We’re supposed to be in or around our homes as much as possible these days, so let’s take a look inside our new one. I love that the bedroom has enough space for me to have a sunny corner for my rocking chair. But this isn’t just any rocking chair. This was my mom’s grandmother’s, making it an antique and a beautiful one that has to be over 100 year old.
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.
Copyright 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.
This, that and the other thing 