He hated that place. It wasn’t because his mother made him attend each and every Sunday morning, and it wasn’t because of the super boring sermons the old Padre presented each week. It was because of those seats.

Fashioned from solid birch, the seats were especially unforgiving. Frankly, they hurt his back. It was hard to keep still. He either slid out of them, or he squirmed endlessly, prompting his mom to insist he keep quiet.

These days, he still tries to stay away. Again, not because of the preacher’s sermons, but this time because of his damn Hemorrhoids. Ouch!



This story of discomfort in the Lords’s place, is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Click on the link for more stories.

Ignoring the Prime Directive


“Kirk, remember the Prime Directive! We cannot land here, the inhabitants will be forever affected by our presence!” warned Spock.

“The Dilithium Crystals are breaking down. We need to recharge them using the planet’s Nuclear energy!” yelled Scotty, the ship’s engineer.

While the men scoured the planet for a suitable power source, it’s inhabitants barely noticed the huge starship that lay parked on the city streets.

“Capteen, the people are walking blindly, staring into their communicators!” warned Chekov.

“When we have enough energy, get us out of here, apparently there is no intelligent life here on this planet!” said Kirk.


The latest episode of Star Trek, and an insight into how many things we miss by staring into our cell phones and tablets….is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Click on the froggy for more stories…and Beam me outta here!





enough shit


“Daddy, fix the TV please” begged his seven year old daughter. “The lines are all squiggly!” “Fix it Daddy, Please?” she asked.

He knew fixing the damn satellite wasn’t as easy as she thought, but being such a loving father, he did his best.

He knew the problem before he even went up. Three stories later he reached the roof top.

“Just as I thought, those frigging birds shit on the satellite dish again.” he muttered.

Suddenly he had a revelation.

“That’s it! I ‘m cutting the cord!”

“Just let those stupid birds try shitting on my Android TV Box.”

This story of cord cutting and a daddy’s love is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers.

click on the froggy for more stories.





don’t get me drunk!

When he met her, she was this sweet little thing. He seen her first when he visited the school library. There she was, her blonde hair in a pony tail, tied up in a bun. The polka dot dress she wore was so long it touched the tips of her toes, and she was so very quiet. She moved quietly from one shelf to the next, putting the old books back where they belonged.

He made frequent visits to the library, more than he ever made before. In fact, he was so shy, he rarely went anywhere in the school except for home room, where he sat in the corner of the class, rarely making a sound. The other kids made fun of him all the time, calling him cruel names and even pushing him when they passed.

He never made friends easily, and even the teachers avoided him. His marks were poor, and he was often unclean. One would guess he might be a victim of abuse, but nobody ever seen his parents. He just seemed to show up one day, and nobody took the time to talk to him, or even ask him where he came from.

Acne pimples covered his face, which was about the only thing normal about this thirteen year old kid. His hair was greasy and his clothing was often tattered. He seemed very uncomfortable around other kids his age, but not around Kathy, the school librarian.

After so many attempts to gain her attention, Freddy decided to try something different. Going against everything he ever did, he simply got up, walked up to the desk and asked her out.

“How about you and me get out of here this afternoon? Go for coffee?” he asked, not a quiver in his voice.

At first she appeared surprised, but she quickly warmed up to him. “Me? You want to have coffee with me?” she asked, obviously surprised.

“Okay, but I don’t want coffee, it keeps me up. I would rather a soda, at your house.”

Freddy didn’t know what to say. At thirteen, he was just getting started with girls. He certainly wasn’t ready to have her over. Besides, with his parents out of town, and his older brother home ‘taking care’ of him, he didn’t want to be embarrassed. But she asked to come to his house.

“Sure, but it will have to be after seven. My brother goes to work then and I really don’t want him around.” he said.

“I will be there at 7:30. but I must warn you, don’t try anything Okay?. Don’t be like those other guys and think you can sneak alcohol in my drink and take advantage of me. I like you, lets keep it that way!” she advised.

