First Giveaway

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Author Susan Koenig

More to follow

Tell me where you’ll read the Bench and one person will receive a copy of this beautiful paperback. OK so I’m biased. 🙂

You can read it on a

Bench – Google Image

or in

Bed – google image

or in a

rocking chair – google image

or on a

Swing – google image

in the

bath tub – google image

on the

Toilet – google image

or in a

waiting Room – google image

Where would you read the collection of poems and very very short stories?

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Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments

The Conversation for Blogophilia 4.7

Gideon Thomas

Gideon Thomas

“It’s not easy but it’s worth it.” Charles poured beer into his glass and looked at Gideon seated across from him at the dining room table. Gideon’s expression was one of agreement, confusion and anger.

“I agree  it is  not easy with Phoebe. She still has not committed to me. I do not understand how the rest of you made your relationships work so soon after you met.”

Charles nodded in acknowledgment,  helped himself to a sandwich— when a devil’s agent was in a room one was certain to find food. They were always eating it seemed. With the sandwich in his hand he started to speak but before he could utter a word Gideon lashed out.

“You maintain you knew she was the one as soon as you met so it must  not have been problematic.”

Charles brought the food to his mouth, bit and   finished chewing. “You are angry my friend. I can understand why. Yes that is so.  It was like a thunderbolt when I met Beth; we were bound from that night. But it doesn’t mean we don’t have conflicts and must constantly work on communication.”

Gideon glared at him as if he thought Charles was giving him a line.

“Look since Beth and I have been together and Victor with Eve  we haven’t seen as much of you as we should have. You were single and it was awkward. Now that Phoebe is in the group it will be better.”

Gideon’s arm darted out as if to slap Charles’ words and his glass would have tipped over had he not caught it with his other hand.

“I wish I had your reflexes,” Charles remarked with envy.

“Well I am still single and do not see that changing in the near future. Phoebe is so stubborn.  Why cannot she see we are meant to be together?”

Charles leaned forward. “She reminds you of Kathryn?”

Gideon bristled at the comment, like an alley cat preparing to fight an enemy. Instead of responding to Charles’ observation, he continued with his interrogation. “What problems could you and Beth possibly have? You are so well suited to each other even though you are human and she, like myself, is a devil’s agent. The same is true of Victor and Eve.” Gideon almost sputtered in disgust  which Charles found pretty funny coming from one who collected souls for Mr. D.

Charles rose from the chair, descended the few steps into the living-room and returned holding a box of cigars which he offered to his friend. “Maybe a smoke will calm you down.”

Gideon, who could never refuse a good cigar or a good wine for that matter, let his anger go and peered at the contents of the humidor.  He chose a Havana, snipped the tip with the  cutter, puffed and carried on glaring at Charles.

“Like what problems?” he demanded.

“Like children.”

Gideon almost dropped the glowing tobacco  in surprise. “Children? What does that have to do with anything?”

Charles couldn’t contain his amusement  at the shock on his friend’s face. “I work with kids. I’m a teacher. Sometimes I invite some of my students here for special activities. If Beth is home it drives her nuts. Devil’s agents can’t have children and she’s always wanted them. Even though  I understood after she explained that children would not be in our future. It wasn’t a deal breaker. But it’s still a cause for conflict. She envies my contact with them.”

It was obvious from Gideon’s face that he had no comeback to this information. He fiddled with the cigar paraphernalia and turned his eyes away from Charles. “Even I have to admit that’s a cruel twist of fate for someone who desired children to end up as an agent for the devil and not able to conceive.”

“Have you told Phoebe she can’t have kids with you?”

“Yes. Actually it came up early on when she wanted me to wear a condom and I told her it was not necessary.”

“And what is Victor and Eve’s problem?” Gideon questioned. “They cannot be in the same room without acting like animals in heat. I do not see any conflict there.” Gideon’s mouth formed a smug shape  indicating he believed he had gotten the best of Charles on that one.

“Eve drives truck and is away from home a great deal when on a long haul.”

“And Victor can be away from home when we are called to a big job,” Gideon conceded.

