42 Day 22

Kat perfectly captures the havoc that the eruptions coming from Trump’s mouth and tweets are wreaking. Something is definitely amiss.

like mercury colliding...

how is it we’re shocked

by festering breaches, caustic fuming,
passions rising, until it’s too late…too late

eruptions rarely happen in a vacuum,
there are always signs, something amiss,
fury fuming beneath the surface

~kat

For Jane Dougherty’s Daily Poetry Challenge, 42.

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MLMM Photo Challenge — My Father’s Gloves

img_1404“I swear, I have looked everywhere for them,” Josh said.

“Do you remember where you saw them last?” Hal asked.

“Come on, Hal,” Josh said. “What kind of stupid question is that? If I could remember where I last saw them, they wouldn’t be lost, would they?”

“Well excuse me, Sherlock,” Hal said sarcastically. “They didn’t just disappear, you know.”

“I have to trace back my steps,” Josh said. “That’s my only hope for finding those gloves.”

“Why don’t you just buy a new pair?” Hal asked. “There’s a Target a few blocks from here.”

“You know that those gloves were my father’s,” Josh said. “They’re one of just a few items I have left of his. They’re irreplaceable. I can’t believe I left them somewhere.”

“So what did you do first today?” Hal asked.

“I walked the dog.”

“And you wore the gloves?”

“I usually do. It’s still pretty chilly in the mornings,” Josh said.

“Do you recall taking them off when you got back from the walk?” Hal said.

“Omigod!” Josh shouted. “I sat on the park bench to check the newsfeed on my iPhone for a minute or two and took the gloves off to scroll though the news stories.”

“It’s only been a few hours,” Hal said. “Maybe they’re still on the bench where you left them.”

“Grab your jacket,” Josh ordered.


Written for this week’s Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge. Photo credit Matt Seymour via Unsplash.

Also written for today’s one-word prompt, “disappear.”

Twittering Tales — TLC

img_1405Inn by the sea for sale. Seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, four fireplaces, eat-in kitchen, formal dining room, butlers pantry, laundry, screened porch. 7,460 sq. ft. on two acres. Zoned commercial.

This gorgeous property is awaiting your personal touch. In need of some TLC.

(272 characters)


Written for this week’s Twittering Tales prompt from Kat Myrman. Photo credit: Tama66 at Pixabay.com.

Nothing Personal

bare wallsYou’ve seen those TV crime dramas, right? You know, the ones where the cops bust into the apartment of the suspect. They look around, trying to get a sense of the man, a glimpse into his personality.

One of the cops says to his partner, “No pictures on the walls, no books on the shelves, no personal knickknacks. This place hardly looks lived in. What’s up with this guy? What makes him tick?”

Well, I was that guy. No, not a perpetrator of a crime. I just had no pictures of any kind on my walls, no books on the shelves (actually, no bookshelves, either). No plants to be found. Not even artificial ones. I was a true minimalist.

Only the necessities. A bed and a chest of drawers in the bedroom. A recliner, a small dining table with two chairs, a TV stand on top of which sits a TV in the living room. There’s also a small desk in one corner, along with a desk chair and an empty, two-drawer filing cabinet. The apartment looks totally generic, sterile. Anyone could have been living there. Or no one.

In fact, if some police psychologist came to my apartment, he would probably have tagged me as a shady, isolated type; a drifter who didn’t intend to be there very long, who had no stability or sense of self, and who had few human connections.

But that wasn’t me. Well, at least not when my wife was still alive. In my defense, though, when I moved into my apartment a year and a half ago, shortly after she died, I kind of knew it would be temporary. After more than four decades together, it’s not easy to transition from a life together to a life in solitary.

So when she died, I sold our house, the furniture, and all of our shared personal possessions, at least the ones that my two adult daughters didn’t claim. And because I thought I wouldn’t be in that apartment for very long, I didn’t invest in much to make it my own. But then again, after she died, I didn’t really know, anymore, who I was.

Turns out I wasn’t in that apartment that long. I guess being alone didn’t suit me. And now my daughters, who each live in other parts of the country tending to their own families, have flown in to claim whatever possessions their dearly departed and estranged father left behind, which wasn’t much at all.

Certainly nothing personal.