Tag: photo prompt

Outside This Window

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Writing19 Comments

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

As empty as a room filled with light

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes38 Comments

as prompted by Friday Fictioneers / Madison-Woods

fiction, short reads, free reads, fresh fiction, kitchen scene

How quiet the morning.  How light, though the flashlight remained still on the table.  Everything in its place, nothing to ruffle it undone anymore.  A morning in which the air had presence, its emptiness.  A sea near.  He thought to make coffee.  Thought to stir things up a bit.  Suspected  he should act or behave, carry on with routines, open blinds, crack eggs.  He could not.  Could only stand in this all-too-familiar entrance to morning, and realize.  Realize, as empty as the air filled with hazy light, empty as the counters without clutter, that where she had gone she would never return.

N Filbert 2012

ca. 1843

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes17 Comments

Cottage. Photo prompt for Madison Woods, speculative fiction author.

from the Journals of the Claxton Brothers, ca. 1843.

 After experiencing what we’d come to call “the Plunge,” we traveled the familiar creekbed back toward our cabin.  On departing for the hunt the water flowed strong, securing our wagon deep in its tow.  It was dry now, the entire wagon missing.  And our homestead, hewn of stone, carefully plugged and plastered, now displayed gaps and cracks, with dust and moulder monitoring its decay.  Having left just hours ago at the tail-end of night, how could things have altered so?  As if ages and drought, plunder and wear all visited here meanwhiles.  Window given over to darkness, the entrance as open and vague as a ghost.

(for Friday Fictioneers, September 7, 2012)