Consider this: Prince Harry as Alvin Tostig...
* Dictionary Search for a word
an expression of good wishes to a person starting a journey.
"she wished him godspeed"
Levon sounds good.
...and he shall be a good man...
And yes, welcome to the world and godspeed, Archie ~
And May Meghan, Duchess of Sussex
celebrate a perfect MOTHER'S DAY
Anna! We extended best wishes simultaneously. This one'$ for you: O-HAPPY-DAYS
Origami Puffy Heart Instructions - The Spruce Crafts
R Kive Time (alive and well) org/written toother scribes: Paust,Chapman
I really to wonder if I'll ever buy another book. Safe as it here in the zone, cozy--only $175 monthly for highxspeedxinternet and countless television channels, all the world's written & filmed discourse at hand--and every eleven months or so Wonderful Life will be on again and again day and night. I can even say: Katie, bar the door! I can even start a joke: Andy Warhol and Gore Vidal walk into a bar...fifteen minutes later...no; John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson are eating breakfast at Denny's...pan to the U.S.A Today headline: the words have been superseded with Disney characters, music: Johnny Cash scratchily -- only in Portuguese. A pall of remorse. However there is a subliminal fortune cookie-like message that something good is going to happen. Sally Struthers trays over a round of Snapple. There's an untyped unspoken line about whole wheat toast. It smells like buttered toast. The giant wall clock says TURNING POINT. Through the raised blinds, a near-motionless street sweeper within prismatic mist contemplatively purrs along curbside...PEORIA PUBLIC WORKS...freshly painted but sanded and scraped to look run down. Outodoors it's breeze-less, a yellow-bulb black screen digital thermometer says 109 degrees; indoors the air conditioner freezes and squirts a squid-like sepia ooze. The viewer immediately realizes that something good is not going to happen. A very elderly bag lady enters. She wears combat boots. The manager scolds her, "Ruby, now what? Didn't I tell you...?"
Ruby sits alone, gulping ice water. She crosses her legs.
Zzoom to the sole of her boot.
***I'm just wondering if the etymology of naive precedes democracy.
You know, with those two dots: almost like puncture wounds.
Best writer I ever knew (aka Frankie) never sent his work around and when asked why he'd reply, 'I want it to be pure'. I'm working toward a constructive comment here. Somewhat familiar with your work--
'Town and Country People' is probably your 'strongest' genre draw, and rivals what one sees in popular collections such as
'Pushcart Prize--Best of the Small Presses' or SS anthologies such as the 'American Review' and some such.
FLASH FICTION FRIDAYS
Tidying mi [GLORIA'S] casa. Wondering if I would feel, well, too effeminate za ' gone for a manicure', some trimming apriori', the fingernails, in order to speed things along, fascinated with how nearly antiseptic this joint spiffed,up, up and away once the initial scent of propane vented.
It is a double wide, obligatory eggshell white. The flodged bow and arrow hunters are about, I trust they are on my side, doubtless they have at least heard of Thoreau; oddly I'm pleasantly interrupted as I see a Harley + side car approaching. I think I heard it before I saw it (insert laughter)!
I had planned the new Starbucks freeze dried, cream puffs as a blatant nod to America's Dairyland, tapas as a nod to discipline, in order to stay with the program, rhubarb wine, raw ginseng, my cork globe for steel tipped darts, the screens left off, politely, this ought to be fun, what with the right of refusal. Nervous, I leaned over the portico with a cigarette not inhaling, the Harley+sidecar taking forever out there on the tamped clay, would they find it clever, the New Orleanian chromium-yellow door framed as a free-standing front door? Somewhat too cool out to guide them around the garden, sure hope they notice (of course they will) how the bent grass flourishes amidst the stone.
I poured raw milk from the burnished pitcher on the patterned walk feeding moss. The motorcycle stopped. Odd greeting, her mask reversed like the moss rose damaged early, to my chagrin, some of the roses crushed by the tome-weight of the Times, WaPo, Wired more about Crispr
Maybe the boy would come by later if it warmed up enough to at least shore fish. He was unpredictable, the boy,'strange' his teachers said. I imagined his nose would be running already, perhaps wearing the flannel shirt from St. Nick's Day, several seasons gone.
The wind had decimated and I saw how the sun worked hotly through the clouds. Apparently these on teasin' editors at large had already spooked the neighbors. I heard at least one screen door, the hounds, and already the repetitive cranking vrooom of the Serb's Briggs & Stratton. Pesky, discount beer lush, good man unashamed to ask for crushed cans, for an ear of Indian corn; he would trade back, fresh bananas and such.
"Mr. Hart!" she said, shaking that honey-hued hair out from beneath her helmet...both wore darkened goggles and blood-orange helmets. I felt that I knew had known them, Barby-ish and Ken-ish, thanking my well-aligned stars both were multilingual, me not cognizant of English, even when whispered in an ugly manner, even as it becomes manic and animated---absolutely subliminal, as quick as a centipede.
Or when a child cups minnows, startled by his image, the jolt of time.
How does it sound? Read it to me A#1 aloud,0 you, I thought.
As I served apricot brandy in delicately decoupaged Sicilian glasses, igniting the flames beneath the spa water, uncharacteristically worried about the way things might have been. She toasts eye to eye. Bona furtuna Warm wind accelerates, rustles through the trees...
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