Zaide Reborn


Welcome to Fraggle Rock…Fictioneers can be found here.  Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and for all the fine people that comment.



Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 His teacher warned me.
“Ira, you should apologize to Hannah for pushing her off the rocking horse.”

“It’s my horsey”

“It’s for the class to share.”

“It’s my horsey.”

He went to his room after “timeout” without even a whisper.  After a little while, I went in to check on him.

“Are you ready to say sorry?”


I turned to leave his room then stopped dead in my tracks.

“What’s this?”

“I was talking to Grandpa, in heaven.”

“What did he say?”

“He likes my horsey.”

“Would you share it with grandpa?”

“Silly, he knows it mine.”

Taking Me God Knows where

It was somewhere on the road, the body shook, the tin radio screamed, my feet pressed hard toward the floor that my Dad said “hey that’s your song”.  I listened closely as the words made their way over the confusion of manual shifting and my Dad’s view of what I was. At nine or eight reality does not matter, I was trying to take it all in.

Dad’s Ford rumbled down the road, every twist still in my last second dream scenes.
Dreams that shake me awake.

The lyrics consumed me as he grabbed the road with his new toy under him. His industrious young mind guzzling fuel. Inhaling what’s before him, laying concrete on lichens ground. No spot too small or remote, the Ford spit asphalt. I counted my faults feeling my skin sweat for the first time. My pores opened up as the machine under us charged. The music played.

The lyrics never leaving me.

“I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker I get my loving on the run.”

Riding shotgun with Dad never meant so much.

Riding shotgun means you never get the wheel.

“Some people call me the space cowboy some people call me the gangster of love, some people call me Maurice cause I speak of the pompetous of love”.

I never did find pompetous in the dictionary and I am pretty sure my Dad never gave that song much thought.
But I understood what joker and midnight toker meant and I felt no need to argue over the wind blowing through the windows. I was sure if I could be anything in that song a joker and midnight toker wasn’t a stretch.
The truth is I have not recovered from the gas crisis of the 70’s and my fathers blatant disregard towards the fragility of the planet.

Later in life I found out Steve Miller didn’t make up the word “pompetous” someone before him did. His name was Green, green like I was in that car. So much is not what it seems when your nine and your Dad is taking you god knows where.

A tin ford rumbling and shaking peach trees.
Riding shotgun with my father, crossing over the back bays. The smell of sweetened coffee, saltwater mingling with rolling clouds and the haze of the past captured from thousands of days forgotten. Water colors painted with a child’s hand on the back walls of dreams. Crossing over bridges to beaches, my dad’s right hand man.

The Space Cowboy.


Cello Bass Face

All links can be found here.  Thanks Rochelle for hosting.  Warning there is a curse in this one.

Copyright-Roger Cohen


They bellied up to the bar exchanging notes.  One sat, the other stood.

“They’re not the same.”

“You sure?”


“Why did you say it?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s what you heard.”

“I know what I heard.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

The bartender poured one last drink.    It was hard to tell who was who.

“What’s up with you two?”

“Having an argument about nothing.”


It didn’t matter the sun was rising and the place had been closed for hours.

Their strings out of tune, they went out back, looking to play more than words.

“It’s a Cello!”

“Bass, asshole.”

The Crew



As a New Yorker this seemed like no big deal to me. Ethnic diversity was just a part of growing up.  While most of us have moved on and some of us are dead, the hardcore center of The Crew are still alive and keep in contact.

Growing up in New York AKA The Melting Pot is a blessing.

I heard a comedian once say New York is no melting pot it’s a salad.  Comedians may be the best philosophers we have in the modern world.  You have a chunk of tomato here, cucumber there, a bunch of lettuce and some onions.  After all, in this picture you have Spanish, African, Irish, Italian, Puerto Rican and god knows what else. New York is a salad. It’s segregated and integrated at the same time.  We are all different but we mix well with each other.

I have friends of every ethnic and religious background, and I have dated women from every ethnic and religious background.  In the words of Larry David “I go anywhere from, like, albino to, you know, Heart of Darkness Africa black.”  Both friends and lovers have never been judged by me for anything other than what is in their heart.  Although when it comes to women I am an ass and leg man.

See we have more in common than we don’t.  Do not get me wrong I am not trying to sell you that crap concept the we are one race, the human race.  The facts are we all love and our proud of our race/ethnic background and we should be.  We have so much to learn from each other and plenty of common ground to work with, without having to give up our individualism.

Being Irish Catholic, I grew up with a tribal violent mentality.  After all, it was that mentality that helped the Irish keep their own traditions while the English were taking over the world. The Irish are just across the sea from the English and for 800 years “we” fought to hold on to what we are.  My Grandma had a bumper sticker on her car that read “Human Rights for Northern Ireland”.  Her family was a part of  the IRA and it cost them dearly. I was reminded daily about oppression and the need to stand up for what you believe in.

Out of all the guys in The Crew, I was the brawler.  Growing up right down the block from a black neighborhood I was often targeted for being white.  It was the same thing with my friends who crossed into my neck of the woods.  But that is what we all had in common; we didn’t give a fuck what others thought of us no matter where we were.  It was our friendship that mattered not the color of our skin, religious background or sexual orientation.

Being a good fighter has nothing to do with the color of your skin.  It’s a skill you learn. I had three older brothers and a father that was special forces.  I learned to lead with my left by kindergarten. My brothers kept me in training with beat downs and by backing me up on the streets.  But as a white guy hanging out in a black neighborhood I was often judged as being soft because of my skin color. Those who judged this book by it’s cover learned the hard way that I had a ruthless right.

My dad loves this saying “Where your rights end, mine begin”.  I love that concept as well.  What I picture when I hear those words are people stretching out their arms with just their fingers tips touching. Individual links forming one chain. Each person holding onto what makes them unique but respecting the views and rights of others.  The world could learn a lot from New York and a little gang of guys from the 80’s known as The Crew.

As I grow older, I realize violence isn’t the answer, but I also know that it’s tough to find common ground when all you see is your side of the tracks.  Open your eyes people and seek out those that seem different from you.  You may find out that you have more in common than you realize.  It’s a belief worth fighting for.


*Picture copyrights Eddie Rodriguez









Somewhere in Japan


It’s 100 word Friday all links can found here.  Hosted by Rochelle.





Here it comes

Wait..for.. it




I curse my ass off sometimes!



*After reading the comments I decided I would change the title of this story so people would understand from the start where this story takes place…


* A few days later… yet another title change thanks to the boss.  That is not a typo.  It is the boss with a little “b”.  There is only one Boss with a big “B”.  The Man from Jersey who rips up a stage, playing for hours. The  working man’s Boss…..

So from New York comes a reward for good commentary. It’s not Just Fireworks it’s








Copyright - Lora Mitchell

Now on with story and Ted I am waiting on your word count.

Just to remind anyone reading, it is now called


Somewhere In Japan

Seamus and Tareek towered above the crowd maybe the whole nation. Seamus stood 6’2” with a chunk of red hair. Tereek’s muscles rippled with every movement.

“I tried telling them, Tareek.”

“Did you show them your passport?”

“Yep. They think we are being humble. Must be a cultural thing.”

“Can’t they read English?”

They both looked around, smiled and chuckled.

“Not that well I guess.”

“Seamus at least they don’t think I’m your slave.”

“Remind me to tell you about… Irish need not apply.”


The celebration began in their honor.

“Don’t forget I’m Mark McGwire and you’re Sammy Sosa.”