The City’s Lullaby

Window eye level
City lights blurring

Greens into yellows
Yellows into Whites

Hypnotic, lulling me
Somewhere into myself


A late post today. Spent most of the day in the city and this is what I wrote on my commute home.

We’re in Paradise

“We’re in paradise,” they said. “Unhappiness doesn’t exist here.”

As they smiled and ruffled my hair,
I felt darkness overtake
The last bastions of light
In my soul.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re in paradise.”


Picture by: Gerald Friedrich

The Ward

There was the flap of wings and then a thud on the bench beside him. “It’s been a while,” a voice said.

Viz shrugged. “Only a few centuries, brother.”

“Because you do your job poorly,” his brother snapped. “Speaking of which, where is your ward?”

He gestured towards the woman he’d been staring at. She was sitting at a ragged park table, crying. “There.”

His brother scoffed. “At least it’s alive this time. Do you know how annoying it was to wait—what was it again—a few centuries for it to reincarnate?”

A man approach his ward. She wiped her face and stood, mumbling an apology. The man embraced her. “It’s all right,” Viz heard him say. His ward went rigid. Then, sobbed on the man’s shoulder.

His brother groaned. “Well, that’s finally done.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

138 words


Written for: Priceless Joy’s FFfAW Challenge – 199th, Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Picture by: Jodi McKinney

It’s Odd Not Feeling

It’s odd not feeling. It’s like having a tight ball sit above the heart, its form writhing like a baby in the womb. Desperate for air. For life. When that ball unwraps itself, something bursts out and fills me despite my pleas.

It’s them, I realize as they incapacitate me. It’s them. The feelings. They’re back.

They’re like a rapid
Current plummeting the shore
A merciless force


Written for: Patrick Jennings’ Rapid ~ Pic and a Word Challenge #169, Pix to Words.

Photo by: Patrick Jennings

Vulnerable, yet Beautiful

He passed her crossing a busy intersection on his way home. Her arms clasping her sides, shielding herself from the night’s air. Her dark eyes peered from under the sweater’s hood when he mumbled, “Hello.”

She looked away and walked faster. Rude, but he understood. She was probably like him, retreating to her sanctuary after a day of dealing with the world.

He saw her again on the balcony across from his. She was sweaterless, but the frigid cold didn’t seem to bother her. She was simply watching the snowfall. Vulnerable to the icy wind around her, yet beautiful.


Photo by: Filip Gielda

Written for: Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 104, Bikurgurl

Blue Skins aren’t Allowed

“Blue skins aren’t allowed on Station 3,” the terminal conductor repeated with some annoyance.

Her father waved a holo display in the conductor’s face. “Would you look at the papers. She’s a legal citizen and has the same rights as—”

“I don’t care what it is. Letting that thing on the transport will only cause problems with the other passengers.” The conductor slammed the transports’ doors and fired up the engines, leaving the two of them alone on the space bridge dock.

“Your species is filled with assholes,” Jamie finally said, interrupting the silence.

Her father chuckled. “Yeah, maybe.”


Written for: Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: 76, Bikurgurl

The Great Struggle

Ideas are like the wind
Brushing our arms,
But hiding from sight

Pounding on frosted glass,
Demanding to be noticed,
Though their forms are blurred

Screaming until their voices
Feel like gravel in their throats,
But having no sound at all

Yet, this is the writer’s great struggle:
To bring to life what isn’t clear


Photo: Woman behind frosted glass by Joe deSousa
Written for: Patrick Jennings’ Focus – Pic and a Word Challenge #144Pix to Words 

The Performance

A martian usher escorted the woman away from the rest of us enslaved musicians. As she stepped onto the levitating stage, the alien audience let out a deafening cheer that rumbled the ship.

“She’ll be the one that wins her freedom,” Mikhail, my accompanying pianist, said as the ship began to quiet.

I nodded. Why wouldn’t she win? She was Alyssa Garner! A gifted violinist coveted by conductors back on Earth.

Alyssa’s bow hung in the air. Once it was silent, she struck the strings and played a strong chord. She progressed through her piece. Her delicate fingers gliding across the violin’s neck with practiced precision.

A true master.

But her enchantment on me shattered when she yelped. The stage split and sucked her into space. A raucous noise, that I can only describe as laughter, erupted from the audience.

Continue reading “The Performance”