I’m participating in a new meme (for me, that is) called Friday Writings , which is hosted by Poets and Storytellers United . Fragment #1 “Come on, Honey. Let’s take you home now,” said the kindly man in blue holding out his hand to the grey-haired, naturally tanned woman sitting pertly on a stone bench in front of the Veteran’s Memorial Building. Six feet away, among tiles commemorating military veterans, was her dad’s, the only connection visible to her past.  The short stout woman with knees far younger than her walked steadily beside the middle-aged escort who reminded her of the son she did not have.   The sun was halfway to the horizon. Be home by sunset, her parents had told her so very long ago.  (to be continued…maybe) To read creative poetry and prose from other bloggers, head over to  Friday Writings .

What if. . .   You Aren’t Here is a  destination restaurant in a hoedown punktown of a village. The entrance is the back door.  Seating is made up of curtained booths, maximum six, with covered peep holes for the show. Customers place their orders with masked waiters and waitresses wearing bullfighter outfits, sans capes, and old-fashioned roller skates.  When the booth bell chimes, the peep holes open to allow the customers to watch the show.  Before them are chefs and sous chefs and their crew swiftly and precisely julienning and butterflying, pounding and tenderizing, marinading and dressing,  tossing and turning, poaching and grilling, and so forth and so on in the restaurant’s clean and well-lit, state-of-the-art kitchen.   There! said the customers in whispers. That’s mine!