Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything … 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs … damned humans.
Author: Stephen J Frankenberry
Just some guy in a Pirates hat, couple'o cats and this spot
And continuing with revisiting a poem or a story every day this week that fit a creepy theme as we approach Halloween. This one from a Flash Fiction prompt, August of last year.
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August 12, 2024
It’s Monday and, at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are writing Prosery, the very short piece of prose or flash fiction . It can be in any genre of your choice, but it does have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line or two from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.
The complete line or two in this case are from Leonard Cohen and his poem “Take this Waltz” with the lines being …
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss
.
TheScrapbookAnd The Man In The BlackFedora
“Hey Jaimie, check this out, just found this covered in moss behind a tree”
Presents a tattered book with dead flowers pinned to it and a warning “DO NOT OPEN”
“Well, let’s see what’s in it”
“It says not to open Billy”
“C’mon, probably just a note left by the 11 year old girl who lost it. It looks like a scrapbook”
“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right”
Billy opening the scrapbook finds it filled with photo’s of people and notations of the date/time of their deaths and scribbled inside the cover …
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss
At that moment a man in a black fedora appeared.
The air stilled.
Then Billy was gone and all Jaimie caught as the fedora’d man closed the scrapbook was a quick glimpse of Billy’s picture.
And another revisit of something for the season this last week of Halloween.
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February 21, 2025
Earlier in the week I came across someone new to me through Sadje, a friend at dVerse Poets.
She is GirlieOnTheEdge and offers prompts for Six Sentence Stories, an idea I liked, like some of the 144 word Flash Fiction prompts you can find at dVerse, though with six sentences allowed that gives me a bit more room. I also knew I liked Girlie from the get go as this particular prompt mentioned “The Alarm” as part of her inspiration, an old fave band reminded from my undergrad and then graduate school days (in the current season and for other reasons I suddenly longed for “Rain in the Summertime”).
The Prompt?
PROMPT WORD: WIND
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The Wind and the “Epistle”
Coming up from below deck after a lengthy search, top to bottom, of what appeared an abandoned fourth-rate named “Epistle”, Martins declared across bows to his Captain that she was indeed abandoned though he marveled that he had never seen anything quite like this ornate fitted construction, with nary a nail, nor some of the letters he had found in the captain’s empty quarters.
Captain Richard, with a curious though determined look, turned and directed the crew of “The Resolution” to board and see what could possibly be salvaged, if anything, just as Martins heard a voice from behind him saying “but I am here” though, on a turn’s look inspection, he saw not a soul.
Just then a sudden unexpected and fierce wind picked up and roiled what had, only moments before, been serene, placid seas below blue white speckled skies but those skies came to a sudden dark clouded anger, the sails filled flush, puffed out like the deep breath chest of an unnaturally sized, large winged vengeful bird to rival those of ancient sea beasts beneath the waves that seemed to stir with this wind’s dark cries of anguish and fear telling of stories warned.
Lightning crashed and stung about the tops of the sail masts, torrential rains drowned cries and pleadings of God, water beast tails as large as their own ship’s sails rose from above the waves only to dive out of fear, the heavens blackened loud and bellowed louder.
Captain Richard lost footing on deck, fearing his grip, slipping confused and disoriented, as did his crew, but, regaining his balance for a moment he turned to warn Martins to return only to find that he and the “Epistle” were no longer there and that the seas and skies, only seconds earlier filled with a storm’s rage, such as he had never witnessed in all his years at sea, came to a sudden calm again almost as if they hadn’t been changed at all, as if they hadn’t ever been anything other than what they were before in their calm, with skies returned to the blue of white floating speckles, as if in a languid painting, the sea flat again, but Richard swore, to his end of days spent in the throes of madness, that he saw the waters of the ocean drop off the edge of the world in the distance, off of a flat earth, and the Epistle be carried off into the heavens inside the belly of a great glowing flying sea beast and just as he heard Martins, faintly, in the wind implore “but I am here”.
