:002021-03-12T05:58:37.005-08:00The Quest<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ti3FRu66TxY/YEjBGszR_vI/AAAAAAAALvQ/MgPvEFfAJM8tzufL5cjaPSq9hl6QBQFeACLcBGAsYHQ/s600/ceayr.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ti3FRu66TxY/YEjBGszR_vI/AAAAAAAALvQ/MgPvEFfAJM8tzufL5cjaPSq9hl6QBQFeACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/ceayr.jpg" title="PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT ©</span><a href="https://ceayr.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;"> CEAyr</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Be mine he pleaded. </div><div><br /></div><div> I must leave, she said, find me and I am yours. </div><div><br /></div><div> Where shall I look? </div><div><br /></div><div> I'll be where the sky meets the earth. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then she disappeared. </div><div><br /></div><div>He roamed the earth, climbing the highest mountains and descending to deepest valleys.</div><div><br /></div><div>Through arid deserts and snow covered wonderlands. </div><div><br /></div><div> The sirens of the seas sang to him but he remained oblivious to their music. </div><div><br /></div><div> Years rolled into decades to centuries but his quest never ended. </div><div><br /></div><div> I am here, she whispers, right next to you. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you could stop and look my love, you will find I never left. </div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ***</div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/03/10/12-march-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br /></div><div>Back again this week after missing out on last week's prompt. Still not sure if 'Pursuit of Happiness' or 'Chasing Chimeras' makes a better title. But does it work? I guess your comments will let me know.</div><div>Edit: I guess we can be looking for happiness in different places all our lives when in fact it is right there next to us all long.</div><div><br /></div><div>To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/b7d415958e164d028808505ee846d96e">here</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I'd love read what you think about this post...</div></div>Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-79012564156571586192021-02-24T06:43:00.002-08:002021-03-20T06:34:35.261-07:00Melting Hearts<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QIKkTydIZG4/YDZkHdz0-7I/AAAAAAAALsY/GkVZzbL63OsSI3JkwCQ97d8epTXlC5HFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s800/last-rose-dale..jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QIKkTydIZG4/YDZkHdz0-7I/AAAAAAAALsY/GkVZzbL63OsSI3JkwCQ97d8epTXlC5HFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/last-rose-dale..jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://adelectablelife.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">Dale Rogerson</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They told me to steer clear of
ice-maidens.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So it was that you were a touch frosty
when we met.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Walk away they said when the roses get
covered in snow.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But snow-covered flowers signal that a
fresh start is on the way.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> The sparse beauty of a winter
wonderland has much to offer.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And in many aspects snowflakes are like
us - imperfect.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They too grow unevenly, in a short span
can be broken, melted and refrozen.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If that isn't being human I don't know
what is.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Winter does not last forever.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ice-maidens too have hearts that melt.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/en9KJdbrZj0" width="320" youtube-src-id="en9KJdbrZj0"></iframe></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">***</p></div><div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/02/24/26-february-2021-2/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 99</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/f1e3eeaac63f42868b753a586d9a0421">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13719433.post-68824388217182785042021-02-17T06:01:00.005-08:002021-02-17T06:02:03.530-08:00Special Delivery<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8ypFUt7Hr9Y/YC0hmag84-I/AAAAAAAALdk/W4qeiUHxTXoSUGB8iEXplaJwLFG3XZLZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/postal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8ypFUt7Hr9Y/YC0hmag84-I/AAAAAAAALdk/W4qeiUHxTXoSUGB8iEXplaJwLFG3XZLZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/postal.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #e8cdeb; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">PHOTO PROMPT © </span><a href="https://tedstrutz.com/" style="background-color: #cf7da1; color: #503559; font-family: GillSans, Calibri, Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic;">Ted Strutz</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />Mr Patel returned home last week, what
was left of him anyway. Not in the manner that he would have
expected but still by priority express mail.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Patel could hear him 'I am not like
that Kumar who just preens on Facebook but is a zero in real life, I
am worth a lot more you wait and see'.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And now here he was signed, sealed and
delivered.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Kumar was coming over in the evening
with the insurance papers. She picked out a white sari and applied
some kohl to her eyes. Such a helpful man and still unmarried.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">***</p></div><div><div>Written for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2021/02/17/19-february-2021/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Word Count : 100</div><div><br />To read the other writers this week click <a href="https://fresh.inlinkz.com/party/55f1d5a79cfb4d63bd21440b14a15dab">here</a></div></div><div><br /></div>I'd love read what you think about this post...Subrotohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09201941160294779130noreply@blogger.com31