The weekly gathering of the Fictioneers has commenced. Bring out the halt, the lame, the blind, the murderers and aliens, vampires and vamps. Look carefully and you might see a human or two. Take them all, stir thoroughly, add a dollop of disbelief, a soupçon of silliness. Dip a spoon into the resulting slumgullion: each recipe meticulously prepared, marvelously rendered, tasty to the tongue. Your personal recipe is solicited or feel free to simply feast and go away replete; perhaps not always uplifted, but with your brain stimulated.
Thanks to our fearless leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and this week’s photographer, David Stewart.
Exist-tense Dreary, grey, distorted. Everything out of kilter, as if I’m in a foreign country. Can’t interpret the signs around me anymore. A statue frozen in an empty plaza, surrounded by a city. Living people move along the periphery, no one willing to come near. Torn apart. Fragmented. Reaching, stretching. No one takes my hand. Crying out. No response. Can’t anyone hear me? I’m right here. Why won’t you see me? Don’t you know that I exist? Perhaps… Perhaps I don’t exist. Perhaps I’m simply trapped. Forever a statue. Living but ignored. Acknowledge me. I need that to give me life.