Standing in uneasy stunned silence Richard took measure … before then realizing that they should turn back, quickly, pointing “The Resolution” towards home but also before the knowing of the court martial and subsequent murder trial he would face of a missing crewman, Ross Ignatius P Martins, upon his return.
Thought I’d spend this final week of the Halloween season revisiting some things of mine that seem to fit the mood.
When I first moved here to Schenectady, New York, a year ago August, moved in with my Sis and Nephews and some bonus cats, I was still doing a commute a couple of days a week down to the office in Beacon from up here until I could get to the point of being good with doing all my Beacon work remotely from Latham (2 plus hours on that drive by the way, so eventually getting to NOT needing to physically be in the Beacon office was huge and couldn’t come fast enough).
But there was this spot that I passed in my to an fro’s on this ride, along the NY State Thruway, what was once, surely, a vibrant, busy truck stop. It sat/sits vacant, boarded, graffitied, among all the other alive places I passed where you could grab some gas, a bit of shut-eye or maybe a bite to eat like you could here, just at another time.
A dead spot.
.
(August 17, 2024)
Exit 21B
It was raining dogs and devils
a night as thick as pitch
and thieves
of the day
but there was light …
Exit 21B
a promise of respite from the drive
that took so long to not quite survive
just yet
our destination
.
it shone, shimmered, sparkled,
harkened
Exit 21B
brighting our way
with promise
“Oh, that’s a place we could stay”
on this dark and stormy cliché
.
Truckers drank coffees
of known measure
two lumps or cream or straight
at a counter
ogling Mary’s offer’s weight
to refill a cup before return
to their trucks
dreaming in back bed sleep cabs
of another mug
.
We shook off the rain
just a wet stain
at our feet
in stilling puddles
.
“Do you have a room,
to escape soon now this horrid swoon
of weather?”
.
“Of course, just sign here Sir, Madame”
.
There were tables of chance
to win without even a glance
it was
easy
night was day
peasy
.
There were family and friends left to the wayside
justified
besides who are they
really
anyway?
.
We sang in bright neon lights
our day’s night might
wonder how we could have been so lucky to have lost our way
“You can take the themes of harvest or haunted literally or use them metaphorically in any way you wish. Harvest grain, organs, fish, or emotions; imagine the grim reaper with a scythe. Write about something that haunts you, regret, a long-ago love, thoughts of someone who has died, or actual ghosts. Explore a haunted harvest”.
You may also use the painting above “The Harvest Moon” by Samuel Palmer as inspiration.
Took a little bit of both of these ideas …
.
Third Eye Harvest Moon
He woke in a long field itching
of tall blades and short hungry bugs
chilled but not cold wondering of from where that single pocked light
hung high
had fell
.
“From my third eye” said a voice
.
he sudden colding and chilled now
as there was no from where for a lone voice to fall
no trees above nor craggy hills distance
far called with walls
to call back
friend or foe
score or none
to settle
or even from rock tall
smoke black
altars he may have been layed upon
in the stark
back
then
.
You are man are you not?
I am?
Yes, you are
Then from why where do you ask?
To see if you knew
But I just woke, food for bugs in tall grass in almost dark task
save for one light
high hung
just
right
.
Will you rise and pay threshed tithes
under my third eye
Why?
It is that time of harvest, of tall grasses wrapped with long blades twined
tribute
in the richness of grains
… and the harvest of souls
.
From why where must you have mine after such riches?
.
Because you are the first and quench a stronger thirst
Earlier this week I posted “Headstone” a fantastic video short voiced and built by a good friend and co-worker based on a flash fiction piece of mine, something for this spooky season, one that involves a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death weeping at a long forgotten gravestone.
Well, that is not the only story I’ve written that imagines Death in one way or another (I’ve got a couple of tunes in that regard as well) so in continuing to keep with the season then, I thought to revisit this one from three years ago’ ””””p777777777777777777777777 (sorry, that’s Cricket the Cat Poet wanting to join in here with her own thoughts, again, and strangely, with this talk of Mr. Death, she has opted for a bunch of 7’s, interesting) but I wanted to revisit this one, one decidedly lighter than “Headstone”, from those three years ago, Spring of that year actually, not Halloween time where, on my ride home from work one night, I passed the Angel of Death standing in the middle of Route 9 in Poughkeepsie (some dude dressed as the Grim Reaper holding an hourglass).
