#FOWC — Mirror Image

CD6D6261-3979-4AA1-921A-8159D948E531The image above, Hand with Reflecting Sphere, also known as Self-Portrait in Spherical Mirror, is a lithograph print by Dutch artist M.C. Escher. First printed in January 1935, the piece depicts the artist’s hand holding a reflective sphere. In the reflection, most of the room around Escher can be seen.

I have always been a huge fan of M.C. Escher’s work. I have several coffee table books of his drawings in my home as well as a handful of his prints hanging on my walls.

Here are just a few of my favorite Escher works. Look at them closely.



Written for today’s One-Word Challenge. The word is “mirror.”

Give Me a Break


Two members of the Norway’s right-leaning political party have nominated Donald Trump for the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize award because of his efforts to secure the nuclear disarmament of North Korea, according to NRK, Norway’s state broadcasting company.

This on the heels of 18 House Republicans who sent a letter last month to the Norwegian Nobel Committee nominating Trump for the Peace Prize.

The Nobel Peace Prize is awarded to a person who has “done the most or best work for fraternity between nations.”

Apparently anyone can be nominated for this award. But surely the Nobel Committee can’t take this Trump nomination seriously.

Give me a break. No, give me a fucking break.

100WW — Graduation Revelation

A46E0DBD-60D3-48FC-8DB6-50B955D133D7“Your mother must be very proud of you,” a woman I didn’t know said to me.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” I politely responded and started to walk away to get lost in the crowd. But before I could, she grabbed me by my wrist.

“So what are your plans?” she asked me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do I know you?”

She gave me a very sad look. “No, not really.”

“Then leave me alone,” I said.

“I did that once already,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I’m your birth mother.”

(100 words)

Written for today’s 100 Word Wednesday prompt from Bikurgurl.

FFfPP — Wholesome Looking

img_1560I wasn’t stalking her. Well, not exactly. When she entered the lobby of the building, I have to admit I was immediately smitten. It wasn’t so much that she was beautiful. She was just so wholesome looking. Clean, fresh, almost no makeup.

Unlike most of the women who worked here. They were like painted ladies. Lots of eye makeup, false eyelashes, blush on their cheeks, coiffed hair, dressed to the nines.

No, this one was different. Since I’d never seen her in the building before, I decided to follow her, to see what floor she worked on. That way I’d know where to find her.

She took the escalator down from the lobby to the garage level and headed toward the parking garage, which was strange because she’d just entered the lobby from the outside moments before.

I wanted to catch her before she left the building to introduce myself, so I ran down the escalator and got to her just as she was entering the garage. I touched her shoulder and that’s when she turned around and sprayed mace into my eyes.

“This creep was stalking me,” she told the police officer as he cuffed me.

(197 words)

Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner from Roger Shipp. Photo credit: Kaique Rocha pexels-photo-125532 escalator.

One-Liner Wednesday — The Way You Write


“Don’t write so that you can be understood, write so that you can’t be misunderstood.”

President William Howard Taft

Actually, I try to do both. I write so that the message my words are attempting to convey can be easily understood. And in doing so, I hope that I won’t be misunderstood.

You see, I’m a rather ordinary writer and my writings are not very complex. I don’t have too many hidden meanings or twists and turns. So it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon or a brain scientist to get my drift. Know what I mean?

I am a logical, rational thinker and I try to write that way as well. That is one of the reasons I am not a big fan of poetry. Poetry hurts my head. I am intimidated by most poems (outside of limericks). Not only do I not understand poetry, I often misunderstand what the poet is trying to say.

My most dreaded moments in high school literature classes were when the teacher would call on me and ask, “Fandango, what do you think the poet was telling us?” My responses to such questions often turned into word salad. I would hope that, when strung together, my words would sound insightful. They never did.

Anyway, I’ve meandered way off topic and my one-liner post has gone on for way too long.

Happy Wednesday.

Written for Linda G. Hill’s One-Liner Wednesday prompt.