Noise

Being a reluctant and foreign part of an assembly of natives, I try my best to get the gist of what’s on the agenda. However, given the inborn nature of these natives – which is to be extremely talkative and get heated up about things very easily – and a particular medical condition I have (my ears simply cannot filter out individual voices in loud groups), most of it is incomprehensible to me, like white noise.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note

This little shred of prose is definitely based on real experience.

Inspired by Friday Writings #248: Noisy!

Another Day

Today’s Friday, and so far it’s been lousy. I ride my bike from one dumpster location to the next, rummage through the bins in search of something saleable or reusable. Slim pickings today. No scrap metal to sell to Bruno, no electronic gadgets that look like they could be fixed, no clothes I could resell. It’s past noon – time to have something to eat. I’m terribly hungry. No need to pull out my wallet – all it contains is some copper coins, and those won’t buy a thing. 

Not much is happening, people are at home cooking or eating. I’ve been sitting on the wall across from the dumpsters on Via Sapori – away from the ones that stink the most – for half an hour. But wait – here comes someone. It’s the guy that’s given me something occasionally. Let’s try!

Hooray, I’m getting there – he gave me some brass! Now all I need is another generous sponsor like him. If all else fails, I can walk over to aunty Tsura, who’s sitting on her usual lunchtime bench, and ask her for some crumbs. She usually has enough and doesn’t mind sharing.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note
This is a fundamentally true story told from the point of view of another person and was written down for Friday Writings #247: Reframing Negative Concepts.

Family, well ...

 Family’s great, right? And blood is thicker than water, right? Well, well, well ...

My father had a five siblings – Christine, Otto, Ernest, Emmy, Eugene. He, William, was the baby.

In general, the brothers and sisters got along very well, particularly while their parents were alive, but there were some issues that came up as they got older.

Their father had a company, and soon the question arose who would follow in his footsteps. This was in the 1930s, so – of course – the girls were not even considered. It was then that Otto said he didn’t want Bill in the management even though by that time he had a degree in engineering and was well qualified. However, the rest of the siblings, including my aunts, vetoed this, so the management ended up being a board of four. Gene, the businessman, had a brain for numbers and was largely responsible for business decisions. Ernest largely called the product development shots, coming up with mostly good ideas but also some that ended up losing money. Bill was inventive and a problem solver. He had the ability to turn something from the drawing board into a perfectly functioning product. Otto – well, no-one knew exactly what his contribution was. He spent most of his time walking around the halls and barking commands at the workers. Who mostly shook their heads behind his back.

Things went fairly well for all appearances. But underneath the surface there was a bitter rivalry between Ernest and Eugene, which was also fomented by their wives, neither of whom had a single good word to say about the other. Their children learned to disklike each other and be envious and wary of each other at an early age. Even the dogs – one per family – hated each other and would fight, sometimes with serious injuries, whenever they had a chance.

My sister and I – Bill’s offspring – were quite a bit younger than our cousins, generally got along with everyone and were too naive to perceive the numerous tensions.

Once the older generation retired, the company essentially passed on to Ernest’s son-in-law and Eugene’s son, who had to get along to some extent but had completely opposite views and made no secret of their mutual disdain.

The company continues to exist and thrive to this very day, now in the fourth generation, still run by family members who basically hate each other, agree on hardly anything and still somehow keep pulling things together.

But that’s family, right?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Written for Friday Writings #245: Family.

Disclaimer
Similarities with people living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Greatly Fictionalized – an Updated Fairytale

 

My name is Cynthia McFarland, from the reputable family in the Cavendish Moors. I am better known as Cinderella, the heroine of a well-known fairytale. Some elements of the tale are true – the horrible stepmother and the envious nasty stepsisters. But I did not talk to pigeons and I never rode in an oversized pumpkin.

