Tag Archives: Art

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?”



2 Oct

100 words for Friday Fictioneers based on the photo prompt below (courtesy of and copyright by E.A. Wicklund). Thanks as ever to Captain Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for keeping us off the Arguin Bank. Other stories from the prompt can be found here on the off chance you’ve got broadband on your life raft.

I had the good fortune to come face to face with Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa in the Louvre and stood mesmerized in front of it for twenty minutes. If you ever get the chance, I highly recommend you linger there for a while. You will not be unmoved.


The Raft of the Medusa

“Théodore, you must leave this place. The stench alone is enough to kill a man.”

Eugène Delacroix held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose to ward off the fetid odor of decaying body parts stolen from the Beaujon Hospital across the street. On a stand nearby a decapitated head looked on impassively.

“I can no more leave than they could.” Géricault motioned to the figures on the huge canvas that dominated the cavernous studio. “It consumes me, Eugène.”

“Certainement, dear friend. Cease this madness.”

Géricault pointed with his brush to the empty horizon on his painting. “When the Argus comes.”


Gericault's death mask

Theodore Géricault’s death mask


The End of Something*

20 Sep

Fifty-two year removed and *Papa H. still holds court in his old haunts. My hat’s off to him.

This 100 word story for Madison Woods’ Friday Fictioneers is inspired by Lora Mitchell’s photograph. All of this week’s stories are here. Check them out, especially Rich, JK Bradley, Boomiebol, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Russell Gayer.

I made it to all 65+ stories linked last week and will do it again this week, but not until Monday night as I am going to the far off island of Maui to contest the Hawaii State Disc Golf Championship at teh fabled Poli Poli disc golf course and will be semi out of touch for the weekend. Posting early to clear the decks for action. Aloha. D.

“What do you think?” my date asked about the incongruous statue we’d found quayside on our after dinner walk.

“Waste of good marble.”

“I’m serious. What does it say to you?”

“It says to me that we can all have an off day.”

“It’s art,” she retorted, a querulous pardon for the sculptor’s sin of commission. “It’s beautiful.”

Eye of the beholder? I considered and decided that, like the statue, she and I were never going to get off the ground. I took her home, then went alone to Bodeguita del Medio to console my inner critic with a cold Mojito.