“Exactly. Unfortunately the two big jobs don’t coincide so often one of them is away for an extended period of time. He’s constantly battling with her not to take the long jobs and she gets him right back with the same argument. Victor’s response is that he can’t refuse a job, his boss is the devil for pity’s sake. So Eve says she can’t refuse a job either or her boss won’t give her the big jobs that pay well.”

“It cannot be a matter of money. We all have plenty.”

“Yes that’s true but it’s a matter of pride. Eve can be sweet and even tempered but she has  a stubborn streak.”

“Like Phoebe.” Gideon sighed and placed his spent cigar in the ashtray. “So how do you prevent the conflicts from getting the better of you?”

“Make up sex.”

Gideon had been in the process of reaching for another sandwich and almost fell off his chair. “Make up sex?”

“Yep.” Charles smirked. “Try it sometime.”

Gideon’s cheeks coloured. “Oh… umm.. we have actually.”

Charles burst out laughing.

“Look. Beth makes me happy. I’m a better man now since we’ve been together. It’s all worth it. You and Phoebe are right for each other. I see it on your face and hear it in her voice when she talks about you. She just wants to assure herself she’s making the right choice. After a life of poor choices, who can blame her?”

Gideon’s brown eyes burned intently as he stared at Charles.  “She told you about that?”

In a low voice Charles continued. “It was a twist of fate when Phoebe caught you on the job. And you say she resembles Kathryn as well?”

“Yes, yes she looks just like her. You mentioned that before.”  Charles could not interpret the faraway expression on the other man’s face.

“Before you met her you thought nothing was possible now you think anything is possible. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.” Gideon admitted sheepishly.

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” Charles couldn’t resist adding.

“You are quoting Aristotle to me?”

Charles grinned. “It fits.”


written for
Blogophilia Week 4.7 Topic: Remember When You Thought Anything Was Possible …
 Bonus Points:
 (Hard, 2 points)  quote Aristotle
 (Easy, 1 point)  include a “twist of fate”
Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , | 16 Comments

The Swim for Blogophilia 3.7

photo by author

photo by author

All that water, lovely, lovely wetness.  The sun’s shimmer twinkles on the calm surface.   I swished through the water relaxed and at peace.

Mamma warned me not to swim in this spot but it’s such an idyllic day and I like it here.

I lay on my back, face to the sky; the only sound the gulls screeching overhead.

Life at home is  good but when I asked why I oughtn’t visit this area,  the family shuffled uncomfortably  and glanced  at each other out of the corner of their eyes. They weren’t telling me something. They were hiding something.

“You’re too young. We just wish to protect you. Listen to your elders and trust us.”

Well I did trust them but I wanted to get away. I needed a change of scene.

Though my family didn’t tell me, I had heard the rumours  but those kinds of secrets don’t remain concealed  for long. The tales of humans who were out to hunt us and put us in a zoo, whatever a zoo is. All I know is that it wasn’t a good thing.

We had always been here and except for some fantasy romance writers with huge imaginations no one suspects that we  exist. It has always been so.

The presence of a raft surprises me.  I swim fast and am again alone.

A while later the water ripples against me. The craft  returned  and now I heard the slap-slap of the waves around its perimeter. I could smell the two humans aboard, their scent making me ill with a sour taste on my tongue.

“I told you I saw something over there,” shouted one of them.

“Yep,” the other concurred.

I think they’re after me. I should have listened to the elders.

I prepare to submerge,  to go home, my tail swishing as fast as it could.

One of them threw something in my direction. It hit me and  sizzled.

Suddenly paralysis overtook me.



Written for
Blogophilia Week 3.7 Topic: Road Trip
 Bonus Points:
 (Hard, 2 points) Quote John Milton
 (Easy, 1 point) Include a lemon flavor
*road trip – wanted to see new sights
* “Solitude sometimes is best society.”
* sour taste
Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | 25 Comments

Fauxpocalypse for Blogophilia 2.7


Scientists predict life on Earth will end on  July 15, 2015.  A comet called  Grijalva named after Catherine Grijalva, the scientist  who discovered it, will destroy the planet.

But the oncoming megatons of rock and ice break up shortly before impact. Now humanity must live in a world most believed would not exist. Across the planet, people are haunted by the future they did not fear, and even those who did not embrace death must face the consequences of others’ decisions.