Freddy couldn’t wait for the school day to end. “Imagine, the prettiest girl in school, one who is actually a senior, three years older than me, wants to come to my house, on the first date!” he thought.

That night, Freddy shooed his brother out the door as quickly as he could. Once he knew he was alone, he washed his hair, and put on some of his dad’s aftershave. He made sure he had plenty of ice, and brought out two glasses, and set them on the table. He walked the floor, waiting for the door bell to ring. At quarter past eight, the doorbell chimed.

He peered through the window and watched her. Her hair, now hanging loose, was shoulder length. She wore a dress quite different than the one she had on today, this one tight and very short. She wore high heels that made her appear much taller than he remembered, and as she waited, she coated her lips with the reddest lipstick.

Freddy was quick to open the door, his heart beating out of his chest. “Come on in” he invited, almost too excited to talk.

When she came in, there was something different about her. “I need a drink, I am so nervous, just pop please, no alcohol!” she admitted.

Freddy went to the kitchen, and poured up each a glass of soda. he filled each glass with ice, and before bringing the drinks into the living room, he had a devious idea.

He remembered her specifically stating that she didn’t want him to get her drunk. Was this an invitation for him to do it? After all, he never mentioned anything about alcohol, she was the one who brought it up. Was she expecting him to try something? Did she want alcohol? Did she want to get drunk, maybe let loose? He couldn’t take the chance on missing out on such a great plan. After all, look at how she is dressed!

He went to his dad’s liquor cabinet and found the bottle of Vodka. He remembered his dad commenting on how easy it was to sneak the stuff into his afternoon coffee. No smell, just the warm feeling in your gut.

At first he thought of abandoning the entire idea, but he fought against it. He poured two shot glasses of Vodka into her pop, and headed out to her side.

“Here’s to us” he said, praying she didn’t smell the booze. She gulped the entire glass down. “Could I have another, I am parched!” she said.

In seconds, he had her glass refilled, this time with even more booze. After three glasses, he knew she was drunk.

Just then, something happened. Her fingers, once dainty, began to grow. The nails grew, stretching to nearly double their length. Her once perfect mouth grew wide, and her teeth fell out. Her hair turned a cold grey, and her eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. Her once perfect body became that of a monster, the bones nearly sticking from her clothes. Her feet also grew, and her entire body became covered in hair.

“I asked you not to get me drunk. Look at what you did to me! I asked you, but you wouldn’t listen. You are just like all the other boys! Now you will live to regret your dishonesty” she said, her voice raspy and coarse.

“Regret it? Are you kidding?, You are beautiful!” he said, his own body going through similar changes.

In minutes, the setting of the room changed drastically. No longer were there two young people, their innocence and youth making them beautiful. In fact, now the room appeared to surround two monsters, something out of a horror movie.

“You are the woman I waited for my entire life” he said, his long tongue slithering across his pimple infused face.

The two monsters locked in embrace and together, they created the next generation of beasts. When they finished, their bodies began to change back to their original form.

“See you at school tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure thing, I will be there all day!” she said, excited.



Curn: A Tribute to my Uncle

A tall, slender man with a big heart, my Uncle Curn (his real name was Cornelius) was a brilliant man. He could talk politics with the best of them and he really knew how to spin a yarn. Whether he was humming a tune by his favourite singer John White or tying flies to go salmon fishing, the man was always in good spirits.

He lost an eye cutting pulp when he was just a young man, but the accident never affected his love for the forest. He spent his best days in the woods, often alone, setting rabbit snares or finding new spots to cut firewood.

Uncle Curn was a plumber/pipefitter by trade, but his true love was fishing. My uncle truly loved salmon fishing, and he spent most of his free time along the rivers of Western Newfoundland, especially at Harry’s River and Southwest Brook.

Mom said that as a child, her brother loved taking things apart. She said the only thing wrong with that was that he rarely put them back together. She recalls him disassembling the family’s old phonograph player. He was amazed at how the small parts made the thing work. Mom recalls the house being relatively quiet after Curn took the phonograph apart, as he didn’t put it back together right and it never worked again.

