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Clam Eating a Lolipop

1 Oct

One-hundred words for Friday Fictioneers based on this week’s photo prompt, shown below, graciously supplied by Kent Bonham.  Titles are an art form, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and agents are a necessary evil. Don’t neglect the former, remember the middle and never antagonize the latter.


Ick on a Stick

Clam Eating a Lolipop


“Don’t demean yourself. In our world there are certain things one just does not do. I refuse to be a party to it.”

I stare at my latest piece of pretentious bullshit, nicely framed on the gallery wall, and try to think of something that will satisfy my agent. Soliloquy in Sand 47, perhaps?

“I think my choice of title is rather distinctive.”

“My dear, I make my living, and yours too, I might add, by elevating art and artists. Don’t throw away your present success on such frivolity.”


“How about Ick on a Stick?”


Kansas City Wide Open 2014

24 Jun

The 2014 Kansas City Wide Open Disc Golf Championships are over. Paul McBeth took Open Pro at Swope Gold Course and way at the other end of the card, over at Blue Valley Park, I took Pro Senior Grandmasters. The courses were tough and long with big elevation changes. It was hot as Missouri in Summer, but our card had really wonderful players all three days. The first two days Mike Maness and I  played with the Pro Women Masters and on the final day we played with two Open Pro women.



Top left, Senior Grandmaster Mike Maness (2nd place) and Pro Master Tavish Carduff (2nd place)

Bottom row from left Pro Masters Women winner Peg Berry, Sheila Kirkham (third place), and Douglas MacIlroy (the trophy is ceramic, very heavy and shaped like a disc. Cool.)


One tournament down and one to go. Next weekend I will bang my head on two courses for two days in Jefferson City, Missouri, at the Mid-America Open and see what happens.

Now it’s off to find the Disc Golf World store in downtown K.C. and see what swag I can find to jam into the plane for the flight back to Hawaii when all this fun is over.





Going Disc Golfing

18 Jun

There’s only one thing I love more than writing and that’s Disc Golfing. I try not to go on about it lest the very mention of the sport turn into something like this….

Disc golf

…but I’m off to the mainland tomorrow to compete in the (Halt and the Lame Division) 32nd annual Kansas City Wide Open Disc Golf Championship. The following weekend I’ll travel east to Jefferson City, MO. to play in the 30th annual Mid-America Open (Same division). In my brain the two weekends will look and feel sort of like this (a shot which resulted in a birdie)…

Going disc golfing

…but that’s another story…

Disc golf stories

…and I just wanted to let my regular readers (to whom I am quietly grateful and deeply indebted in ways they may never know) where I’ve disappeared to for the next two weeks. I’ll be back with some swag and two trophies (That’s the spirit, laddie!) and some blah, blah, blah-bitty-blah, disc golf stories to share.



The Nerve (II)

18 Jun

100 words for Friday Fictioneers. (A reposting this week as per Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s suggestion. Coincidentally, I will be on the road for two weeks, so her idea could not have come at a better time.)

When I first posted this story (The Nerve) it was woefully overlong at 147 words because I had yet to master the fine art of slicing, dicing and killing my darlings. For this post I decided to try to pare it down to 100 words. The result, again based again on a fine picture by Mary Shipman, can be read below. For those of you with time on your hands, you might want to check out the original and compare it to this one just to see what got blown away. Or not. I’ll never know. (I’ll try to comment on your stories when I can this week and next, but expect me only if you see me. Mahalo.)

Should I get taken to the Land of Oz on my travels and not be able to find my way back, please know I meant every word I ever said.

I love all of you.


Aloha, D.



Copyright Mary Shipman


The funnel cloud writhed, sinuous and silent above rich farmland.

If you’re going to stay up there, say hello to the Wizard for me,” screamed my wife from the cellar. A shrew and a control freak, she had long ago become oil to my water.

“Courage,” I heard Bert Lahr intone.

A thunderous roar filled the air as the tip touched down across the street and blew the Baum’s house to splinters.

Time to fly.

My last thought before darkness descended was that the witch was finally going to have to get some new wallpaper for the living room.



Rowing to New Zealand

4 Jun

100 words for Friday Fictioneers, a group of raft builders from around the world, supervised by head shipwright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, based on the photo prompt below.


Rowing to New ZealandCopyright Douglas M. MacIlroy

On placid water I launch my vessel, raising sea level around the world. I pull on the oars to clear the surf line and watch the wake, quiet evidence of my passage, expand toward opposite horizons. The journey ahead is long, the ocean vast. I will find my way across, buoyed by the knowledge that we are each a small brush stroke in the Painter’s masterpiece, even as we struggle to write our own. One good sentence is a miracle. A paragraph is a gift.

In the still of the night ironwoods sigh, candle light flickers and imagination takes flight.








Window to the Past

28 May

100 words for Friday Fictioneers, a gathering of writers from institutes (of higher learning) around the world, based on the prompt below from Jennifer Pendergast, submitted for peer review and consideration for Dean Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ list.




Nine spaces. Seven-hundred-and-sixty-five essentially different positions. Twenty-six-thousand-eight hundred-thirty possible games absent rotations and reflections. From ancient Egypt and the verdant shores of the Nile to Tiberius’ Arch and scrawled remains of Terni Lapilli to Noughts and Crosses in London’s streets to Three Men’s Morris, the history of man is written small and large in its squares.

In the United States the very first game was contested in 1856 by my great-great-grandfather Alfred in the Theta Chi fraternity meeting hall above the main gate of Norwich College. He lost, (who hasn’t) but made it into the history books nonetheless. Playing tic-tac-toe.


Three Men Morris

Roman tic tac toe



Swan Song

1 Jan

100 words to end 2013 in a bad way and start 2014 in a good way. You’ll get my drift eventually, if not now. My gift to fast friends and faithful readers is that you really don’t need to comment on this entry as it is not a story as I understand the definition.

My thanks to Madison Woods for starting Friday Fictioneers and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for keeping it going. I have learned a great deal during my two years of writing here, not the least of which is that less is more. Time to put it to good use. May 2014 be a sweet year for you and your writing projects.  Aloha, D.

Swan Song

First I wrote about a dog that talked the little girl into climbing the tree before a giant sinkhole swallowed their house…. Lassie saving Timmy, I know. Been there, done that.

Next try was about the silly questions women ask men. (Do these pants make my butt look big?) How to alienate half your readers, right? Next.

Talking dog? (Really?) (Not.) Shelved that. Started over.

This is my last attempt.

From high in the gum tree, little Poppy could see swans on the lake in the park next door. Their sweet siren voices called to him…

Rudyard's dog