Tag Archives: photos

Friday Fictioneers – Rainy Nights

It’s been a while….

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I tagged you first as the rain fell.  You chased me through the umbrella-d drones: scared of shorting their circuitry.  The rain fell on us.

I looked back at you when you stopped smiling to blow the wet hair off your face.  I didn’t notice wet socks in new shoes while I stopped you in your tracks with a puddle splash.  We circled around lampposts and street signs, cutting through drizzled grass back to the car.  I jumped in to lock the door from you, but you were too close behind.  You tagged me in the passenger seat the night the rain washed away our age.


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Mondays Finish the Story – Devil’s Abode

2015-08-31-bw-beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The cemetery spread along the area known as Devil’s Abode.”

It’s where they used to bury the inmates that spent their life in prison or were sentenced to the chair.  The townsfolk didn’t want their ‘untainted’ souls mixed with the stained ones, so they plotted out another graveyard.  They don’t bury anyone in the Devil’s Abode now, since the Civil Rights issues.  It’s been all but abandoned out there.

I went to see it one time.  Curiosity got the best of me, I guess.  I was surprised it hadn’t become a tourist attraction.  I walked past the cracked headstones and dying trees trying to make out the faded names, when I came across a well-dressed man sitting on top of a slab, smoking a Camel.

“Good afternoon,” I said to him, with a nod.

He nodded back.

After a moment, curiosity conquered again.  “What are you doing around these parts?” I asked, trying to not sound rude.

After puffing out a cloud of smoke, he answered, “Business,” as he tapped the ashes onto the ground.


Mondays Finish the Story – Material Things

2015-08-17-c2a9-2015-barbara-w-beacham

I see absolutely everything.

Soaring on the heights of wings.

Discerning which of the ants down there

Are supposed to be the queen and king.

 

I may be deemed ethereal,

But definitely not imperial.

That’s what they have over me-

Their things are material.

 

I wish I could give you all the world,

Necklaces, bracelets, rings all pearled.

I wanted to be there already,

But my plans have all unfurled.

 

Maybe it’s some fear of commitment,

I already want to be at fulfillment,

Too much to say with no one to read,

So I guess I’ll just have to film it.

 

I need shaken this unshakeable vice,

That I feel each gift must have a price,

Even when you say you don’t need it,

Some gifts sure do entice.

 

So my darling, and dear friend,

I promise to make it in the end.

You’ll have more than you’ll ever need,

Until then, love I send.

 

 

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.

FFfAW – I’m Melting!

© Sonya O.
© Sonya O.

It’s starting.  I can feel like heels sticking: no way for me to tap them home.  My stomach is empty, but I can feel it expanding.  I hate bloating.  Ugh, I can’t swallow.  I can’t even open my mouth.  My lips are sticking!  I can’t split them with my tongue.  I just keep pushing, and I can feel the dryness of my taste buds scrape my bottom lip-  Ah, I got it!  No… my tongue just pushed through the top of my chin like 3-hour old bubblegum.

My eye just popped!  I can’t see out of my right eye!  I can’t see!  I just felt my left eye slide down my cheek!  I can’t raise my arms anymore!  My fingers are stuck together like duck’s webbing.  I can feel the change in elevation as my body sinks to the floor.

Stupid microwave.


Sunday Photo Fiction – Bridgette

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© 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.

Friday Fictioneers – Light at the End

© Stephen Baum
© Stephen Baum

Every time you feel that tenseness in your chest.

Every time you feel that sudden dizziness.

Every time you pass a semi.

Every time you cross a bridge.

Every time you take the stairs.

Every time you take the elevator.

Every time you look out the fifth floor window.

It could break.  It could snap.  It could be cancer.  It could be a stroke.  It could be a heart attack.  It could hit you.  It could drop you.

We are balanced on the tiniest head of a needle on a floating orb next to a giant fire star.

The End.