Even the glass slipper is pure embroidery. Perhaps someone came up with that idea because of the performance at the ball that night, where a boy artist walked across a five foot line of champagne flutes without falling off or breaking any of them. Something else that also happened was that my stepsister Metallia got so drunk that she asked for more champagne to be poured in the slipper she had removed from her not so dainty foot. With the result that some high-price bubbles were wasted as it all drained to the floor through the openings in the slipper. Upon which she made an un-lady-like remark and put the wet slipper back on, narrowly avoiding a collision with the floor as she was doing so.

Anyway, there were no bloody toes due to one of my sisters trying out a slipper that did not fit.

It is true, though, that my slippers were involved in the story, because I left them under the curtains in the ballroom.

“How can I find you, my unknown angel?” the prince said as I told him I had to leave after our last dance. 

“If you look, you will find something of mine hidden under heavy brocade, and this will tell you.”

Two days later, a carriage bearing the royal insignia arrived in front of our manor; a uniformed servant and the prince stepped out. The servant proclaimed that His Majesty Prince Dilip requested to see the lady of the house. Who, of course, was enchanted by the visit, thinking of an impending alliance of her offspring with the royal house.

“Dear Lady McFarland, there is something I have to return to your daughter.”

“Oh my dear – what could it be? – Shall I call for Metallia or Auralia?”

“It is for your daughter Cynthia.”

The look on her face when she heard this must have been priceless.

I was called eventually, even though I had on my sports clothes, having practiced martial arts as I always did in the morning.

“My dear Cynthia, you have a princely visitor who wishes to return something to you. Even though I wonder what it could possibly be.”

On a sign by the prince, the servant stepped up to me and presented a box covered in golden cloth.

“I believe these belong to you, Countess,” the prince said, “and am returning them to renew our acquaintance.”

I had left a little note with my name in the slippers when I left them in the ballroom.

The rest is history – he asked for my hand, we had a wonderful wedding in the royal palace and lived happily ever after, as is the end of all fairytales. Even though it could be added that three semi-relatives of mine were a bit less than happy.

– Leonard Blumfeld writing from the perspective of Cynthia McFarland (© 2026)

Notes
This story was inspired by and written for Friday Writings #244: If the Glass Slipper Fits. 

My gripes with you

1. You do not rinse the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher.

2. Forks go in with the fork end up, knives with the cutting end up. You do it randomly.

3. I have a system for the plates you do not follow: the big plates go on the right, the smaller ones and soup plates on the left.

4. You teach the children how to put things in the dishwasher the wrong way.

5. You move things around the way it suits you or do not put them back in the right place.

6. This includes books on the shelves, CDs and framed photographs.

7. Your cynical remarks imply that you have a liberal view of things.

8. This includes remarks that imply that the current president is not a good choice for the country.

9. You once said that you hoped for my sake that my son would end up marrying a black or Asian girl. Later you said it had been a joke.

10. But I know it was not a joke, even though it’s true that you may have had too much to drink as you said.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note

Written for Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers.

Disclaimer

All similarities of the people mentioned or described here with real characters living or passed away are entirely coincidental.

A not so uncommon perspective

I can't stop staring at him from across the classroom. Such a dear face – good jawline, honey brown eyes with a warmth that mark my universe, and the way his dark curls fall just so over his forehead. He's laughing at something the guy next to him said, and that smile – it’s like a halo. My stomach flips every time I get so see it. Why does he have to be so ridiculously handsome? It's unfair.

And the guitar. Yesterday after school I hung around the music room, pretending to look for a lost something, just so I could hear him practice. Those fingers caressing the strings like they were born for it. The soft acoustic notes filled the room, and I stood frozen, heart pounding so loud I thought he'd hear it. He plays with effortless passion, eyes half-closed, completely lost in the music. I imagine him playing for me someday, but most likely that will never happen.

He doesn't even pretend to know me. Whenever he happens to look at me, which has happened a few times, I feel I’m just another face in school. While I'm composing entire futures in my head – us walking home together, him teaching me a few chords, maybe even kissing down by the lake during a bonfire – he's probably thinking about next week's soccer practice or whatever popular girl is currently orbiting him. I saw Ginevra lean in close today, whispering something that made him grin. My chest tightened so I could barely breathe.

