Sunday Photo Fiction. Click on the link to see the instruction and join. And, thanks to Alistair for hosting! 🙂
Just Another Halloween
I wonder if Orson Welles knew that his stunt back in 1938 would have copycats even now 79 years later. While the details have changed, there’s always someone out there who thinks it’s colossal fun to cause panic around Halloween. Last year it was the “clown” guy and this year it’s the Predator, which I think is pretty lame because that just screams costume.
Friday Fictioneers for 5/26/2017
The teenagers called me “crazy artist lady.”
The men loitering nearby called me worse when I refused their “offers.”
My lover called me stubborn for staying. “It’s not safe.”
I scoffed. “They’re just talk.”
I worked all day and into the evening, but flagged. Grabbing Gordo the Great Dane’s lead, we loped to the coffee shop; I hummed something cheery.
The barista smiled. “Your showing’s tomorrow?”
“You must be excited.”
Red paint dripped down my door from the four-letter slur. Inside, three years of blown-glass artwork glittered in the light, innocently beautiful in its destruction.
I forgot to play last week. In case you want to give it a go, click on the link above.
The gaze she wanted for so long to meet hers, did, but then swiftly moved away.
end 5/23/ 2017
My first quadrille thanks to the good folks at dVerse. If you want to join in, click on the link and read the instructions.
A chord cascades
the sound of song
The suburban noise proved her undoing. One little girl screamed every five minutes as if a hell-demon nipped at her $120 sneakers and then there were the lawn mowers constant growl, the car alarms, the woman shouting at her kids, and maybe worst of all the teenager next-door with his synthetic music.
This is a bit longer than the stories I usually post. However, if you have the time, please tell me your thoughts. I would very much appreciate it. Many, many thanks, Sascha. (ps. I am happy to read your longer piece as well, just let me know…except if it’s novel length (sorry).
The Gray Area
I’ve been over twenty hours on this highway, watching the pavement slide under the tires, passing through rain that glosses the road over like ice and nighttime in which reality becomes the repetition of a white dotted line against black. My headlights show the tawny sleekness of deer at the edge of the highway, the fat waddle of groundhogs, and, for hours, a plentitude of nothing except images like a succession of stills from a movie many years old.
Can’t Write Scared
the stoned poet said
“you can’t write scared”–
each word precisely penned
attuned to imaginary readers
whose lips curled derisively
on occasional lapses
I was an egg
concealed in a flimsy shell
like another half-dozen
spinning trite phrases
of sweet sounding words
imaginings of pink packaged
but then I succumbed
On rebirth I cried
“you can’t write scared”
and I didn’t, for a while
developed succinct style
of hewn craft on drafts
pinched words like pennies
wanted bennies, not
in my twenties anymore.
Fear pervades the core
bores into the brain
insane unremarkable drivel
pours through pores
I wrote scared
but scarred surfaces
like polished wood
trampled on daily
til frailty exists no more.
(oops. I had farce in there, but deleted it.)
They went to the hayloft because there was nowhere else. He was shipping out in the morning. She was off to college.
Her palms cupped the sides of his face to study his eyes and he grinned down at her. All of these years of wanting saved for these precious moments of frantic clumsiness.
She had waited for him, for always.
Sharp needles of straw pinched their skin as they made love, him trying to be gentle, her needing him as part of herself.
She felt they were on the precipice of future lives with time as tenuous as gossamer.