Cornelius was always game for a good chat, and there was no winning an argument with him. Mom said he was always so smart. Nobody could outfox or fool him.

My uncle was good friends with my dad even before he met my mom. I have a picture of my Uncle ‘Curn’, my Dad and my Uncle Frank that brings back memories of the good times they had as young men.

My dad married Curn’s sister, and Curn married my dad’s sister. How is that for a close family? Although my aunt’s name is Rita, my uncle referred to her simply as ‘Reet’.

They were married a few days prior to my parents, and together, Curn and Rita had a large family who they loved very much. With five boys and a girl, they had their hands full.

My uncle and aunt ran a small convenience store in my community, and I can still remember going there to buy ice cream. On one occasion, when I ordered a popsicle, and my uncle asked how I was paying, I simply said…”put it on my tab…and that’s what he did.

I remember one time, my uncle called and asked if I would like to accompany him and his son on a fishing trip. I was excited to go, and of course mom said yes. He said not to worry about anything, because my uncle never worried. He was the most carefree person I ever knew.

His old green Chevy truck pulled into my dad’s driveway, and me and his son Ronnie squat next to him. As we traveled to the river, my uncle told us stories, and made the two of us laugh all the way.

When we got to the river, my uncle noticed that he had forgot his tent. Most people would worry, but not him. “Don’t worry, I have a roll of felt in the back. We can make a bough camp and put the felt on top if it rains” he assured us.

“Besides, it won’t rain, it is sunny and not a cloud in the sky” he said.

It poured that night. Me and Ronnie climbed in the little shelter his dad built for us, and I must admit, with the felt on the roof, the thing was totally waterproof and even a bit comfortable.

It was comfortable until about three in the morning. This was the time I woke from my sleep, drenched in water. Apparently, Uncle Curn’s fire was going out from all the rain, so he gradually tore pieces of felt from our roof and threw them in the fire. We were soaked.

The next morning, the sun was splitting the rocks, and we didn’t take long to dry off.

The worst thing my uncle ever did was begin smoking. He truly enjoyed a good smoke, and incidentally, smoking was the thing that made his life most difficult. I don’t think I can remember seeing my uncle without either a cigarette or a pipe.

A few years back, he lost a leg due to clogged arteries. If you think losing a leg got him down, you didn’t know my uncle. I remember him telling me of how he crawled through the woods, hauling his body through the thick brush, setting rabbit snares in the fall of the year.

And who could forget the trips that he took to the river, sitting in his ATV, fishing for salmon. One leg didn’t make a difference to a man who was as resilient as my uncle.

A few months ago, the other leg began giving him trouble. Doctors attempted to free the clogs from his veins (my family have very small veins), and although the surgery was relatively successful, his heart just couldn’t take it. For the last few weeks, he has been sedated with morphine, only coming to long enough to speak to the many visitors who came to see him.

We got the call early this morning. His body could no longer withstand the pain. With most of his veins and arteries clogged, he passed away. It was a bittersweet time for my family. We knew he was in pain and suffering, so we wanted the Blessed Lord to take him away from his misery, but on the other hand, we didn’t want to lose him either. Our lives will be much emptier without him.

Uncle Curn was a great father to his kids, who all turned out to be good people. I see a bit of my uncle’s brilliance in each of his children, and my mom says that she sees a lot of him in me.

The salmon rivers will be a lot lonelier this year, as his homemade salmon flies will no longer flicker on the rushing waters. He will be missed not only by friends and family in the close knit community where he lived, but by anyone who has ever met him.

the wire

Photo Prompt by Madison Woods


we were running through the woods that day

we were young

and carefree.


and my friend


on an old trail

that led to Scott’s farm.

They say he meant no harm

just protecting what he thought was his.

He used wire you know,

to keep us out

from land that he didn’t even own.

The wooden fence

rotted fast,

but the wire

was made to last,

its barbed ends

were as sharp and cold

as the old man’s soul.

and we felt it

when we tripped

on the rusted wire

that lay buried

next to the old man.