But was he really just some guy in a costume?
Now, this one is one of my most viewed posts, period, over many year’s time spent here in the Attic, couldn’t tell ya why, though I am not complaining and credit to my discerning readers (yes, shameless flattery trying to get me everywhere with you all) as it just a pretty good post and a real favorite of mine.
Then a few months after the initial post I decided to do an audio version of it and play it up a bit. I know a number of you have already read and/or heard this, but, well, I just don’t wanna miss this time’s window to get it out there again for the others.
Here’s to the season my friends, my favorite time of the year.
Angel of Death: End Of Days, Route 9, Poughkeepsie???
(and a guy dressed as the Grim Reaper holding an hourglass in the middle of route 9 led to this …)
So I saw the Angel of Death tonight … on Route 9 in Poughkeepsie standing on the median between the North and South triple lanes, at a traffic light, near a T.G.I. Friday’s and a Mattress Firm and across from a new specialty soap shop, a new Sleep Number Bed place and a convenience store, among a number of other spots.
Tall guy dressed as you might expect of an Angel of Death/Grim Reaper type. Long black robe, oversized hood and he was pointing at things, menacingly, possibly specialty soaps and he seemed like he might even have been yelling though I couldn’t really hear as I passed him amid that damned rock n roll I was playing too loudly on a nice sunny almost Spring evening, finally, one you surely wouldn’t expect the end of days to arrive on, at least you’d hope not, though I’m afraid my Mom might feel vindicated now all these years later of her worries of, when I was younger, while I was playing that damned rock and roll too loudly back then as well and cutting up perfectly good heavy metal band concert T-shirts to have her sew them on the back of denim jackets, that some might think the end of days would sneak up on me because I wouldn’t hear it/them coming.
The only thing out of the ordinary for this particular Angel of Death though was that he was carrying an hourglass. Not that Angels of Death don’t sometimes carry hourglasses, they do, I’ve seen artist renderings, some pretty cool artist renderings as a matter of fact, but this was in lieu of the tall, sharp, pointy, violent looking scythe’s we’ve more come to expect in a clichéd Angel of Death kinda way which, truth be told, is probably for the best in this day and age that that wasn’t what he was carrying.
Tall, sharp, pointy violent looking clichéd scythe’s? Yeah, that’ll getcha noticed, and not in a good way, and possibly even get ya tased or worse. Hourglass? Much less threatening.
I did though think, if I could have, that I would have politely pointed out that this hourglass of his was a little small, not really of a size befitting his stature or one to really get him noticed in the middle of a busy roadway here in Poughkeepsie, and right at the height of an evening rush hour with people being lost in thoughts of get homes and dinners and dog walkings and sweatpants and checkings in on that show that you’re pretty sure your better half cheated on and watched the next episode of without you, again, and conversations/angers left open ended the night before.
I would have pointed out that he needed something a bit more dramatic, more theatrical, something oversized to really catch that thought lost eye. The hourglass he had was, well, a little on the Spinal Tappy Stonehenge side but with him being the Angel of Death an all, I would have been as deferential and as delicate as I could with this observation (plus, he most probably still had that clichéd scythe somewhere in reserve – and that shit looks like it would hurt … a lot, like in a death kind of way).
Now was there any reason, I thought, any significance to this specific spot of his as I drove past? I don’t know. Was this where the thunders and the lightnings, the great fires or floods, or great fires followed by floods to drown out great fires making people tread water in floaties the only thing they had on hand, damn the children, the pestilences and rivers of blood were newly ordained to happen, or was he just waiting on a pick up order from that T.G.I. Friday’s and doing what Angels of Death do to pass the time, what little time may be left?
