Once again it is Friday and time for story telling in 100 or so words by Friday Fictioneers.  It is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I am screaming and howling out my tall tale of 100 words.  Do you know how stress relieving that can be?  Try it for yourself and see.  I tell no lies – no much.

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Madison Woods
PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Madison Woods

Sarah ran, holding her swollen belly with both her hands. Stumbling over brambles and tree roots, she finally stopped and leaned against a tree trunk.

Catching her breath, she sat down on the moss in between the tree’s roots. She felt a kick in her stomach.  She smoothed her hands over it. They came away with wetness.  She lifted her skirt. Her scream rang out in the still air. Biting her lips, she silenced herself.

She closed and opened her eyes.   A giant slimy yellowish brown worm was oozing from her belly button. She howled, wishing this was a nightmare.


IMG_1262I’m back from the woods again. I can feel the vibrations of busyness as I enter the city limits – the hum of electricity and traffic. I can smell the aroma of fast food and concrete along Idylwyld Drive. The quiet and coolness of the woods are left far behind – along with the sweet scent of spruce pine needles.

Still, I am happy to be amid all of this.  It is good to feel the life force that drives the city. It ables me to appreciate the serenity of the country.  In its quietness, Sheba’s excited bark cuts and reverberates through the air as she chases squirrels up the trees. There is no sweeter sound than the quiet.

I can be happy in or out of the woods.  Too much of either makes me sing the blues. Life can get equally crazy and unbalanced out in the ‘wilderness’ as well as in the city. The big ‘cabins’ with their satellite dishes, green lawns, boats moored at the ends of long docks, etc. give testimony that the simple life is not so simple.  They are extensions. It is hard impossible to get away from all the stuff – the wants gnawing inside ourselves.

IMG_6846Am I any different?  I like to think so.  Maybe I am naive, unwilling to admit to my own cravings.  I am just human after all.  I am not immune.  It is good to ‘get away’, back home to familiarity, to sit and let things be, to be grounded, to tend to my inner as well as my outer garden – to care for my ‘self’. I am loving and honouring myself as Sandra Ingerman advises in her September Transmutation Newsletter. 

IMG_1178I am happy and content to be here in this moment.  Happiness is portable.  It travels with me – in and out of the woods.  I am cleaning and weeding my inner and outer world.  It is so exciting.  I tap, tap like a woodpecker on my keyboard.  The empty screen fills with my words, thoughts and pictures.  Amazing! I see the building of my life story before my eyes. My hands are my tools.

Life is good in or out of the woods.  Where are you now?






Truths are so simple and true.  Have you listened to Roger Miller’s song “You Can’t Go Roller Skating in a Buffalo Herd”?  It sounds like a fun and silly song, but it has a lot of wisdom to it.

“Ya can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd
But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to

Ya can’t take a shower in a parakeet cage
Ya can’t take a shower in a parakeet cage
Ya can’t take a shower in a parakeet cage
But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to

All ya gotta do is put your mind to it
Knuckle down, buckle down, do it, do it, do it”

Go ahead.  Sing a few bars.  Sing it a few times.  It’s easy and you can sound as silly as you want.  It’s a catchy tune.  Soon you will be singing/humming/dancing to it all day long. Then you start believing it.  Wait, the light bulb moment is coming.  It hits you – right between the eyes.

You go, Holy Shit!  It’s true.  I can’t go roller skating in a buffalo herd.  I can’t take a shower in a parakeet cage.  But I can be happy if I put my mind to it.  Do it, do it, DO IT! So you sing at the top of your lungs, skip around the kitchen and pound your chest.  Man, that feels good!  Let’s do it again.

I know life is not that simple.  But it is.  Sometimes I make life hard for myself by insisting on doing things I can’t do – like roller skating in a buffalo herd instead of on the sidewalk. You know what I mean, don’t you?



It’s almost Friday again and time for Friday Fictioneers and my tall tale of 100 words. My story is inspired by Stephen King’s Lawnmower Man. Our gracious host is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  I hope to be able to read some of the others’ stories this time as will be heading out on Saturday again. Hoping to get a laptop or more data on my iPhone. I know I got too many She did this….but I’m squished for time.  Critiques welcome. 🙂

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright-Roger Bultot

She ran as fast as she could.  She knew it was bearing down on her, nipping at her heels. She felt its hot breath like gasoline flames licking on her legs.

