Mud Angels

"I was twenty-nine years old when the Arno flooded its banks on Friday 4 November 1966." Thus begins the novel, "Sixteen Pleasures" by Robert Hellenga. It takes place in flood-ravaged Florence and sweeps you through frescoed chapels, museums, bookstores, and, finally, to the waterlogged library of a  Carmelite convent where the heroine discovers a priceless Renaissance volume of sixteen erotic poems and drawings, and we are immersed in the painstakingly delicate work of a book conservator.

They say that there are no new subjects to write about, only different ways to tell the story. Hellangra proves this to be untrue. At least I have never read anything like this before, a story that centers around the craft of book restoration while giving us a glimpse of the Renaissance and taking us on a delightful foray into the pleasure of erotica and human sexuality (our conservator is inspired to sample each of the sixteen) with an intriguing look at monastic life, all the while holding forth the recurring theme of home. "Home is the place where when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

I adored this novel and highly recommend it. It's one of those exquisite books that will stay with you long after you've closed the cover and turned off the light, satisfied.

One final thing: Robert Frost died fifty years ago yesterday. Master of the metaphor, he was admired then and now for his depictions of rural life. He was ambiguous in his writing and didn't answer the questions for you. "A poet lays out a metaphor and let you wrestle with it." That was Robert Frost.  He deserves his own post, but because of time constraints (I really am trying to ready my manuscript at long last for querying), I'll leave you with a few lines from my favorite Frost poem.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The First Time (Friday Flash 55)

She bent over him, and her breath was warm and sweet as summer. He bit down on the back of his hand to stifle a moan.

It was late when he left. The moon had set and the sky pulsed with stars. The Big Dipper lined the edge of the world and the world was still. 

 

This is 55 words for the G-Man's Friday Flash 55.

Keep warm and TGIF!

The Mole - Magpie Tales

 

In training for the veil,

she nails the claustrophobia

but mourns the loss of her peripheral

vision, the dance classes and the wind

in her hair. She sips life through a straw

like one trapped under ice and practices

the art of being servile. They say she is lucky

to be one of but three to share his house.

She should have married Jesus

while she had the chance and slept alone.

She peers through her nose hole

and imagines life in a bell jar, contained.

 

 

 

Image comes to us from Tess at Magpie Tales, a blog to nourish the muse, one dedicated to the enjoyment of poets and writers, but I take responsibility for the rest. Tess's poem can be found here.

 

The Gun - (friday flash 55)

He rages against the government

and hits himself in the face

with his nervous tick.

He teaches a class for concealed weapons

and lobbies hard for open carry.

Broken capillary nose of an alcoholic

with the wide-set eyes of a madman,

he smacks himself in the face,

ogles the girls

and fears for his guns.

These days it seems the madmen are closing in. Thank goodness for an online community of writers that is healthy and diverse. Tell us a story in fifty-five words, and let the G-Man know, or just visit him for links to lots of little fifty-fivers by some very talented players.

In the meantime...

TGIF

Friday Flash 55 - The Knife Sharpening Man

was comin’ around,

so we hid in the closet

and shuttered the lights.

But he rapped-a-tat-tat

with his knives all-a-silver

and peered over the sill

with a smile like a sword.

It wasn’t a dream,

wasn’t a trance.

Next morning a trail

from the club foot he favored

dirtied the snow round windows and doors.

 

Let's start the New Year off right. Tell us a story in exactly 55  words and then let the G-Man know.  He also has your horoscope for 2013, so check it out. You can click here if you want a little history behind the Flash 55.

And now for a little history behind my flash 55. As stories go around these parts, along with the Watkins Man who delivered extracts and liniments there was a knife sharpening man who came around every few weeks in an old truck with a bell. He had a wheel in the back of his truck he pedaled with his foot, much like a sewing machine, and he would sharpen knives and scissors in a flash for a pittance.
 

As children are wont to do, my older sisters contrived stories around the knife sharpening man, all of them sinister and disturbing to the young child’s mind. Hence the seed for my Flash 55, much embellished, of course. I’m sure that the poor man was only delivering a much appreciated service and not peering in windows.

TGIF