I try to focus on the teacher's voice, on the scribbledegook on the board, but my mind drifts right back. What would it feel like if he looked at me the way I look at him? Long enough to notice I catch my breath whenever he walks by. Long enough to notice that I exist. I stay quiet, keep my head down and let the crush eat away at me in silence. It's stupid. It's painful. And still, every morning, I hope this day might be different.

– Invisible Paula

Written for Friday Writings #242: Perspective. 

Diagnosis

 I went to see the doctor.

“What are your symptoms, Mr. ... Um?”

“For a while now I’ve found it hard to enjoy myself, to see the funny side of things. Whatever the news, things are always on the sad side. Global and personal.”

The doctor took out his stethoscope and started listening to my inner workings in various places. Finally stopped to follow up with palpitation. Sat there without saying anything for a minute.

“Doctor?”

“Mr. ... Um ... Blumfeld. Your funny bone is broken.”

“And what can be done about that? A cast?”

“Nothing whatsoever. It simply takes a lot of self-healing. And the realization that both sad and humorous things don’t depend on you. It’s all about what you make of them.”

“Thank you, doctor. I could have come to the same conclusion reading Deepak Chopra.”

“That will be 120 euros. The receptionist handles payments.”

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Written for the prompt “down to the bone” at Poets and Storytellers United.

A slight heel problem

 

– Alexa, medium height!
– Yes, ma’am.
– Not me, stupid! My heels!
– Can’t hear you, ma’am.
– I’m shrinking! I’m getting smaller! What do I do?
– I can’t answer that, ma’am.
– You were supposed to lower my heels, not me, dumbcluck!
– Sorry, can’t hear you. Too much background noise.
– Get me back to full size immediately!
– Your heels? All 18 inches?
– Me, you idiot! All 5 feet 8 of me!
– Were you really that tall before?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2025)

Note

The other day I learned that adjustable heels exist, so that you can adjust your footwear to low, medium or high. Based on the fact that everything must be controllable remotely nowadays – be it via smartphone app or a remote control –, I was inspired to imagine what such technology might do if misdirected or going wrong.

Giacomo – Love For Ever

 

Seven years later, the tattoo was still there, while Giacomo, including her love for him, was long gone. And Jimmy, the new flame, wasn’t too keen on seeing Giacomo around whenever he looked at her arm. Would she really have to have it removed? How long was Jimmy going to last? Frankly, her belief in eternity had been shattered – a bit.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2024)

Notes
Photo art courtesy of AI but based on a true story.

A Man Needs A Maid

 

That was one particular April in 2014, when it had been drizzling, raining cats and dogs and hailing in turn and I was working at this farm somewhere in the boonies of southern Germany, where the rough charm and ruddy looks of one Mr. Rolf Pralad had brought me. One of his favorite songs was Neil Young’s “A man needs a maid” – he’d told me that before I arrived there, but I had no idea how literally he understood the title. 

I learned to get up early, feed the animals, milk the cows, make breakfast, clean the place, etc. In turn I initially got some loving, but that faded after a short time. 

It was towards the end of April, and it was still raining, I kid you not, when he tossed me out because his old girlfriend had come back. 

“I don’t deserve this, Rolf!”
“A matter of opinion.”
“What has she got that makes her better than me?”
“Well, for one she is blonde, and I prefer blondes, and then –”
“Then what?”
“I don’t want to insult you, Karo.”
“Well, you’ve done plenty of that already, Rolf. I deserve better.”
“You don’t. Get lost!”

Upon which he threw out my suitcase, pushed me out the door and slammed it shut in my face.

But his dog Pummel followed me, and now, ten years later, I still have that dog – a heavenly creature compared to his former master.

– Kathleen Mulholland (© 2024)

Author's note: Story not my own. Loosely based on a video game (see lo-fi clip above).