She dared to glance quickly behind her.  She screamed.

It’s mouth was opened in a a grotesque grin.  Slimy green algae oozed between its giant razor-sharp jagged teeth.  Its eyes were glazed over like curds on a saucer of sour milk.

She almost fainted with fright.  Taking a deep breath, she gathered her strength.  She put her head down and pummelled down the dirt path.

Almost home. Please God……



It’s not quite Friday, but nevertheless, it’s fiction time on Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoof-Fields. Here are my 100 words.  We will be heading out of town again.  Don’t know if I will have time or be able to access Internet.

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields


I’m missing my words these days so let me pick up my quill before we have to head out to the country again. I sorely miss the musing of my heart.

There will be no time for me to indulge in my fantasies there. The men will be out with the hounds chasing those poor creatures. I’m expected to be along side, cheering him on.

“Drat! What egos they have. I would rather sit here and scribble away. Two more chapters and I will be done.”

I settled into the comfort of my chair, picked up my quill and began.



anne lamott
Photo from

It’s  wonderful for me to find a writer like Anne Lamott. She writes of life as it really can get sometimes – life in all its nauseating details. Her writing makes me feel it’s okay to be human after all.

I don’t think that I am a negative person.  Every day I try to find something positive and send my thanks to the universe.  But to tell the truth, I feel my demons at times.  They  get the best of me on certain days and I have to let them out. Is that so bad?

Life is real and so are demons.  Is it not better to acknowledge and accept that?  At least I would not be denying the realities of my feelings.  I would not denying myself.  If I cannot accept and value myself, how can I expect anyone else to respect me?

Photo credit –

I cannot espouse, mumble jumble false platitudes.  It is just not me.  It would be a waste of my precious energy. And so, I rave and rant, complaining, bitching about this and that – about Tom, Dick, and Betty.  I know the uselessness of it all. Often, it is upon myself that the blame falls on.  Who can blame the people – as they watch and listen to this mad woman throwing forth her angry words?

Certainly not me! I hear myself. I see myself. It’s not a pretty picture at all. At least I am honest.  I have no cover ups. What you see is what you get.


It’s Friday and time for Friday Fictioneers to spin their tales of 100 words.   I look eagerly for the photo prompt each week.  Will it inspire a masterpiece from me or will it stump me?  It’s always a challenge.  Our host is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright-Björn Rudberg
PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright-Björn Rudberg

Maryanne climbed up the ladder.  It was her castle, her pie in the sky. She couldn’t believe her luck finding it.  She piled her goodies in the corner, treasures she found in back alleys.

She sat down with a heavy sigh, letting her breath out with a big whoosh.

“I have a place for the winter!”

She pinched herself.  It was still hard to believe. She rose in a daze. From the pile, she got faded blue curtains to put over the windows.  The quilt was old, heavy and warm.

She sank to her knees. “Thank you God!” She whispered.




Here it is, another hot summer day, something we all yearn for in winter.  Here I am, in retirement in summer – one year and a week.  If you are expecting me to crow or gloat about it, you will have to wait a long, long time.  You can retire from a job, but you can’t retire from life.

The same applies to summer and vacations.  You still have to do the breathing and eating thing.  You still have to go to the bathroom. Sheba still sheds her hair all over the house. Meals have to be made, dishes to do.  Then there’s laundry and the floor to vacuum.  It’s no vacation at all.  I have never deluded myself on that one!

IMG_1178I’m sweaty and cranky.  My eyes feel crossed and stuck to the back of their sockets.  I suspect I am a little difficult to live with.  But the dishes are done, the floor vacuumed and a load of laundry out to dry.  At last I’m sitting here, tapping out my words.  What story do I have to tell?

Things are never what they seem.  It is often more complicated than you planned and always take longer than you think.  You just never know what turn your life will take.

I remember the time I went downtown to buy a broom and dustpan.  I walked by Sound City and went in just to look.  I came home with a Magnavox cabinet stereo and a portable TV.  I had just started my very first real job at the Dept. of Indian and Northern Affairs.  I didn’t have any money but the store was quite happy to do the financing.