Had he been maybe having some trouble sleeping recently (certainly possible as carrying the weight of his message has gotta be a heavy sleepless nights kinda burden) thus reason to be in between a Mattress Firm and a Sleep Number Bed store or was he really pointing menacingly at specialty soaps, a could be 21st century haven of witchcraft with all the witch-like curatives some of the soaps and maybe oils and creams inside can surely promise … plus Hell, you know there’s gotta be a crystal or two hanging in there somewhere right? Or maybe he was just waiting to cross the highway way to get to the convenience store for a pack of smokes thinking to his Death self, well, if I’m bringing word of the end of the world to the peoples, I might as well smoke up while I can.
I don’t know. Whatever the reason was for that location or whatever the reason wasn’t, all I really thought on my way home after passing this Angel of Death fella with his too small hourglass (you just need a big black sports hearse car to compensate my not friend) was “listen, if this is it tonight big guy, if this is the end of days, after you’ve possibly picked up your order at T.G.I. Friday’s could you …
“Hi, can I help you sir?”
“I’m here for a pick-up”
“Your name?”
“Angel”
“Angel? Hold on … hmmm, hmmm, hold on a sec, I’m sorry I’m not seeing that here for our pick-up orders right now”
“You sure … nothing under the name Angel? With an A?”
“I can spell Angel sir, thank you, and sorry, but no … could you have ordered under a different name?”
“Oh wait, you know what, I may have. Do you have one under the name Death?”
“Death … Death … Death … sorry busy night … hold on … oh, here we go … Death … burger, blood rare, locusts, frogs, extra cheese, fries and the apple cobbler dessert special?”
“Yep, that’s me. Sorry, I don’t usually use my last name, way too formal and can be a little off-putting”
“No worries Sir. Let me get that for you, Oh, and by the way? Cool hood”
“Oh, well thank you so very much”
“I would say though, if you don’t mind a little constructive criticism, that you get a slightly larger hourglass”
… and could you, after you’ve put a deposit down on a new bed …
“You’ll be so happy you chose our little slice of sleep heaven … (stop short silent stare) … sorry, my bad … probably not the best of selling points for you I’m thinking now … you’ll be so happy you chose our bed Mr. Death instead of something that feels like a bed of nails like from those sleep hacks across the street …”
“They have something that feels like a bed of nails?”
“What?”
“Bed of nails, those sleep hacks across the street have something that feels like a bed of nails?”
“Ummm, well yeah, that’s what we say … Ok, but hold on, I got ya. If you’d like, Jimmy, one of our delivery drivers, works at a small local hardware store and I’m sure we could throw in a bag of nails, support small business right, that you can toss on the bed, like scattering rose petals for you and the Missus …”
“There’s no Missus … I’m Death. It would make holiday family get togethers very uncomfortable.”
“Ok, well, bag of nails just for you it is then”
… and then after checking in on potential modern day witches …
“Do you have a soap or some oils that can just ease some tension, possibly transport me away to a better place? I think I’ve seen a commercial like that … a place like … HELL!”
“ummmm, Ok then, well?”
“Gotcha! I saw ya glancing over at that crystal … witch”…
… and after you’ve a grabbed a smoke outside the Exxon while you’re getting yelled at for your loitering could you at least let me feed the cats and have my dinner and maybe clean a litter box or two? I would SO hate to have to face the end of days, you know, the rapture or something, even if you all do the rapture, I’m not sure, or some sort of reckoning, with messy litter boxes and on an empty stomach.
“Will do”
Thanks.
Alright Bella, alright Ms Cricket … Last Fancy Feast “Savory Centers”
Eat up quickly girls, I don’t know what kind of deadline he might be facin’.
Was talking a little while ago with good friend and co-worker, Steve, about this current spooky season, a one still more “on the way” then when we spoke and he mentioned that he wanted to build something for it, a dramatic piece of some sort, a video short, with a haunting story as well as some music, effects, images and, of course, said story that he could voice and make a cool production of.
Besides doing what we do for our jobs, radio production, he is also a working voice actor and wanted to be creative with something as he had put together such productions in the past, plus, he also wanted to add another something to his body of voice work +.
