City Photography

Photo courtesy and copyright property of Dale Rogerson, provided for the express purpose of prompting the Friday Fictioneers community this week, as orchestrated by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Do you see me?

Blurred out in the forefront
of your picturesque scene,

do you see me?

I am the ingrained graffiti
crystallized within the cellular walls
of your conscience,
disgendered by your scrubbing
clean the city litter
in the corners of expanded shadow,
but voiced with an all too familiar
because in the blanked space

you see me.

You see
the distorted angles of your shape
in the contrasting cast
of an outside light
you imagined haloing
your silhouette
when it all ever did was threaten
anyone’s chance
that they might some day
be able to

see me.


Photo courtesy and copyright property of Roger Bultot, provided for the express purpose of prompting Rochelle Wisoff-FieldsFriday Fictioneers drabbling community. Other works of 100 words may be found and/or contributed here.

The tree is knotted with tears.
They smell as bitter as they appear,
gobs of gummed up sorrow
that failed to fall
past an empty, round swell.
The yawning hollow’s warm
and miserable, beautiful
and tragic — a product of misshaped affection.

I want to climb inside, but can’t
figure out my own dimensions.

Myrrha, could you have been
as disastrous as Orpheus sang?
He tried to defy death
in the name of his love
before being rent into islands
by a scorned forest of women.
Only then did he know Eurydice again,

when vines and bark climbed
over our hollows.


Photo courtesy and copyright property of Ronda Del Boccio, provided for the express purpose of prompting Rochelle Wisoff-FieldsFriday Fictioneers drabble challenge. Others’ efforts may be found here.

The heat’s sudden, like the dark lightning streaks veining across the bleach-clean monitor. The sensation stagnates, though the iodine still flows through the channels of my heart.

Yesterday, I waded through the murk of a floodplain. The languid glow of the muddy sunrise warmed my ears as it shimmered across the pools of my son’s eyes. He’d tried for so long to get me out there, to let my line drift free in the easy current.

I can’t help thinking about the paramedics slogging through the marsh as I watch the darkness puddling. What’d the dawn look like to them?

Trying to Move On

Photo courtesy of Maureen Farrelly via Pixabay. The bold text below is quoted from Dakota Feirer.

Her fingers are dressed in weathered rings. Moving in on her own, welcoming neighbors attempt to carefully circumvent the suspected sorrow. But they can’t help admiring the patinated bands, envious of her overzealous dedication. Abashedly downplaying their fascination, she’s scared they’ll see her verdigrised soul corroding underneath.


When I came to, I didn’t hear the 60,000 onlookers or the vulturine medical flock hovering over me. My father’s voice preluded the recoloring of my world, telling me that this was nothing — just clearing the spider webs, knocking the rust off — as I stirred out from a pitch black abyss hidden within the byline of the pitch.

He was the reason I ever got into the game. He drilled it into me, from field to film, replicating and reviewing his own techniques. He’d laugh off the footage of him stumbling after errant headers — while he could, anyway. As I advanced, he precipitously regressed; from forgetfulness to belligerence to the irrevocable distortion of himself and his world.

I woke with my face bordering chalked and verdant grass. Echoes of my father cascaded from the stands. These were the memories he couldn’t keep. I let the doctors lead me away.

Written for Ad Hoc Fiction Issue 154, centered on the mandatory use of the prompt word ‘Rust.’

Don’t Distract the Eye

Photo courtesy of David Mark via Pixabay. The following 99 words, including the prompt word ’eminence,’ were written as my inaugural attempt to meet the Flash Fiction Challenge posited by Charli Mills of the Carrot Ranch Literary Community.

His robe is stained a rich eminence that cloaks its blemishes. Blotches that might dominate lesser colors hide within its royal polyester landscape: mudded fields of chaw, puddles of scuffed up gum, and dry riverbeds of alcohol and urine that flow with their lingering scents, but don’t distract the eye. Leaning under the low hum of a lamppost in his regal purple embroidery, he is the back edge of dusk, the swell between the sun and burning constellations lost in light pollution — what we see, but overlook. He is the king of the street, the embodiment of his domain.


Photo courtesy and copyright property of Sandra Crook provided for the express purpose of prompting Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers drabble challenge. To supply your own 100 words and/or read the other entries, the link here will lead the way.

Square after two-ply square curl around gartered socks, press against khaki creases, bind my belted belly button. My daughter chides her children when they look to begin a second roll and pin my hands across my chest, but I will a final motion with my wrist dismissing her displeasure. They pass the full spool back and forth as I rediscover the difficulty of coaxing my back to let it uncoil with ease and my daughter returns to some electronic distraction. Layering my chin, the kids permit a deeper memory when our eyes lock before mine are wrapped with funerary contentment.