osprey header

Photo by Tom Poet

In one day Cutch managed to fly 286 miles. He made it from Long Island to South Carolina in two days.  Five days later he was in Cuba, he then crossed the Caribbean and by September 27th he has in Columbia.  Tagged with a GPS transmitter he was being watched the whole time by ornithologist Rob Bierregaard.  On the 29th Cutch’s signal stopped moving. Rest assured there were no Colombian cartels involved in his untimely demise.  He died while doing what osprey do, hunt for fish.


Photo “borrowed” from Mr.Bierregaard website

Cutch was accidentally impaled on a piece of a tree sticking out of a pond on the Chico Mono Ranch.  At first Cutch’s death was thought to be an assassination but it turned out to be an accidental suicide. Mr. Bierregaard thought Cutch may have been shot down at a fish farm or something but it turns out he just didn’t see that little bit of branch sticking out of the water.


Yeah I “borrowed” this one too

There is still hope for North Fork Bob an osprey who is figured to arrive here on the 1st or 2nd of April.  North Fork Bob has had a transmitter on since August of 2010 and still appears to be going strong.  That’s good news.

I know the osprey by me is back already and as far as I know he/she doesn’t have a name.  I just call the osprey TP for the piece of white paper sticking out of the nest.

tp osprey

Photo by Tom Poet


osprey flight

 TP taking off after I went to close to the nest

For the full story on Cutch and how he made national news check out the story in The Suffolk Times.  I’ll be keeping an eye on TP since he/she is right by where I go fishing with my girls.  I can always feel spring coming on when the birds of prey arrive on the shores. And Please remember to always check the water before diving.  Have a great summer.


Check out the Cutch’s flight and story here.

North Fork Bob

Richard O. “Rob” Bierregaard, Jr.

Ash Wednesday

Thank you Rochelle for hosting the weekly prompts and for the photo this week.  All stories can be found here.

My story is a about Hurricane Sandy and human mortality.  I found it a fitting topic to tackle during Lent although I am long gone from the practice of Catholic rituals.



The howling winds, crack of transformers and the fear of normal routines gone, settled into silence.  It was the day after and people started to panic. Rushing out for gas, waiting hours for a few gallons to go nowhere, to feel gas tank full, they found themselves fidgeting for refrigerator items they could not keep.  I lit the hurricane lamps, thought of the day after nine eleven when the skies’ only movements were twinkling stars. Not an escape in sight.  The harsh burn of spirits and the frame by frame remembrance of the ease of lives turned into ghostly ash.


Hurricane Sandy


The Ash Lady

Apple Jack and God

Welcome to FF Motha f——!  No warning needed I didn’t curse.  All links can be found here and yes I included God this week.  No bible thumping!  Thanks Rochelle for hosting.

A little background before the story….

Long Island, New York geographically includes Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau and Suffolk Counties.  It has been farmed for over 350 years.  I live on Long Island.

Copyright -Douglas M. MacIlroyPhoto by Doug

I’d cross the street and walk for miles through the woods, I was 8.

The old man’s farm where we went to steal pumpkins and brave the salt gun, the horse ranch where we watched the rodeos and ate honey dew, all gone.

I was in 3rd grade when they filled in the sandpit.

The “High T’s” left a strip of land cutting across the Island.

Levittown left suburbia.

Christie and her  mighty horse Apple Jack galloping around the corral, all gone.

There’s a Born-Again Church where the ranch use to be.  Hard to find God when nature is gone.


The church that replaced the ranch.

upper room

The Real Apple Jack and Christie

apple Jack

Long Island Potato Farm

potato farms

 The High T’s..The Power Authorities Cross

high t's


Then and Now then and now


Bamboo Bends

Walk with me

Where the wind touches our hair

Bamboo bends

The moon hangs low waiting for darkness

A silver disc on a black mountain

Dark thoughts in the silver light

Tickle me, tickle me

And I’ll laugh it all away

The wind screams

Leaves fall

Raindrops on the green lawn

Let me cool my feet

With cold water from the garden hose.

We Shall Overcome


This weeks prompt brought to you by the letter R..all other stories can found here.

copyright lora mitchell


“We can no longer go on like this.  The world has become too crowded.  Look at this image, the city weeps, the people cry out for action.  Today is the day my friends when we rise from our soil and grow like pines from the fires to banish those who have hurt us into the flaming walls of hell for eternity.  They have stolen our top soil, abused and ate our young sprouts alive.  They have chewed and spit us out by the millions.  This genocide will not continue.  We shall fight and destroy all those dirty granola crunching VEGANS!”




A.J. and Dee Bones

“I can’t believe you can’t smoke in bars anymore”

“I miss those days.”

“When the smoke would roll out the door.” Dee bones said as he laughed and crumbled inward covering his mouth so he wouldn’t spit.

“World has gone to shit.”

“Ain’t that the truth Joe”

The little bartender in her tight jeans opened a box of mint.  The top covered Joe’s keys.