Now when it came to a possible story I noted that he had liked some things of mine that I had sent his way in the past, plus some others I had and that a number were short, quick and might just fit into what he was looking to do.
So, I re-sent the few previously seen things and also some he hadn’t and he eventually told me that he liked a flash fiction piece I had done a year or so ago courtesy of a prompt from a writing community’s website that I frequent and collaborate at quite often, dVerse Poets, everything from poetry to fictions of one sort or another, a place that I will forever be grateful that I found and even more grateful that I was welcomed with open arms when I did join in even though, in some regards, I felt like I was sort of starting from scratch, especially with poetry.
Anyway, the flash fiction piece he liked was one I called “Headstone” and was a short story of a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death kneeling at a “lost” headstone that the dVerse Poets flash fiction prompt asked to include a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”
I pray to God that she may lie Forever with unopened eye.
So a number of nights ago I noticed, as I sat at my desk workin’ stuff in my basement Attic, that I had some company scurrying next to my lamp and possibly sizing up whether he could lift and then beat me to death with it.
Now, possible ill intentions aside, I left him to whatever those intentions were, ill or otherwise and then, well, I forgot about him and them there possible intentions. And, after a few nights of making sure to sleep with my mouth closed, I forgot about him even more until he practically ceased to exist, like, sadly, a lot of things in the world these days.
That was almost two weeks ago.
Then tonight, as I was straightening up Bella and Cricket’s room, the one they let me share, while I did a load of laundry (because it’s a FRANKEN-PAR-TAY FRIDAY!!) I went to grab the garbage out of the small can I have next to my desk.
I opened the lid (with my foot on a lever at the bottom of it … I know, cool huh? – simple mechanical shit is still like magic) and on top of a paper towel napkin in said garbage?
“Dude!? Jesus!!”
Seems Mr Spidey Pants is still with me, just hiding on used paper towel napkins at the top of my garbage.
One: I don’t want to know how he got in there and if he was strong enough to open the lid on his own OR worse, strong AND smart enough to ACTUALLY step on the still cool ass lever first and then be fast enough to scurry to the top of the can and jump in. Well, he may, indeed, be strong enough to wield my lamp like a blunt instrument but now he’s added speed and smarts which becomes an additional, worrisome issue entirely.
Two: Is he somehow surveilling me and is part of the surveillance to go through my trash? And if so, who does he work for?
Three: What’s been on his mind lately, possibly something troubling him as he obviously has been letting himself go. “Seriously Man, your legs could use a bit of a shave” and could any of these troubles boil over to the point where my lamp becomes the murder weapon discovered in the early parts of a police procedural?
Four: There isn’t a four, three was plenty enough and well … whatever. I just know the many legged fella is “back” AND back from wherever he has been hiding, which is something I am definitely not going to think about, his possible lair, though we all do need some place to rest while devising dastardly plans I guess, but I will now be sleeping with my mouth closed again, at least for a few extra nights.
Note: I did make my Sister aware of Mr Spidey Pants just in case, ya know, in case his “lair” is somewhere above the stairs here and her cats have been as lax as mine in their supposed years told spidey-hunt catness … unless there is something even more dire at paw.
Note Twice: I have a friend who lives in Australia, the famed land of bugs and critters that all start, nominally, at the size of small dog and can carry away children to raise them as their own and take advantage of their opposable thumbs and that all could kill you, not with some possible super bug strength and a heavy lamp but with a mere glance who might read this and just say “Pshawwww! That ain’t no spider! Hell brother, our spiders all have leashes and are taken for walks.”
