Lunch At Brennan’s Restaurant- Fiction

Time again for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.  Thanks to PJ for hosting this weekly challenge.  please follow little froggy for more stories.

Here is the photo and my story:

fancy lunchLunch At Brennan’s  Restaurant

On Irene’s 13th birthday we took the streetcar, downtown, to see another Clint Eastwood movie.

“After this,” I said, “a fancy lunch.”  I squeezed her hand.

“Oh!  Let’s go lunch at Maison Blanche!”  Irene’s eyes lit up.

I giggled.  It was no intention, of mine, to take Irene to some department store for lunch.   I was welcoming my best friend into her teens.

The movie was so Clint.  Then we headed out, down Royal Street and right into Brennan’s Restaurant.

Irene pulled me aside.  “We can’t afford to eat here, Sissy!”

“I’ll just sign the bill,”  I said.


“Sure.  That’s what Dad always does.”

Some of the staff recognized me.   They called me Mademoiselle Cici.    I cringed.  I was moving away from Cici and into Sissy.  When the menu came,  it was in French.

“Let’s just order hamburgers,” I said.  “Hamburgers on french bread.  The french bread is really great here!”


This week’s photo prompt is provided by Graham, author of the blog, grahamisjustmyname. Thank you Graham!

“It is love. Don’t worry about the words.” Zydeco Memories

Since I decided to center my A-Z entries around my life, Here is Chapter “Z” of the April A-Z Challenge.

I’m in a panic. I may not make the deadline. Here goes. Get up and dance with yourself or someone near.

And, I’ll call it Zydeco cuz I wanna😛

Zydeco: per Wikipedia
Zydeco is a musical genre evolved in southwest Louisiana by French Creole speakers which  blends blues, rhythm and blues, and music indigenous to the Louisiana Creoles and the Native people of Louisiana.

I could tell a million stories about the scenes in this video.  Family reunions down on the bayou.   Being 8 years old and dancing with my cousins.  Not sure what the foreign Creole French words meant.  Moss hanging from the cypress trees.  Just total innocence.

At the family reunions, my great uncles would play the music.  I remember asking one of my uncles what the words to some of the sad songs meant and him saying:  “It is love.  Don’t worry about the words.”

Then 20+ years of Jazz Festivals and dancing at the Zydeco stage.  It’s a music that takes hold of your emotions and your body and one must simply move along with it entranced.

OK.  Ok.  One more… I Passed By Your Door (with translation)

J’ai passé devant ta porte. (I walked past your door)
J’ai crié “bye-bye” la belle.(I cried, “goodby, my beautiful girl.”)
‘Y a personne qu’à pas répondu (And nobody even answered!)
O yaîe aîe, mon coeur fait mal! (Oh, how my heart aches!)

“Mes amis j’ai observé.” (Then I took a closer look)
“Moi j’ai vu une p’tite lumière allumée.” (And I saw devotional candles lit)
“Y’a quelque chose qui m’disait d’aller pleurer.”(And something told me I was going to cry)”
“O yaîe aîe, mon coeur fait mal!” (Oh! My heart hurts so bad!)

“Moi j’ai été cogné à la porte” (I knocked again at the door)
quand ils ont rouvert a la porte (and when they opened it)
moi j’ai vu des chandelles allumées (I saw the devotional candles lit)
tout autour de son cercueil (all around her coffin)  )



“X” Marks The Spot

Since I decided to center my A-Z entries around my life, Here is Chapter  “X” of the April A-Z Challenge.

“X” Marks The Spot

I remember that time of losing my dog, Black Jack. I was still living in New Orleans. – still married to my ex and we had to have our dog put down. And Mike (my ex) holding our precious Black Jack so close while the vet put her down. And he was sobbing. We’d raised this dog from birth almost. The off spring of Mike’s childhood dog. And we buried her under our cypress tree – the one we’d planted when life was young and we were unaware of so much.

Years after our divorce, he told me that the only tree left standing, after Hurricane Katrina, was that cypress tree we’d planted.

This song reminds me of Black Jack and that time in my life – and it’s just worth listening to if you’ve lost a dog you’ve loved.


Sometimes I Am Transformed – Journal Entry

transformation-857734_640Our love transforms  me.  Yay for kisses and our sweet love…

Yay! Little over six weeks and my cast is off.  Yay for 2% milk, canned pea soup, and dark green leafy veggies w/pasta. Yay for not caring what people thought when I used a hiking stick to climb Stanford Hill Dish once a week for six weeks.

My cast is off…that cast from when I went walking, on my 65th birthday (last month) and broke my arm/wrist and all whatever.

I’m grateful  for my life that only has to contend with a broken and a healing arm…I know I   am blessed.

As ever your,


What The Prince Really Said, According To The Princess – A Love Poem

It’s been a good day.  It’s windy.  I can hear the delicate chiming from our balcony.  We made the perfect chocolate sauce.  My cast might come off on Tuesday:)

unicornWhat The Prince Really Said, According To The Princess

One time I said
I would string a bell
onto twine
became too much
and you said
you’d braid them into chimes.


image pixabay

Ripped Upon My Heart – A Poem

Since I decided to center my A-Z entries around my life, Here is Chapter  “T” of the April A-Z Challenge T for Truth

Truth is:

Sometimes  – and I am living proof of this – it takes a couple of decades, at least, for the heart and the mind to process the grief of a divorce…to reconcile anger and love.  And so the next time – I believe in giving myself second chances – next time,  my love and my heart were wiser.

Here’s a poem I wrote, and posted here, about two years ago.  About my divorce (20 years earlier)… and over a decade into my second marriage.   Yes, I was born married😛

Ripped  Upon My Heart

What hurts
is that we spent all night crying
on the sofa aching
and the dog puked
and there went
thirty years
of two lives.
When I think

I hear your voice
grating up against me now,
I remember
lights I wouldn’t see
and flags flapping
ripped upon my heart.


Sometimes I Feel Like Virginia Woolf – A Poem

(this photo may not show😦 if not, look up  Annie Leibovitz, photographer) & I hope it’s linked proper)  Poem stands without photo, though…

Sometimes I Feel Like Virginia Woolf
(Upon Seeing A Leibovitz Photo of Queen Elizabeth @ 90)

I want to be that little girl
– not the one holding
the purse
of family secrets –
I want to be that little girl
@ the right,
into a distant camera
knowing the camera
somehow brightly back at me.


photo Annie Leibovitz