Today’s thought…

Sword Swallower

On all the talent shows, there is at least one sword swallower. I can’t look. If the act goes well, he shows up on the next episode, ready to freak me out again. If the act goes awry, he is dead on stage…how is this an act that he can repeat.

“The act didn’t go well. I will make it up to you if I get called back!” he says, while bleeding to death!

How long can an act of swallowing a sword possibly last? Imaging a two hour Vegas show where a guy puts swords down his throat. Boring unless something goes wrong. Its like watching Nascar…boring unless there is an accident.

How does one know they are a good sword swallower? What about the people who discovered they weren’t good at it?  Are they dead?

At what point in a person’s life do they decide they want to be a sword swallower? “What you doing the weekend?” “Not much, I might try swallowing something sharp, see how it turns out…”

How does one believe they can do this? Do they start off with small things, like pocket knives and steak knifes? “Junior, get that butter knife out of your mouth…want to cut yourself and bleed to death? What’s wrong with you???”

When the sword ‘goes down the wrong hole’ does the person die, or just cough it up?

Are swords fattening? Lots of Iron, so I guess they are healthy!

Not much of a margin for error in sword swallowing. It’s either it went well or you are dead.

Its not like you meet some guy who says “I tried Sword swallowing and gave it  up….I wasn’t good at it”  If you aren’t good at it, you are probably dead by now.

The act probably requires concentration. can you imagine if the guy is on America’s Got talent and one of the judges hits the X…I bet that buzzer could be distracting…

Honey’s visit

Living in a small community, we never got many visitors. We were surrounded with immediate family, mostly on my dad’s side, so nobody really had to visit I guess. My grandmother had family in Nova Scotia, and from time to time, her relatives would come to the island for a visit. We always looked forward to this.

I remember once, mom’s cousin Honey and her husband Dave came to visit. I later discovered that ‘Honey’ was a nickname, her real name was Jeanette.

I was probably around 25 at the time, and already seriously into working as a private Disk Jockey. I was getting ready to play a wedding for a young couple who recently visited, when I decided to play a few tunes, and see if they were ‘dance worthy’.

With this, mom and dad began dancing around the house. My brother and sisters hid their eyes with embarrassment, but mom and dad didn’t care. That was until mom noticed someone standing outside the picture window….with a huge video camera on their shoulder. It was Honey’s husband Dave, laughing to kill himself, as he videoed mom and dad dancing away. Of course, (if my memory serves me correctly), his laughter was short lived….he forgot the lens cap on his camera. (If this was not the case, I would love a copy of the video) Too bad, this would have made a great video for mom and dad’s 50th wedding anniversary a few years ago.



peppermint leaves

I had a dream last night. I was little again. I was sitting in the tall grass at my grandparents’ house. The smell of fresh mint in the air, and a gently breeze blowing in my face. My great grandmother was sitting with me. ” Chew the peppermint leaves, and then spit them out!” she said, “They make your mouth tingle!”

With a handful of gooseberries she picked from the branches of the tree that hung over the step rail, and a glass of lemonade my grandmother made for us, we had quite a time. She told me stories, mostly about the hardships she faced as a young woman, left to care for her eleven children when her husband was taken from her at just 50 years old. Tuberculosis took him, and the dreaded disease took one of their younger sons soon afterward.

To this day, whenever I smell the scent of fresh mint, I find myself back at my grandparent’s house, sitting in the tall grass, chewing mint leaves and laughing with my grandmother Josephine.



seat of choice

PHOTO PROMPT – © Ted Strutz

Heading to work, Paul realized that he had to use the bathroom. Pulling into a service station, he quickly headed to the restroom. On the way, he met a man exiting the room, tools in hand.

Paul noticed not one but two identical toilets. He used the first one, and upon completion of his business, he attempted to flush.

No handle. In fact, no plumbing.
Apparently the man leaving the room was a plumber, not yet finished installing a new toilet.

Paul left the room quickly, only to meet the same man, on his way to finish installing the toilet.

This little tale of surprise and disgust, is brought to you courtesy of Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt of the week. Click on the froggy for more stories.