I did get my broom and dustpan that I set out for.  Later, I learned about the high interest I was paying on the TV and stereo and took out a loan from the bank to pay off Sound City. My impulsiveness did not stop with electronics.  A little while later, I saw an ad in the paper about ballroom dancing at Arthur Murray’s.  I phoned for an appointment to check it out.

I came out of Arthur Murray’s Dance Studio a few days later, having signed on the dotted line for x number of lessons.  I signed a few more times after that, ending with a certificate saying I had completed the Bronze Program.  I did not have the money.  It was just shortly after my electronics purchase.  Again, it was not a problem.  They happily put me on the monthly payment plan.

It may have been foolish of me to have spent the money, for it was not small.  But dancing was one of those things I had always wanted to learn.  I never went to any school dances after Grade 8. I felt out of place in our small town so didn’t go to town hall dances either. Arthur Murray was worth every penny I spent there.

I fell in love with all my instructors.  I felt like Ginger Rogers dancing with them.  I did not enjoy dancing with my fellow students that much.  They were clumsy like me!  I unloaded my roommate problems on Mr. Woodhouse.  The problems were bad and she had mental health problems, but that’s another story.

Mr. Woodhouse was very British and patient, had a willing ear and a good sense of humour.  I went ga-ga over Mr. McDonald.  I don’t think there was much talking on my part.  I was probably demure and love sick.  Alan was like a brother.  He convinced me to participate in a dance competition.  I was reluctant but gave in.  We tangoed to Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina.  It was a good experience which meant we didn’t win any ribbons.

I had no regrets over my electronic and Arthur Murray spending.  I was young and trying out my wings.  That was the proper time to fly and be a little daring.  If I faltered, I had time to recover.

I could still fly.  I have the time. Do I dare?


I hear the kids playing from the daycare two doors away.  Their shrill chatter and screaming are getting on the one nerve that I have left this morning.  I remind myself that they are children and they’re playing, having fun.

The sky is overcast with the storm still yet to come.  It is stubborn, not yielding, not wanting to let go of the rain.  Days like these grate on me.  They remind me of New York and Beijing.  Seems like their skies are always grey with smog – especially in Beijing.

photo from google search
photo from google search

When you washed your face at the end of the day, the cloth ended up grey.  And when you rinsed your clothes in the hotel sink, the water got sooty.  Good thing I was only visiting then.  I could not live in a place with no blue sky. At the time of my visit, before the Olympics, their freeways were lined with potted plants to absorb the pollution.  Did they make any difference?  Who knew but they tried.

There must have been some clear days and blue skies in New York way back in l969.  The greyness was probably just in my memory and a false one at that.  It was no fun being suddenly uprooted in your teens or at any age.  I fought it and won in a sense.  I came back to Canada by myself for university in Saskatoon at the end of the summer.

After I finished high school, my family moved to New York City where my mother’s side of the family lived.  I spent a long, lonely summer there.  My mother found work in a garment factory, my father at a restaurant.  Sometimes my younger sister went with my mother to snip loose threads from the garment pieces.  She was more happy go luck and flexible in nature than me.  I didn’t remember how my little brother spent the days.  I read books my cousin, Edmund took out from the library and listened to the radio.

To this day when I hear,

If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there

photo from Wikipedia
photo from Wikipedia

it reminds me of NYC, the heat from the sidewalks, the traffic noises, the drilling and hammering on Mott Street.  Music and sounds can last a life time.  Do you know that?


Yesterday’s storm never came.

I am waiting for it still.  The sky is overcast.  I am thinking that it’s a no show.  I head out for my walk with Sheba without a hat.  Of course, the sun comes out and beats down on us. I regret my decision immediately.  Why do things always happen like that?

I’ve become fond of hats walking Sheba.  In winter, it keeps out the wind and the cold. They say you lose most of your body heat through your head.  In summer it keeps out the heat.  When it rains, a hat can keep your head dry and your mascara from running.

Hats have become my friends.  Besides being protection, they add a bit of fashion and character.  I don’t worry about hat heads like I used to in my younger days.  Rather they come in handy, hiding my bed head in the morning.

I’m no Princess Di nor the Queen.  Sheba is queen enough for both of us.  But I am glad that I have a little more hat flair than Elizabeth.

The sky is threatening.  I hear a rumble.  Is it thunder?  No rain yet.  It’s not 5 yet.  Time enough to have a beer to cool off.  Wouldn’t hurt to loosen up either.