I struggled this week, this picture, and the myriad of life going on…couldn’t seem to find a spark. But in the spirit of Friday Fictioneers, felt I oughta make a go of it. So here it is – and in accord, many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for taking up the inspirational, curatorial mantle of keeping our practice alive!
Stomps back, livid grimaced flesh flushed, shouts, more of a gritty scrape of screed: “you never…anyway…I don’t know why I ever…” huffs, seethes, jolting in a kind of place.
Unseen, steely, weight of concrete in its rage, him, silent, back there, unmoving. Something trembles.
Wind too, perhaps occasions of rain, drizzle, precipitation seems likely, somewhere, here, somehow.
She keeps it going, it’s like a flood, like a multi-chambered dart gun, can’t seem to stop, doesn’t want to end. Not silence. Not distance. Disregarding.
Something recedes, perhaps him. Substances exiting every direction. All wearing out.
Everything outside this window.
N Filbert 2012