Let me do my work

 Dedicated to Alessandro

There we go.
And now.
That’s what I need.
Next.
A bucket.
This goes here.
Shit.
Dropped it all.
A broom.
Now what.
Needs to dry.
What is this.
Nothing.
Damn.
No way.
Next thing I need.
Found it.
Now that.
Doesn’t work at all.
Maybe it will.
All OK.

– Nicole Weiß (© 2024)

Author’s note
Yesterday, the handyman Alessandro S. was working in my house. This short story is more or less based on things he mumbled to himself while he was going about his work.

Translation from German. The German version was published here.

Rhetorical

How carefree would you feel if you’d just been hit over the head with an ear-splitting deadpan?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2016)

Note
Woven around carefree, ear-splitting and deadpan from 3WW. May not use some of the terms in the intended meaning.

Emancipated

“A little backbone once in a while wouldn’t cheapen your dangle,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

I’d just apologized to the waiter for the fact that she had ordered a Dos Equis and that he had brought her a Tres Equis.

When, in fact, I was pretty sure she’d said Tres Equis.

Now what the hell was her meaning?

Which is exactly what I asked her.

“It means that you should learn to stand up to some people, my dear man. And it would not hurt that swagger of yours I love so much,” she laughed and slapped me in the area of my bum – which she couldn’t quite get to because we were seated.

Reading between the lines is sometimes difficult.

What she really was trying to say might be, “Stand up to others as much as you like, but be wax in my dainty little hands.”

However, there definitely had been some innuendo in the dangle.

So that I was not entirely surprised when she suggested going back to our room after a while.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2016)

Written around the words backbone, cheapen and dangle from 3WW.

Work

I’ve been coming twice a week to clean this illustrious writer’s house – thirteen or even fourteen years it must be. He used to meet people, have interviews, appear on TV, particularly after the success of his one and only novel The Deserted Planet, which, as you know, also became a movie everyone went to see. That was probably about ten years ago. He had a big party to celebrate his 70th birthday – I was there to help out in the kitchen. Lots of VIPs – writers, the mayor, people from politics and cinema. His ex-wife, that well-known anchorwoman. And then a gradual decline set in, fewer people came, he stayed home most of the time. Eventually he would no longer go on his habitual hour long walks. And now, sadly, his speech is as jumbled as his thoughts. His niece is taking care of him now, is getting paid for it and in control of everything. And stingy. He’s become haggard because she skimps on his food – while treating herself to fancy meals downtown with her boyfriend. He moved in a year ago. The slick, lecherous type. Has his eyes glued to certain parts of me whenever he’s around. Once he told me, when handing me my money, “You know, Felicidad, I love Latin women. A lot. There is something so exotically sensuous and seductive about them.” I keep the job because of the old man, who mostly sits in the living room now, staring out of the window.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Written around illustrious, habitual and jumbled from 3WW.

Final

Rose's jabs at me while we were having our weekly candlelight dinner at the Oasis, that place of Nouvelle Cuisine fine dining and excessive pricing, seemed a bit labored or even makeshift.

"There's something wrong with your jabs tonight, love," I said during a break.

She took her time chewing a morsel of boeuf whatever.

She cleared her throat; this was always a bad sign.

"My jabs, as you so conveniently call my part of our conversation, have come to an end. I'm leaving you."

"Don't tell me it's Julian Dent."

Julian Dent was her posh and good looking dentist. I'd long suspected that something might be going on there.

"No. It's not."

She took a sip from her glass of Merlot and savored it.

"Someone I know?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Your brother."

Now that was the final jab. Like one with a knife. And it had come easily from her, sounding neither labored nor makeshift.

She rose quietly and walked out of my life.

– Leonard Blumfeld ((c) 2015)

Written around jab, labored and makeshift from 3WW.

The spy novel haiku

Dedicated to Len Deighton

Shot in the arm vein.
“Now speak the truth.” Was this to
be the end of me?