“You just gonna open your box like that?”

Her dark hair covered her eyes as she looked down.  Three colleges boys looked on from way across the bar.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to.” Then it hit her. What he meant by box, her face snapped from under the cover of her hair.  Her eyes straight on.

“Now who’s being rude?” Joe asked.

Dee bones gestured away.  Joe taking it all in,  grinned.

“You are?”

“So I am..I am.”

Her face attempting to be angry blushed over with a smile.  Average Joe’s eyes bedroom soft pierced her tough but playful front.

“I couldn’t help it, it was too easy” he said.

“I Didn’t even know what you meant at first.”

“Are you new at this?”

“At bartending? No!”

“Perhaps it’s early?”

“It’s the end of my shift”

“You’re not coming on to me are you?” he said.

Her arms went to her hips, she moved to the side.

“No.” She looked over at Dee.  Dee bones smiled and laughed.

“Coming on to you is my job. I’m the one buying the beer.  So who’s the fucking Mojito for?  One of those 12 year olds over there?” Joe asked as he gestured to the three guys about college age.


“I think they are fighting over who loves you more”

She looked over her shoulders, looked back at Joe and smiled.  She started grinding the mint, starring.  Her low cut top revealing her soft white cleavage.  Joe never stopped looking into her eyes.

“So who loves me more?”

“They all do.” he said without hesitation.

Her smile bigger, her  grinding harder she finished up the drink and walked towards the college boys. Joe drank her in.

“How do you do that?” Dee bones asked.


“Just say shit like that!  I would get punched in the face.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Yes I would.”

“No You just don’t talk like that.  It’s not your nature.  Smoke?”


“That’s some good fucking beer.  What do you want to try next?”

“The porter”


They but their jackets on like Amour and walked out into the cold winter air.  The red tip of their Newport’s dousing snowflakes as they smoked.

“Fucking bullshit smoking out here”

“Can’t find a good bar anymore, the true twisted addictive personalities stay home now, all the characters are gone. Makes it easy for me.”

“It’s always been easy for you A.J.” Dee Bones said.

A.J. flicked his smoke halfway into the parking lot, it rolled into the grate above the storm drain.  Dee bones put his smoke in the cigarette receptacles.  They walked back into the bar a trail of smoke following them.


To be continued…






















Sunday Stares (Revisited)

Coming in at 342 words this week..Let’s see that is 100 words for last week, 100 for this week and……. 142 words for the hell of it.  I wrote this a while back when my wife left me but I felt it fit with the photo prompt.


Thanks to the lovely Rochelle for hosting.  All stories can be found here.

copyright - Jennifer Pendergast

The coffee brews as my smoke burns. The silence that fills the house broken by my music turned down low. The steady climb of sound on Sunday.

Turn on the Blues and light a Jay first thing. I wait for the noon before I crack a beet but a joint’s just fine as the grinds grip and swirl in their filter paper.

Searching for rolling paper and coffee filters I get lost. Lost in dreams, I sift through blogs and files of any kind.

Text book winter mind afraid to feel too much guides me under gray skies on autopilot to the seven eleven. Not enough french vanilla in the house and after one cup without it I decide its time to make the trip to seven eleven and the homeless guy by the trashcan.

Sunday mornings are cold on the side of Route 25

Sunday mornings are cold when your wife is gone and she has the kids too. I wait to call. The coffee waits to be consumed. It’s Sunday and everything is slower. It’s Sunday and church is open. God is watching. Football is on.

The smoke and the fog slowly roll, covers me and the music continues to play.  The sadness of Sunday drips down through coffee grinds.

I turn up the music realizing I am not waking anyone. The house is empty.

Next door they wake up whole when at once time they were fractured. Broken I walk by to leave the little bit of trash by the curb, in the can, in the bin, I built out of wood.

So much is broken and as hard as I try with monsters hands I crush what is fragile to me.

With a crack the tag connected to the tight plastic seal on the french vanilla snaps and the counter-top is sticky on Sunday

I wait to call, I wait on noon and that cold beer, I wait for my mind to set with the sun on Sundays.

The silence a steady hard climb

A Gentle Dance

You come across people who have no concern for their fellow man

Would love to beat you down

Step all over your dreams

With soft words and back stabs

A gentle dance on your heart

The most bad ass ballerinas you ever saw

They know answers to questions you would never be able to pull out

Of your mind

Maybe recognize but never recall

But they’ll never understand

How brutal and ugly they are

A skeleton of rattling bones

A Broadway beat down

“An epic novel man” of commercialized vacant originality

As they tip toe across the truth

Leap over your health to jump into your wounds

A black swan startling you from sleep

We all trip and fall

Come down from our flight

And when you land I will be there

Not to guide you or make your landing soft

I will be there in place waiting

As your bones turn to dust and the dance ends.

Watching a coward in a tutu

Now dance motherfucker