(snagged the cartoon from Robert Reich’s Facebook page)
“Grab her fella’s, she’s the torch bearer of Anteefa!!!” “You got it Sir! She’s the torch bearer of … wait, hold on, what did you call it?” “Anteefa, she’s the torch bearer … nab her!!!” “Sorry Sir. Men (fist up) Hold! Anteefa?” “Yes, Anteefa! The enemy of the State, Anteefa!! Grab her now!!” “But what exactly is ‘Anteefa’ Sir?” “The enemy you idiot, she’s literally carrying a torch and bearing it! I even think she’s mocking me with all this freedom nonsense.” “But don’t you mean then, Anti-Fa?” “Anti-Fa? What’s that?” “Anti-Fa Sir, anti-fascist, you know the opposite of or against fascism” “Not sure what you’re getting at son, just bring her Anteefa ass down, she’s a domestic terrorist!” “Ok, Sir, now you’re opening up a whole other can of white meal worms but, just so we’re on page here, Anteefa?” “Yes, Anteefa” “Not Anti-Fa?” “Yes, No! NOT anti-fa or whatever the fuck that is!” “Again, those fighting against fascism sir?” “Ok, again, missing your point, just bring her down!” “Hey, Jackson, do you know what Anteefa is? “No Sir, I do not Sir!” Andrews? “Me neither, Sir!” “Sorry Sir, but we are at a loss as to this Anteefa you’re talking about“ “Jesus son, are you dim?! AnTEEfa!!!” “Ok Sir, we’ll need a better defined enemy” “But she’s right there, right in front of you, a literal torch bearer of Anteefa!!” “Alright Sir, we’ll revisit this … Jackson, Andrews, stand down” “Yes Sir!!”
(walking away … “dude’s wacko man” … “shhhhh, they’re always listening … and keep your mask up by the way. That post vacation tan of yours has you lookin’ a little brown”)
As I was working on the beginnings of this with an eventual thought coming to mind of current everyday nightmarish “Boo’s”, Cricket, my cat, who you have met here in the Attic before(one of my two, along with Bella, though obviously Cricket the more creative one) thought to get up out of my lap and involve herself in the writing process again with her own stepped thoughts which really are as they look in the first half of this.
All I did was finish it up for her (I think she may have even been offering to help cleanse this a bit with the 8’s after reading a little on the possible significance of 8’s ) and it is still 44 “words”.
Then I got to mine.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Cricket the Cat poet
Stepping in tongues and Boo Moons
“Boo////////////////////////////////////////////////////8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8’” said the season
Hi and welcome to the Attic, I'm Frankenberry of said Blog Title and I write of just my everyday here, sometimes funny, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes angry, sometimes funny again because, well, who don't like funny, thoughts on getting older and sometimes stuff that's just kinda shit. I pen and sing the occasional parody tune and other songs, sometimes I even get a little bit poetic or short story-etic or something like that. If you're joining me here I thank you, but just mind your head and feet and keep an eye out for my little Bella and Cricket The Blind as well as the memories of Raspberry (Razzy), Mimi the Quirky, of Blink The Lil' Kit, Grayson the Mighty, Shoes the Big Orange, Shana-Girl, Benny Good Man Benny Brown, Merlin & Bob. Wouldn't want you step on them or anything ... 'cause then I might just have to throw you down the stairs ... damned humans.
Sundarbans,The sunderbans, Sundarban Tour, Sundarban Travel Guide, Mangrove Forest, UNESCO World Heritage Site, Royal Bengal Tiger, Tiger Sighting, Wildlife Photography, Bird Watching, Sundarban Safari, Houseboat Tour, Ecotourism, Adventure Travel, West Bengal Tourism, Bangladesh Tourism, People of Sundarbans, Local Culture, Bonbibi, Mowal, Honey Collector, Sundarban Legends, Mangrove Ecosystem, Conservation, Climate Change, Biodiversity, Sundari Tree, Sundarban Itinerary, Travel to Sundarbans, Kolkata to Sundarbans, Sundarban Boat Trip, Wildlife in Sundarbans, Saltwater Crocodile, Spotted Deer, Indian Python, King Cobra, Sundarban National Park, Sundarban Tiger Reserve, Bay of Bengal, River Cruise, Nature Photography, Forest Life.
A personal exploration of autism from a brother’s perspective, including family relationships, philosophy, neuroscience, mental health history and ethics
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