Category Archives: Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction – Behind Closed Doors

stonecat

Walking down 3rd Street, passing across Washington, we phase through ethereal fog. We can taste the smog, the ‘city-water’ sitting water splashing under endless tires, me and my daughter. The aftertaste of old pennies and nickels permeates my palate. I can almost taste the tableau of top brass, Thomas Jefferson, under the steel skyscrapers. The contour of the skyline sharply engraves itself on the curvature of the night sky’s full-moon like the flavor of the etching of the executives on the change in the pocket of my mouth. The rigidity of the urban iron and the awful aroma of alloy is obnoxiously noxious, but despite my derision, I stay stone-faced in disdain.

Cars cruise past the far lane as I try to keep sane through all this pain. I look down at my daughter for some respite and she’s already looking back at me with a crooked smile in delight in the light of the city at night and I can’t help but wonder when we forget that everything will be alright. Her face scrunches in playful disgust as she sticks her tongue out: sensing the same sense I’m sensing. I just can’t help but wonder at what age do we hide our true feelings behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed….


Read others here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Raft, No Reaps

116-08-august-9th-2015

I can see it from the dock; those golden sails that dim moonlight in their transparency.  The flapping softboxes light the deck, now a scenic set, for the maritime music to slip through the air like a celestial whisper.  The music drives closer as I see my intended passengers- those lost souls that seek guidance.  Those souls were ghostly dancers on the ship, and that ship I could not cruise to the Hereafter.

They swayed in twos, gliding across the stage under the radiance of the stars that shined on them like moths under a flame, but they feared no longer.  Under the delicacy of the melodies I could hear each spirit murmur to their partner-

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

                    -again and again like the chorus with no cadence.

It is my profession to bring those to peace, but some, few, do not need brought; few may find peace, but it is always in love.

I shredded my contracts as the vessel floated by and deemed such romance could stand the eternity it was sentenced.


Others here.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Bridgette

Check out others here.

© A Mixed Bag 2009
© A Mixed Bag 2009

Bridgette, you’ve done so well to get this far.  You’ve been driven down by so many people walking all over you.  I know you’ve cried rivers that could challenge the strongest levee- dam.  But you still look so pretty.

Bridgette, I know you feel bipolar.  You’ve always felt so divided.  I know you feel like two different people.  But you’re connected to both sides- they’re both you.

Bridgette, you’re not being used.  You’re not just an unappreciated tool.  You have to understand that you’re helping people.

Bridgette, all this success has been eight years in the making.  You’ve really been making big strides to normalcy.  But you’ve got to open up to me.

Sunday Photo Fiction – House on the Sand

Check out the others here!

107-05-may-31st-2015

She parked her walker at the side of the old beach bench and reached her shaky hands into the pocket for her sunglasses.  After fumbling through small bags of tissues and her pack of daily pills, she found them and clipped them onto her bifocals.  Her vision isn’t what it used to be, even with glasses, but she didn’t see the point in getting new ones.  Her sight was blurry and the glaucoma had hazed away her view.

She could still make out the children making sand sculptures: castles, moats, faces, and animals.  She watched them play in all the sand they had left in their hourglasses while sitting on wood on pavement.  Their grains of grit will slowly wash away with the creations they’ve built with their time, and they’ll eventually figure out it’s all temporary.

She pitied them, for their houses were built on sand.  Even their castles would not survive against the tide.  For those precious grains to slow their falling, they would have to be burnt to glass – hardened, but the flames take their toll.  It is best just to build your house on the rock.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Anchors Aweigh

Joining another community with familiar faces.  Hope I’m not being intrusive at this point!  Check out others here!


106-05-may-24th-2015

Another sleepless night after seeing so many fall asleep for eternity.  Not enough Trazodone, melatonin, and alcohol in the world can turn my waking mind off.  The door is locked, the curtains closed, the fan on, and my bed is cozy, but I have to keep my candle lit to fight off bad dreams.  I think it might be keeping me awake.

I can see the flicker of light and shadow on my bedroom wall dance around in harmony from being lit.  Sometimes I can see the bright and dark form into shapes, into figures, into people I know-knew.  The ghosts are making hand-puppets on my walls.  I can see the outline of the mother that raised me, and the father that brought her down.  I want to fix them; I want to join them.  I can feel the weight of my skin and bones clinging me to this bed like an anchor as I see my parents waltz in the flicker of candlelight and moonlight.  A few more pills, a couple more shots, and then I can join them in sleep.

Anchors aweigh.