The world prepares. People surround themselves with their loved ones, spend all their money, essential  services such as power, water and gas cease. Looting is pervasive.         Streets become dangerous.

The comet misses hitting Earth. but  the debris from the comet still littered the sky obscuring sunlight  While the world wouldn’t end from the comet, small rocks might land and do local damage.

In the months prior to the end of the world, you spend all your money, go into debt and generally prepare for doomsday. Vital services for the most part cease.  Everything like shops and food deliveries ceases as people gather to be with their families, except for the looters, of course.

On the night of July 15 you binge out on booze and whatever else you can find and finally fall asleep. You do not expect to wake up. When you do you realise something is not right. It’s July 16, the day after the end of the world. You haven’t planed for life after July 15. Now what?

Fauxpocalypse  is   a collection of 12 short stories that answers the question now what?

A friend of mine had an idea and put out a call on the internet for writers interested in contributing to a collection of fiction about the end of the world, that wasn’t. Twelve writers from around the world answered the call. Well I suppose more did  but twelve were chosen.

They all agreed on: a comet was heading toward earth. The name of the comet and the date of July 15.

The stories are diverse, excellent and each with a focus on a different human reaction and situation from varied perspectives.

July 16 was the beginning of a new world and in all the stories new lives, figuratively and literally in the last story.

Each narrative describes the emotional and psychological changes of the characters. The pieces vary in length from five to 50 pages.

All 12 stories from 11 contributors are written  in different styles and take place in different parts of the globe: Israel, the US, the UK and Australia.  They all demonstrate the depth and understanding of human nature.

Not going to discuss the stories in this venue  but the themes covered are:

Hope of course in all the stories



do unto others

marital conflict

coming of age

mental illness

Power and control


speculative fiction

Since it’s a collection of short stories one gets just a taste but taken as a whole at the end the reader is left   with a rich full satisfying experience. (due to the excellent editing)

So it wasn’t in the stars, it was a comet. Many people didn’t believe the scientists and thought it was some kind of conspiracy and even though the scientists knew what they were doing it was still a risk since they couldn’t predict that the comet would veer off course.

As I mentioned before this book was born because a friend of mine got the idea and put out a call on the internet for submissions. A joint effort such as this is how the inventors of the internet may have imagined it to be used; to gather people from all over the world for a collaborative project.

To me the fact that strangers from around the world can come together to contribute to a common endeavor is the book’s greatest achievement.

written for
Blogophilia Week 2.7 Topic: It’s In The Stars!!
Bonus Points:
(Hard, 2 points) quote Warren Buffet (not the Margarita Jimmy Buffet! Ha!)*
 (Easy, 1 point) incorporate a conspiracy theory
*Risk comes from not knowing what you’re doing.
Posted in Blogophilia, Writing | Tagged , , , | 24 Comments

Repost for Blogophilia 1.7

Google Image

Edited for Blogophila

Blogophilia Week 1 of year 7 Topic: The Dark Side Of Livin’

Bonus Points:

(Hard, 2 points) Mention a J.S. Bach song

(Easy, 1 point) Incorporate two-faced behavior

*and seven steps for bonus points 😀


Late on Friday afternoon, Andy remembered he had to work the week-end shift. Until that moment he had been looking forward to some well deserved time off from the grueling pace as a cub reporter on the local newspaper.  He felt as if he lived on the dark side. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he hoped nothing untoward came up in the next two days. It was a small town for Christ’s sake, nothing interesting ever happened, maybe a sports events or a bar brawl, possibly, ordinary stuff.

The police scanner squawked shattering his stupor. Oh shit. An accident was reported at the corner of Dundas and Cherryhill, and the dispatcher’s serious tone conveyed that, indeed, the unexpected had occurred. Andy grabbed his camera and notebook, hopped into the car and headed to the scene.

As he parked close to the incident his nostrils cringed at the odour of burned rubber followed by a queasy ache in his intestines. Burned down to its frame, a motorcycle formed an outline of a black charred circle on the grass. Though he looked, he couldn’t see the driver. Then he saw a crumpled mass of clothing about fifty feet away. He had located the driver.

