R & R Ramblings

Fictional Fingertip Tapping Tales…

Blame The Good Doctor


Rainbow Bali-beads swung from plaited hair strands. Painted fingernails matched the beads’ colour palette, while glitter fell like fairy dust from rouged cheeks. Faux jewels covered each knuckle that clutched dog-eared textbooks.
He flip-flopped with mismatched, oversized shoes, in time to muffled music from echoing headphones. People dodged as he weaved while focusing on his textbooks. Until he stood and waited in line for his bus.
Beside him, a woman looked him up and down. “What happened to you?”
“Babysitting cretins spiked my coffee while I was meant to be studying for today’s exam. I blame Dr. Seuss for this.”

(100 words)

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” Dr Suess.

Steel Night


“Just a bit more.” The long steel bar slid past the flat metal blades.

“Now swing on it.” As two sets of hands pulled, but nothing moved.

“All your weight, lads.”

Four more hands jumped on and the crowbar creaked until it gave way, toppling them to the ground.

He nodded, stoking his beard. “There now, them baby finches will get a good seed-feed for a few more days until they can fly proper. Then the old man can return to his mowing routine,” and led his gnome troop from the garden shed to disappear within the shield of shadows.

(100 words. Photo’s mine.)


No Explanation


Toes to the edge, arms wide

& upon butterfly wings, I dive

To be deafened by wordless songs

To skydive beneath dried water

& float on wingless feathers

So let’s get lost

& hold my hand to climb

Let’s risk those deeper waters

To run naked through the garden

To watch a turtle mid-float

as hope rises in the rain

For this is nature’s gift

of a life lived

with no need to explain.

(Consider this my excuse/explanation for my absence from WordPress these past few weeks…)


Crone’s Prayer



With hunched, frail shoulders the crone leant against her sand-smooth staff. Her gnarled hand trembled holding a wax sealed bottle. Inside, a parchment displayed swirls of an unknown language.

It’s fall soundless from above the rocks.  There it danced with the tide like a lost jewel beneath the hidden sun’s demise.

“Please…” Her croak echoless upon the breezeless eve. “Father, let me come home for this land is not for me.”

A tail of rainbow scales splashed a wave – then disappeared.

The bottle stolen.

She waited and prayed for the storms to align for her antiquated legs’ last dawn.

Scent of Silence

Silence has a scent.

It’s where dust settles and breezes still.

Where dew merges with mists that haunt the horizon.

Gravity chills and time stretches its sentence of a second.

Spectators shush. Lungs pause. As eyes blink to clear awakening visions.

All for this taken-for-granted daily moment …


(50 words. Photo is mine.)


buildings 2 (1 of 1)

“Do you hate me?”

“No.” Yes.

“You can do this.”

“I can.” I can’t.

“You’ll thank me for this later.”

“I know.” Not today I won’t.

“It’ll get easier. Trust me.”

“Ah huh.” As trustworthy as a politician before an election?

“You’re improving with my help.”

“I know.” You’re trying to kill me.

“Come on, one more set of stairs and then breakfast.”

“Can’t wait.” Eggs whites and bird seed, yippee – not.

“You’ve made record time.”

“Ahuh.” And time to find another apartment with a working elevator, without the veganistic, neophyte personal trainer as a flatmate. Or I could push…

Imaginator’s Keyboard

typewriter (1 of 1)


the dragon’s pull

of an imaginator’s trance

tapped the writer’s keyboard dance

that strives to unleash the bird-caged beauty

to brandish her blunted sword against the bored.

Where every direction is a questioned choice

for the search of an unrepeated pattern.

Wherein a pause lurks a library’s maze

where worlds within begin

a new pursuit of the mind’s twist.

It’s a discovery of hidden chapters

while avoiding the kill of hearted darlings.

It’s why a writer’s job is never done

why a writer’s mind tries to fly

to beat the adulting curse

against the days

of sameness.

Painted Ruse

painted bus (1 of 1)

“You can’t park here without a permit.”

“Bin’ comin’ ‘ere longer than ’em  petty council laws were in place.” She hobbled down the steps clutching a walking stick.

He studied the small haggard woman. “I’ve never seen you, or this bus you can’t miss.”

“D’ya think its pretty?” She beamed wide at the Inspector.

“For an eyesore.”

“Some call it art.” Her frail hand wobbled, huffing, as she pulled down the side awning.

“You can’t set up camp here.”

“I’m not campin’.”

“You’re setting up something?”

“Dare ya to ask?”

“Fine. Why are you driving a bus covered in graffiti and splats of paint?”

“Because it attracts the bigger children.”

“Did teenagers paint the graffiti?”

“Adults too. Well, those choosing to remember their inner child and all that hocus-pocus crap. D’ya wanna try?”

“And throw paint at your bus?”

“This is the ‘Wish Bus’.”

“Wish it wasn’t in this park. Hey, permit, lady?”

“For what?”

“You’re parking on council property and selling things.”

“I don’t sell wishes. It’s ‘ere for the children to enjoy.”

“Where’s the kids.”

“Aren’t you a youngster?” She chuckled.

His chest puffed as his chin raised. “I’m a grown-up.”

“Adulting sucks. Trust me, I’ve been doin’ it longer than you. So, ‘ere,” and offered him a small colour ball from a wrinkled palm.

“What is that?”

“Paintball. Have a try?”


“To chuck it at my bus.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“They call it art therapy. Or you could play safe and paint paper. But where’s the fun in that?”


“Simple, you make a wish, then throw paint as hard as you can at the bus.”

“It works, huh?” Eyebrows raised as he shook his head.

“One way to find out.”

“Um?” He scratched beneath his parking inspectors cap.

“What’s five seconds of a childhood free moment of fun gonna hurt.”

“You’ll show me your permit after?”

She nodded and held her palm flat balancing the coloured pearl.

“Only live once, right?”


The Inspector hesitated.

Then plucked the paintball, feeling the cool delicate coating, thinner than a shell-less egg. He raised the bauble to the sun and inspected a kaleidoscope swirl of colours of a candy-coloured-world within a world.

“Remember to wish, child.”

“I wish…” and he hurled the large marble towards the side of the bus. It splattered into a huge clash of rainbow shades and bold stripes of greens, gold, violet, red, and a rich royal blue.  “Too cool!”

She smiled. “Wanna try another one?”

“I do.” He nodded, eyes shining as bright as his smile.

“They’re inside the bus. Quicker if you fetched ’em for me. There’s a whole tray in the back, can’t miss ‘em.”

“Okay.” The Inspector leapt up the stairs and disappeared behind paint covered windows.

At the first scream, she smiled. “This painted Bus is so much better than the old ant-riddled gingerbread house. It’s supper time.” And skipped up the steps twirling her cane in hand as the bus doors magically closed behind her.

A Penned Romance

luna 1 (1 of 1)


captured moment,

now church choir seat silent

as a finger faded photo slips away

and a shovel shifts dirt across a grave,

where funeral flowers looked pretty under the full moon.


within the gutter floats an

origami letter

of a lost love’s words

that pens of a romance so old

where Old Man Time chose to stand still

as heaven’s angels held their breath

to watch the couple reunite

& relive within their

private portal

of paradise.

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