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2015)

Note
This was inspired by various things I read, saw and associated this morning. Plus there are these novels in 3, 4 or 5 words going around. This one has 17, so it can be called an epic. And it can pride itself of having dialog, which is rare for a haiku.

Blunt, drunk and lethargic

Oh husband, what has become of you?
You are now mostly drunk, which means lethargic couch potato, and the few words you say (if you manage to utter any) are blunt, like "Get out of my sight, bitch."
Oh husband, what has become of you? You used to be gallant, spirited and romantic. Think of your loving and devoted Nandini and please change quickly.
Or I'll have to call big brother, who will teach you. Remember the last time? He threw you out of the house with a big kick in the butt and then hosed you down with cold water for half an hour. Remember how that straightened you out for a year?
Your loving and devoted wife.

- Leonard Blumfeld (in a somewhat older Hindi movie vein)

Written for 3WW around the words blunt, drunk and lethargic.

A Japanese E-Novel

"Oh but Hiroto, where's the draft of the novel you promised for today?"
"Sorry, Louise, I've been preoccupied with looking for a life partner, and you know that it's not easy for us expatriates."
"Yes, you've mentioned it before."
"It's taken away my serenity."
"Your serenity?"
"Yes, and I can't write without. Neither can I without a life partner."
"But I thought you'd found one."
"Yes, I thought I'd located one, from Osaka. But it turns out she expects me to pay for her health insurance. That would be like a thousand euros a month."
"I see."
"No, you don't see, Louise. Ever since Fukushima there have been so many Japanese women just waiting to leave the country. All in search of eligible expatriate bachelors like me. Airline stewardesses, for example."
"Then it should be possible to find someone else."
"I'm writing e-mails every day."
"That's why the novel is not progressing, I imagine."
"I'm not serene, I'm not within my senses, Louise."
"You could turn your e-mails into a novel. In a modern day revival of the epistolary novel."
"It's an idea."
"You could weave your weapon collection into it, and your knowledge of martial arts. Start emphasizing these in your mails to the ladies."
"I sold all my weapons on E-Bay. However, I bought myself a saxophone."
"Jazz is all right, too. You could call your e-pistolary novel Akiko and the Saxophone Man, or Health Insurance Rewarded."
"Why that?"
"It's a takeoff on Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, the beststelling novel in letters of all times. You told me your flame's name was Akiko. And there's the health insurance issue, you said."
"Exactly. But I'm not willing to pay a thousand a month. Not for any woman."
"You won't have a problem with that, Hiroto, once your novel gets published."
"Thanks, Louise. Some of my serenity may be coming back. You've given my creativity a new direction."
"Keep cranking out those e-mails, Hiroto. One hundred and eighty pages of draft in a week?"
"It's a deal, Louise."

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2012)

Based on a true story. Contains draft, locate and serenity from 3WW.

Hype is hard to justify with a growl

I walked over to the table where the shaddy sheeplegger had just sat down.
"What can I do you for, sir?"
Sheepleggers from the planet of Arce generally seem to react well to some sense of humor. Not this one:
"If I'z in the mood fer yokes, kitty, you'll knew it. To-die iz not wanna doze dies. Quet me some of yer hype, and makes it snoppy, will yer?"
With its huge amount of calories, artificial colorants and flavorings and transfatty acids, hype is one of the favorite slops on the menu of the Latter Day Survivors of the Universe Café, where I happen to work.
I could not suppress a growl, which is my natural feline reaction when rubbed the wrong way.
"Quet yer thin arce quoin, kitz, befer I grab ye by yer frilly tail."
"You try that, Mr. Sheep, and you'll have a few claws in your shaddy fur."
"Ye quet me that hype, or I'll choinge my moind and werk outta here unfad, and ye ken ferget my tipz."
I hissed, as it is our feline custom, and walked away to fill his order.
Unfortunately, customers are few and far between nowadays, ever since that terrible war between the Cats of the East, the Gnats of the West, the Rats of the North and the Bats of the South. It's gotten so bad that we now have to serve those we used to eat. It's gotten so bad that I'd probably have to justify my catty behavior towards this horn-shoed oaf from the planet of Arce to my boss, that big-balled ape from the planet of Farce.

