From Afar

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   Jellico’s Stationhouse

The soft afternoon light follows the shadows waltzing across the wall, like a lover following the one who offers only a heartbreak. Curtains part before a breeze that carries the fragrance of spring flowers and something long forgotten. The music sneaks around the old furniture, whimsically scattered across the room. Two entangled bodies reflect in the large mirror at the foot of the bed, offering a splendid portrait of wasted chances. A long-case clock in the corner mocks the thieves, as the stolen time slips away.

His arms hold me tight.

This wont last.

But I don’t care about tomorrow.

The Crest

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

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 Copyright –  Jan Wayne Fields

PCT Day 159, Miles 2551

I feel pain in unfamiliar parts of my body, the parts you acknowledge only when you are hurting. My sleeping bag is thin as a single sheet of paper and rain pushes through a tiny hole in the upper left corner of my tent. Potato soup is unappealing and tasteless as ever, but I am saving my last chocolate bar with the desperation of a wild thing.

Still…there is this feeling of equanimity. With the end in sight, I feel like a winner for the first time in my life. I just had to find myself.

—> PCT <—

Evanescence

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

ceayr-purple-door

 Copyright –  CEayr

His neighbors were used seeing his hunched figure sitting on a bench, unconsciously caressing a wedding band on his right hand, occasionally dozing off.

Few remembered his late wife, even fewer knew his name. With the same ease they failed to see his sorrow and regret, they failed to notice when his head touched his chest.

The coroner would later find a carefully folded note in the left breast pocket of his white shirt…a faded piece of paper with neatly written words that offered a heartbreak on a repeat.

“I am sorry for quenching your fire with my tears.”

Loré de Orne

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

crook-roof

 Copyright –  Sandra Crook

“You’ve never been to France? Then why did you give her that name? Loré…it is such a strange name.”

My mother was rarely fazed by unkind questions.

It was a special talent of hers, a secret weapon that she passed down to me, this ability to ignore rudeness and shush people with just a smile.

“Because she is a ray of light and a splash of color in the murkiness of my life.”

Years later she held me close and whispered in my ear: “You saved me, my little sunshine.”

I wish I could have done more.

Tumbleweeds

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

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 Copyright - Janet Webb

You are young, you can try again.

Everyone rushed to offer an unsolicited advice…and yet they never heard my screams.

But you heard me…and you held me…and you let me melt into you, patiently waiting for your time. So, when you eventually stumbled, I was there to hold your hand…and we continued to fall, pursuing the shadows of our fractured lives.

Every morning, when quietude covers us like a soft blanket, a memory rushes in…I see you holding her in your arms, talking about the world full of wonders outside our windows, kissing her soft, rosy cheeks.

Can we survive this?

Gallery

Instagram Was Fun In April

It’s been six months since I started this Instagram project. Half way through each month I question the sanity and the purpose of it, because it seems I am posting the same images over and over again…and the sheer magnitude of the effort that has to be put into social media to get attention is sometimes daunting.

But then the end of the month comes and I put together this post with all the images and I can’t help but think it was worth it…because I remember the time and the place of each and every image I took, how was the weather, what was Berta doing, was I grumpy or in a good mood.
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It was a sunny Sunday morning and Berta was chasing birds…and I was captivated by one little dandelion.

Every morning I am greeted by familiar sight, the only place I call a home. I remember people swimming in this river a long, long time ago. I remember saving a drowning dog from this river a long time ago. I remember sitting at the wooden dock last summer.

When I remember to look down, a world of macro wonders wait for me.

But in the end, my morning walks revolve around her…come rain or shine, she always makes me smile. ❤

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Although I know one day we will part our ways, her paw prints will forever mark my heart.

Come…follow me on my Instagram journey…just look for snowlocked. I would love to follow you there, too.

Saudade

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wissof-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

leary2

 Copyright – Erin Leary

When you think about it, there are stories more tragic than yours. It is just that those stories are at the edge of your universe, maintaining irregular orbit around you.

You watched people scream at each other, their faces twisted and unrecognizable and you couldn’t help but feel lost. Politicians with their sly grins standing in the background made your skin crawl. But everyone around you was oblivious.

Standing in an empty room in this foreign city, you cry. Because, the last time you turned around to look at what you were leaving behind, it was your home you saw.

Just a bit of reflection on the current political climate in my country…Darkness lingers at the edge of reason.

Saudade (Portuguese) – describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.