Posts Tagged ‘loss’

“Good morning, Fictioneer.  Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to write a story of  100 words, post it, then read and comment on the stories posted by other agents Fictioneers.          

This mission is not impossible. 

   As always, should you or any of your Fictioneers Force be caught or killed, Secretary Rochelle will disavow any knowledge of your actions and stories.

These instructions will self-destruct in five seconds.    

   Good luck!”

For the first time, I’ve had a character from a previous story return.  She initially introduced herself last October in the first week Rochelle ascended to  fearless leader. This week she informed me she had more to tell.   If you’d like to read that story, you may do so through the following link, but her current story is meant to stand on its own if you choose not to:


copyright lora mitchell

Picture copyright Lora Mitchell


I’m emotionally mummified by the no-feeling that lies on the far side of unbearable loss, the weariness holding me at the window above the glittering city lights, crude imitations of the innumerable stars in the vastness above my cabin.  I yearn for peace filled only with nature’s sounds, the whispering creek, never-ending vistas, the night’s enveloping darkness, that space where healing begins.

Civilization’s after-death requirements are filed, discarded or buried.  I crave my friends, the cafe, tea and comfort in the corner booth where I’ve so often dispensed it.

I need my homecoming as much as my mother needed hers.

I spent the first part of the day enjoying how amazing the house looks with all the prep and painting done.  Now I can’t think about anything except today’s events.  While I watch the coverage of the shootings at the school in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, I want to write that I can’t imagine hearing that there had been a shooting at your child’s school, going there and hearing that your child’s class  had been wiped out by a murderer.  But that’s all I can do–imagine–and be thankful that I don’t know this indescribable hurt personally.  I can only imagine what it would be like to send your child to school and never have him or her come home alive…and it hurts.  (more…)

Friday Fictioneers says good-bye to creator Madison Woods this week and hello to our new home with Rochelle  Wisoff (no “h’)-Fields,   Madison, we hope to read your stories often; Rochelle, thanks for taking up the torch.  Now sit back and enjoy the read.  As always, click on the little icon at the end to access all the stories.  Oh, yes…thanks, Ron, for the picture.

Forever, Love

Their f­­­irst trip to their daughter’s as new citizens and their 60th anniversary.  Truly a special day!  He smiled at his wife; took her hand.  He knew she really didn’t look the same as when they met, but that’s what his heart saw.  Thinking of their grandchildren, he tightened his grasp; chuckled.

Last stop before they arrived.  Only a few people got off, including the young man who’d been sitting in front of them.  As the bus started, he noticed the forgotten backpack.  Perhaps they could stop.  He called to the driver, “Excuse…”




Bus Explodes—Terrorism Suspected
Over 80 dead

From a distance

Posted: September 24, 2012 in Memories, Personal, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

He wrote letters and I never got them.
I wanted to forget him
and thought I had; (more…)

I used to write a lot of poetry. I think mostly it was a way to work through pain or difficulties. Where I am today, I don’t write much poetry. Perhaps because I am content. Or maybe I write prose poetry or use poetry to cook, be a better friend, write cards or create a home. At any rate, here’s something from my very distant past.


                                    Another life
                                                                        With faint strains of previous choruses

The last few mornings, when the six-o’clock sun spread fingers through
my bedroom screen to touch me gently,
my eyes opened willingly
while my body gloried in its summer strength.
Mind and stomach dwelled lingeringly on eggs and bacon,
fruit and yogurt,
toast with honey,
orange juice….
maybe waffles….
of driving to the lake, lying lazily in the sun and drinking beer
or exotic tropical drinks afloat with rum-soaked fruit.

But deep inside my being,
somewhere in my soul,
lies a small hard spot,
as heavily as a lump of lead or high-priced gold;
that part of me which does not forget that you will be leaving
and understands how empty my life will be even on these lovely days.
Especially on those days.
Without even the knowledge of your body in the same city.

Now I must rise each day
and choose a face to wear
with matching attitudes to dress my body.
There will be roles to play,
facades to be carefully erected,
with constant maintenance.
Some few people will be allowed around to gently touch raw surfaces,
to help to heal and withdraw some pain.
At home, I will cry to blank uncaring walls
or curl around that small hard lump to smother it
and wait for the sun to finger me warmly on yet another day.