Passing Time in Starview Heights

Putting My Feet in the Dirt September Writing Prompt# 17-Nights in Starview Heights

Artist Tom Thomson

Winter Stroud  could tell you what the days in Starview are like-

she could tell you about  two of the little cottages on Main Street  that have curtains hanging in the windows even though there is no glass in the window frames and about the Post Office in the back of the General Store .

The  cashier’s counter in the store is still near the wall, though wood rot  has eaten away at most of it  and that spinner rack that used to hold comic books and romance magazines still stands next to it, though it is a little rusty and tilts to the left.

The Post Office has a bank of mail slots behind it’s own counter and Winter Stroud could tell you how six of them hold letters that have been waiting patiently  in their dusty cubbies since  1940.

She could tell you about the diner next door with the tables and booths  and untouched by the elements and time and how not a single stick of furniture has been moved since 1940- except for dust. It’s covered everything – but dust is bold and fearless and it goes where it wants to go.

Winter Stroud could also tell you that at night  Starview Heights comes back to life like clockwork- the shelves at the store fill with goods and the soda pop machine hums on and starts to chill the dusty empty  bottles like it supposed to do.

Next to the two cottages, houses and buildings  all around town  claw and tear themselves up from the ground and after the dirt falls away and settles on the grass,  the lights turn on and you can smell  dinner cooking  and hear doors and windows opening and closing too.

Winter Stroud could tell you all of these things because when Starview Heights was just a patch of land covered with trees she was already there,   she was there in 1940 when  all but a few buildings and the sign advertising  Mallo Cups disappeared into the earth. She was standing in the middle of Main Street when the woods took away the only roads into town with everyone on it who was trying to leave-

you could ask Winter Stroud, it will be easy enough.

You’ll probably find her in the diner at the counter reading a comic book from the General Store.

She will be there, a lonely though content spectre passing the time in Starview Heights.

Fandango’s Friday Flashback — The Fall

From September 18, 2019

Photo by Izabella Bedu0151 on

Today on my way to work I saw the first dead leaves of Autumn

being pushed down the street by a cool blast of wind.

I’m pretty sure my smile was wolfish and slightly demonic looking

and not entirely without a dash of charm as I savored that  moment.

Summer is gone, prepare


The Fall.





I Know What Happened to Johnathan Michael

Putting My Feet in the Dirt September Writing Prompt #16- Jonathan Michael was His Name

Photographer Unknown


Johnathan Michael was his name

he disappeared one night

from a moving train.


Did he stumble

did he fall

maybe, they said,

  he never got on the train at all.


But I know he did

I saw him clear as day

 and when he sneezed

I politely said:

God Bless You


And he Poof!

He  disappeared into flames.





Operation Be Someone Else

Putting My Feet in the Dirt September Writing Prompt# 15 Crimson clover compassions

Photographer Unknown

You could be pretty if you tried

wear your hair like this, wear your makeup like that

wear scarves, flowing skirts- think exotic!

Of course, you’ll never come up to scratch

but you could be pretty if you tried

just a little color here and a little color there

might make you pretty, almost average, of course not as splendid as that woman walking by

you could do it


if you just tried.

Across The River

Ragtag Daily Prompt Thursday: Footprint

Artist: Tom Thompson
Born: Aug 05, 1877 · Claremont, Canada
Died: Jul 08, 1917 · Canoe Lake, Canada


I don’t want to leave a footprint or two

hardened in the mud by time.


I want to leave a forest full


poisonous plants with shiny berries and fragrant flowers

trees with skeletal limbs wrapped in pine needles and frost

packs of wolves with yellow and orange eyes

and birds that circle the sky after the Sun has died

across the river in Duat

where everyone will know my name.

The Collection

Putting My Feet in the Dirt September Writing Prompt#14 : At the heart of her


At the heart of her is  a collection of memories-

sweet kisses, bitter tears, harsh words and kept promises.

At the heart of her

is where her dreams sleep and her nightmares run wild

and her brain tries to tell them all to sleep,  let it rest for awhile.

A the heart of her

where songs she learned as a girl and stories she has  told as a woman

whisper to each other when she watches the snow fall or the Sunset.

At the heart of her

are the sounds of closing doors, turning locks

a car door slamming shut and driving away

these sounds are louder then all of the rest

and they take up the most room

At the heart of her.

Can I Have A Word?

FOWC with Fandango — Din

Words and phrases dulled by constant over use, their flavor lost to the tongue, the sound

of them  are an assault upon tired ears, their sole purpose is to attack the  human digestive track without mercy.

Separately, collectively on social media or spoken live-

a constant din,

fouling the air more efficiently then any plague or smoke from raging fires could:


What not, what not, what not,


I know, right? Scroll On. Troll Alert!

New normal, FREEDOMS! Yeah But…

All Lives Matter, Blue Lives Matter,

Second amendment! Second Amendment! Second Amendment!

Literally, On the same page, Awesome Sauce!


A word salad  going bad in a bowl in the back of the refrigerator. I want to pretend like it’s not there, waiting for me to clean it out.