Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Every Sunday for twenty-two years, Peter, Paul and Frank met for dinner and drinks. It was a reason play catch-up. It always turned into a reason to get “three sheets to the wind”!

They were three friends, the “Tres Amigos” – Pedro, Paulo and Francisco, each with their own charm and specific diversion to drink. Pedro preferred the “Cuervo”; it’s golden elixir cured his ailments. Paulo had a palette for cerveza preparada, a strange blend of beer mixed with tomato juice, hot sauce, or salsa.

But Francisco kept his taste simple and his living clean. Frank was averted to Perrier water. It was of a different tongue both linguistic-wise and libation-wise! But he liked what he liked.

Francesca liked walking in the Spring rain. She liked satin sheets and had a passion for the theater. She was exceptional at interior design. She… wait, did I just say she?

Every Sunday for twenty-two years, Peter, Paul and Frank met for dinner and drinks. It was a reason play catch-up. It always turned into a reason to get “three sheets to the wind”! This Sunday, Frank’s secret came out. And so did Frank!

Salud Tres Amigos!


Copyright © – Walter J. Wojtanik 2012



Randall the Meek, stood as petrified as the trees that surrounded him. His knees knocked. His teeth chattered. He thought he’d soil himself.

Randall had been drummed out of the king’s service for his timidity. But, then Princess Portense’s kidnapping changed all that. All knights were pressed into action and yes, even Randall was required to join in the search. His steed Chester plodded along through the low brush as Randall called out.

“PRINCESS? PRINCESS PORTENSE!?” he shouted quietly. “Chester, I don’t think we’ll find her!”

The horse stopped in its track and tossed his mane back toward Randall, giving him a nasty sneer.

“Do you ALWAYS have to be so wishy-washy?” Chester asked. “When will you ever grow a pair?”

Randall looked at Chester in disbelief.

“Ch-Chester? You can talk?” Randall queried.

“Of course I can talk, we’re in the Enchanted Forest, you moron!” came Chester’s retort.

“B-B-But you’ve never spoken before!” the mild knight reasoned.

“No kidding” said Chester. “Until now , you’ve been tolerable!”

Chester moved forward as his rider continued his din.



The hospital was in a rundown section of the city. Streets wore litter like a torn overcoat – all tatters and held together by spit and chewing gum. The sum of all parts was still another negative, no matter what rule of mathematics you choose to ignore.

Louisa had spirited herself on-board the No. 13 bus heading up William St. She was worn and abused by her boyfriend. (She did her share of self-abuse as well). Her jacket was clutched to her breasts, doing a poor job of hiding the bump that protruded through the broken zipper. Louisa was cold and high and very pregnant.

So pregnant in fact was the reason she had boarded the bus at all. The Michigan Avenue stop would put her a block away from the Memorial Hospital. Ninety steps to decide if she was willing to go through with her responsibility.

The ride was bumpy. The upper end of William had been neglected and the potholes that remained from winter’s salty tirade gave the impression of riding through downtown Beirut.
Bloodshot eyes stared vacantly, flinching slightly as her labor pains intensified in strength and duration. Louisa’s bus was nearing her station.

The other riders, oblivious to her plight were absorbed in their self-importance to care that another crack whore was going to give birth to another addicted baby. The clinic could only do so much for the dark haired girl; she needed to step up and pay the price of motherhood.

Motherhood in the hood. Too many hoods to see straight. Mindlessly, Louisa disembarked the metro liner, shuffling feet in the direction of sanctuary, albeit for a brief moment. She stopped clutching her mid-drift. Doubled over in agony. She couldn’t do this.

Her scream pierced the moist night air as she plodded slowly toward the double glass doors. Passers-by paid no heed. A gruff nurse dragging on her cigarette turned her back to the wind and Louisa, shielding herself from both. The rickety doors slid closed behind her.

Louisa found a seat in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view. Sweat poured down her brow and the wince of child birth graced her face. Reaching between her legs, she clutched as her daughter came into the world in the waiting area, in the corner of the room out of view.

Nurses rushed to the weakened sound of a newborn’s first cry. They found her laying in the rack of the local newspapers, under the banner “Take one – FREE!” She had a slim chance to make it past midnight.

Louisa’s lifeless body was found at the end of a trail of blood where she had waited for the return bus in the shadow of a “DEAD END” sign.


“…cut off his nose to spite his face!”

Frederick Van Gogh was not as accomplished as his more famous cousin. Freddy was more the paint by numbers kind of artist. But he had a good ear for music. That was more than he could say for Vinnie. Since that mishap with his straight razor, everything just seemed monotone.

That suited Freddy to a tee! Now the playing field was level.

But the lesser-than Van Gogh created a buzz around the art world with his own self-portrait. It was known that Frederick was a loner, very to himself. His personality was as scarce as his acquaintances. And his lack of skill and fore-sight left him one step from the pinnacle alongside his now less handsome cousin.

His portrait was done totally in hues of black and white. There was no ruddiness in his cheek; no blondness of hair. His crimson blazer was a very muted charcoal on canvas. Forty-nine hues of black and white to be exact. Oh, the likeness was very good, but he had cruelly included a third ear floating in the background. A tweak to the great Vincent Van Gogh.

The Van Gogh clan treated Frederick like an outcast. His jealousy was one thing, but the ear… it was as if he had cut off his nose to spite his face. So much for one-upsmanship!


My brush paints broadly!

My brush paints broadly. Fine strokes are for the self-absorbed. I blur; an abstract with a surreal tint. Hues of fiery heat; reds, yellows, some umber (I take umbrage to umber). Complementary blues and greens to cool my innards just a smudge!

The ground is barren. Foliage underfoot is not in my picture. Grass does not grow where I tread; a manic meander beating a path to my muse. I refuse to allow it to rest. At best, all the greenery fills my background scenery.

Trees are abundant, purple-mountain majesty reigns supreme, and I dream of a lake, serene and sublime, fed by a waterfall to stir and churn my thoughts so I ought not be stagnant. My shadow is long and deep, and it creeps into the thinking of others who seek my impressions. The only depression hides in the lurking darkness of a lone cave; my mind where my ideas go to die(resurrected as wisps of worded wonder).

I am under its spell. A palette of rain-bowed rhyme and reason. The brush continues its dance upon the canvas that life has provided. I can’t hide it, my masterpiece is yet to be revealed. Until then it is sealed within the wide strokes of my red sable muse!


© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012