Inspiration

Hello Wednesday. I missed you last week.

Today’s self-prompt is inspiration. I always found the single-word Daily Post Daily Prompts to be lame, but they were at least an inspiration starting point and, more importantly, connected a group of promptees who became a community.

Where that community has gone I have no idea. I feel kind of stranded; do you? I wonder seriously how difficult it must have been to post one word a day with links to the community chest— I can’t judge because it’s been a long time since I worked on a serious website without a template (like this one).

There are lots of resources with daily prompts, and some with groups of participants that connect. But I grew comfortable with this one, and now need to stop finding excuses for skipping my daily entries and get to work. I have the old Daily Post 365 days of prompts and may start there. Or I have other quite interesting lists. What will you do?

In lieu of any inspiration whatsoever, may I present a few of my favourite cartoons?

cartoon yardbirds begat

cartoons womans point of view


cartoon stop picking at it


See you tomorrow for Throwback Thursday!

~~FP

No Pressure

Prompt: Loop


Hello Wednesday, June 21, you summer solstice,

Today is my favourite day of the year because it is the longest day of the year. Sitting outside at 10 pm with a glass of wine, watching the sun set, is worth the harsh 5 am stabs of light. Yes, I am a night person.

The word “solstice” means “sun-stopping”. Sun-stopping!  That is not a magical astronomical anomaly, alas, but but is so-called because the point on the horizon where the sun appears to rise and set, stops and reverses direction after this day. It is an eternal loop.

Speaking of loops, the first of my favourite cartoons this week is tenuously related to the Daily Prompt, loop:

cartoon tortoise and hare


Also eternal…

cartoon peacocks


They say people of high intelligence enjoy black humor…

cartoon chef


Welcome summer!

~~FP

Mary Jones

Prompt: Reprieve

strawberry cheesecake

She had a great palate and was executive chef for a large hotel chain, until she was accused of murdering her father, mother, brother, three aunts, their two sons, and the girlfriend of one of the sons.

Now that her lawyer and best friend had overturned her conviction, she changed her name and moved to a larger community, getting a kitchen job in a new restaurant with a strange name. There were surviving family members who might not agree with her reprieve from hanging, so it seemed best to dissolve into an anonymous landscape, at least for a time.

Mary Jones. That was her new name. She liked it. She liked her job in the restaurant kitchen, doing prep and clean up and dog’s body work. She loved the zen of julienning carrots, peeling potatoes, removing pin bones from filleted fish, keeping work surfaces sparkling clean and ready. She liked her boss, Hugo, who treated her with a distant professionalism which she found very attractive.

It was a busy Friday night dinner service when someone in the restaurant died suddenly. There were screams and cries from the dining room that Mary was the first to hear. Perhaps she was attuned to the sounds of pain. She was one of the first on the scene, finding a woman on the floor beside one of the white linen covered tables, a young man, possibly her son, crouched over her and howling like an animal.

She felt her adrenaline surge. That part was natural, wasn’t it?

The woman was taken away on a stretcher in an ambulance, as if she could come back to life. Mary knew death when she saw it. In fact, there was something about that night that spoke of epiphany.

Mary had a taste for death. There was no point in denying it, or looking the other way, or pretending otherwise. While she would never admit to murdering her extended family, she was not averse to admitting to the thrill of death.

It was a dangerous taste, like a craving for fugu, the Japanese dish prepared with extreme care lest the violently deadly parts of the fish should touch human lips. Mary had a craving for life fugu.

So when Hugo asked her to package up some mushroom fettuccine for his wife, a cop who was ill and recovering at home, Mary thought a little dose of arsenic, that old-fashioned poison, might liven things up, especially since during her arrest and pretrial incarceration, the police had been rather unsympathetic, choosing to believe she was guilty and treating her as such, even before the evidence presented at her trial. Hugo’s wife might be a very nice person, but a cop was a cop.

Hugo’s wife was too ill to eat that night, apparently, but was the poisoned dish put in the refrigerator for future consumption? Would Hugo be tempted and lazy one night, and fall ill? Would his weakened wife finally feel hungry and suffer a relapse, possibly a fatal one?

Mary waited. Have you ever had a craving, maybe for fresh buttered popcorn, or a rare steak, or strawberry cheesecake, or a Bloody Caesar cocktail? And had to wait—but know that eventually, what you crave will be before you, and that the first taste, the first bite, will be a little piece of bliss?

Mary knew that feeling. She had a new life and a new taste. She waited.