– Leonard "Looking towards the Future" Blumfeld (© 2012)

Written around growl, hype and justify from 3WW.

A fairytale

Prince Pygmalian II, on a walk in the forest in the proximity of Castle Tsvitskenstein, could not believe his eyes – there was his beloved Cinderella, rendered immobile by a hideous red-bearded dwarf, who was fondling her to his heart's content with his callous and – most likely – smelly hands, all the while emitting lustful grunts.

Oh what to do to avoid equal immobility, restore Cinderella's mobility and seek retribution?
The prince, counting on dwarves' proverbial greed, thought of a plan that might possibly work.

"Pray, my dear fellow, I would reward you handsomely if you told me how to immobilize someone like this girl you have here," he said, stepping forward.

The dwarf was visibly annoyed but also instantly tempted.
"And what might such a handsome reward be, my dear prince?"
The dwarf had immediately made out that the prince was a prince by his princely garb, the politeness of his speech and a few other princely attributes.

"I have some gold coins with me," said Pygmalian II, "but can also offer you dollars or euros."

Like all princes, Pygmalian II always carried with him a sizeable number of gold ducats and bills in major currencies.

"No, gold is best. The other two have lost a lot of their market value lately."
"Will 15 ducats do?"
"Make it 25, and we are in business. My craft does not come cheaply."
"25 it shall be, then."
"I take cash."
"Of course."

The prince took out his heavy wallet, counted 25 gold pieces and handed them to the dwarf, who counted them scrupulously, which took a while and required some shuffling because he did it using the seven fingers of both hands.

"Shall we shake hands on the deal?" the prince said.
The dwarf proffered his hairy hand.
"But before we do, please tell me your name, my dear fellow. I always like to know who I do business with."

This request clearly did not please the dwarf.
"We normally do not disclose our names to your kind," he eventually replied, "but be it for business' sake. I am called Rumple, and I'm of the illustrious line of the Stiltskins."

The prince shook hands and immediately had to suppress an urge to wipe his hand.

"Now, dear Rumple Stiltskin, please reveal to me the immobilization magic."
"You say, 'Freeze, oh,' and then the name, all the while looking into the eyes of your victim, err beloved," the dwarf explained.

"Thank you, dear fellow. I shall practice this magic real soon. – How would you like to earn some more?"

Rumple licked his fat red lips.

"Wouldn't be adverse to it. Something to add to my stocking for retirement. What other magic is it you wish to know?"
"Well, it might come in handy once in a while to restore mobility to someone. You don't want to leave statues around all over the place."

"I'll take 30 for that one," the dwarf declared smugly.
"As you wish! I've never been known to be stingy."

Once again the prince took out his wallet, counted 30 gold pieces and gave them to the dwarf.
"Thank you, my prince."
"What are the words, then, dear Rumple?"
"They are, 'Unfreeze, oh,' followed by the name. But you have to stand behind the person when you say these words."
"And will they work on any moving creature, big and small?"
"Anything that is alive, guaranteed."

Looking into the dwarf's eyes, the prince said, "Freeze, oh Rumple Stiltskin!"

The dwarf froze instantly, the beginnings of outrage showing in his face.

Then the prince stepped behind Cinderella and spoke, "Unfreeze, oh Cinderella!"

Cinderella was released from immobility and gave the prince her best Hollywood kiss.

And if you take a walk in the forest near Castle Tsvitskenstein and come upon a garden dwarf, do not stand behind him and utter the words, "Unfreeze, oh Rumple Stiltskin!"

Because there is no guarantee that Rumple Stiltskin would react kindly upon his return to life.

As to Prince Pygmalian II and Cinderella, they lived happily ever after, doing whatever princes and princesses do best and gaining exposure through tabloids.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2011)

Written for 3WW (immobile, proximity and retribution) and Sunday Scribblings (Fairytale).