A Private Viewing

Thought I’d share this moving piece that marries friendship, illness and art together beautifully.

Fictive Dream

by Mike Fox

The envelope is small, plain and white. My name and address are hand-written in flamboyant italics, and the sender has used a fountain pen. I’ve fallen for this before—vote seeking councillors or dubious local businesses aping the personal touch.

But an envelope that someone has taken the time to address personally is like an appeal to your better nature, not to mention whatever hope you have left for the human condition. So I pick up my paper knife—lignum, a present—and carefully slit the top fold.

The letter inside consists of one pale blue sheet, creased perfectly in half. It is lined and margined, like the writing paper my grandparents used. Above the script, adjacent to the sender’s unexpected address, sits a cartoon goblin, with the words “self-portrait” printed in capitals underneath. Josie, in what could only be a retro moment, has taken the trouble to get in…

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Quarry Light by Edie Meade


Limestone country, where the quarry growls in heat thunder over the fields: we’re driving to find the place Dad wanted his ashes interred. Tonight Mark and I bring the boys to a cabin so quiet we can hear the electric lines of the high pylons hum through the easement.

We take a creekbed for our evening walk. Limestone bears fossils and slips of gray clay, mayapples, mint and touch-me-nots alive with damselflies. I know them like old friends – comfortable even decades later because they represent the nothing-times, those stick-digging days when little needed to be said.

At nightfall, we walk back to the cabin along an access road white with crushed gravel. The kids rush through puddles made by over-payload dump trucks. Frogs hop out ahead, unafraid. None of us are afraid, somehow, out here. Quarry light brings a lingering, thick sunset and I realize how much beauty there…

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Stunning piece from Jenne, a Six Sentence colleague.

Tales from Glasgow


This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdgewith the following simple rules:
Write six sentences, no more, no less.
Use the current week’s prompt word –BOARD


In her anger she does not know what mischievous hand has given it to her, but sitting in the dark corner of the café, the woman cradles the Kalashnikov in her hands, knowing it is strong – much stronger than she herself is – and she is afraid of its power.

A murmuring arises from the gun and fills her ears and she feels a reverberation that takes over her whole body.

When it stops, she sees, lined up in front of her, world leaders gone mad with power and greed, freely orchestrating war for profit.

Her trigger finger itches, presses down, sprays the leering faces with bullets, but even as one falls, another rises to take its place…

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Soul Mate

Re-blogging this funny and insightful piece about modern technology from Janis.

Retirementally Challenged

“Time to wake up, beautiful”

His deep, accented voice flowed over me like warm honey, pulling me out of my slumber. As much as I wished I could stay snuggled in my warm bed, I knew I had to get going. Today’s meeting with my biggest client could make my career.  

As I drank my favorite morning blend and thought about my upcoming presentation, he read little snippets of news to me. Mixed with international stories was the latest celebrity gossip and updates on the rainstorm that was headed our way.

“Don’t forget to bring your brolly.” Brolly? Oh, yes, umbrella. Once again, I was struck by how much he cared about me. So different from my last relationship.

Back upstairs, I took a quick shower and dressed in my power suit. I needed just a few moments to run through my notes. I had been practicing all…

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Spring sprung

This piece was written for the Carrot Ranch's double ennead challenge. Obviously this relates to winter in the northen parts of the northern hemisphere. Sol sat solo, silent, in his melting cell, hatching his plan to flee his hibernation, bring Winter’s reign down and turn freeze into free. Summer would soon follow, (he would scorch … Continue reading Spring sprung

Blood lines

This piece was written for D'Verse's challenge this week to demonstrate turns in poetry – where a poem shifts gear or opens a window. At her birth she staggered on unfamiliar legs while her mother licked her clean and tried not to stand on her in forgetfulness or fatigue. Soon she stood alone, with a coat that … Continue reading Blood lines