Quickly he took several photos of the bike from various angles including a close-up of the vehicle’s shell. Moving over to the body he noticed it eerily still wore a full suit of leathers and a helmet, and appeared lifeless, although it would be the paramedics’ job to determine that. But his editor required pictures, so steeling himself from the vision in front of him, he began to take the photos. Andrew realised someone behind him was yelling. “Forbes get the hell out of here!” The voice belonged to Constable Dayton, who had just arrived at the scene, and whom Andy knew well.

“Remove your ass immediately!” Officer Dayton barked. Andrew quickly snapped one last detail shot of the as yet unnamed cyclist. The site would now be officially classified as an accident involving a dead body. With shaking legs Andy slowly moved away. A torrent of emotion surged through him and chills slithered down his spine. The man on the ground was the first corpse he had encountered on this job. The first he had encountered in his life, excluding funerals he had attended. He realised the gravity of the situation, that this person had lost his life.  He knew the image would haunt him always.

After fifteen minutes the police had concluded their initial investigation.

“So Gord what’s the possibility of getting a statement from you later for the paper? And what do you think happened?”

Gordon Dayton replied. “I’d say the gas tank exploded.  It’s the only explanation for the bike’s burned condition. This part of the road doesn’t get much traffic and obviously  no other vehicles were involved. It’ll be up to the forensics team to determine the particulars but that’s neither my job nor yours.”

The afternoon had now turned into evening and though the stench was still evident, a breeze had picked up and blown most of it in the other direction.

The young reporter returned to the office and began to develop the rolls of film and   type up the bare essentials of the report.

After the accident had been documented he started to prepare the week-end assignments and waited for information regarding the identity of the motorcyclist. The police officer phoned and stated that the young man was a construction worker from a community two hours east of the city. Andrew added the fact to the story then submitted it with the photos to the night editor using one of the three terminals situated at the rear of the newsroom.

Whew. That nasty job is done. Wrong. The story was only starting. He lifted his cup, sipped, and in disgust shoved it away.  Only a few bitter dregs swam at the bottom of the mug. He’d had enough caffeine for the night anyway.  And he was in no mood to brew a fresh pot.  If he could find a bottle of booze, now that would be a different story. At this hour, alone, the office, felt damn eerie. His was one of six desks; the editor had his own office. The space smelled of tuna fish and cheese gone bad. Bob must have forgotten his sandwich and left it in the desk drawer again. The grey metal furniture looked shoddy and cheap. And as he shifted on his seat, bloody uncomfortable too.

Andrew cleaned out his mug, and had slipped into his coat when the phone rang. He glared at the instrument debating whether to answer it, but knew he’d be in trouble if he didn’t. The city editor, Tony Morelli, said, “We need a comment from the family about the death of their son.”

Usually the newspaper’s policy was to get comments for official family photos if the deceased was local or had family in the immediate vicinity. “I’m confused. The cyclist did not live in our area so  the story doesn’t have a local angle except that he worked here temporarily. Isn’t the paper’s policy for comments and photos only if the victim or family lived in the surrounding district?”

Get in touch with someone in the family anyway and get a comment.”

Andrew dug out the regional phone books available from the paper’s library. He started to randomly cold-call people with the victim’s surname to find the applicable family. Before settling in with the task he gave in and brewed a new pot of coffee. Some Friday night.  Cold-calling hostile strangers to request a public comment concerning their newly deceased son.

After six tries Forbes connected with the young man’s uncle.    “You want photos and comments about my nephew? I just learned about the accident myself.”

“Perhaps you could provide another family member’s number?”

“Typical reporter. You little piece of crap You don’t give a shit about how the family feels,  you only want your sensational exclusive to please your boss and save your sorry ass.” And he hung up.

Andy returned the receiver to the cradle, heaved a huge sigh, added a no comment response from the uncle to his article and re-submitted it to Tony. That for sure had to be the end of the story and he went home tired, grumpy and angry.  The next day would bring another long day of work.

Early Saturday morning Andrew prioritized the up-coming assignments in order of time, location and importance.. What the hell is this? Almost hidden on the last page of the list he noticed the editor’s assessment of the accident story. The uncle’s comment was insufficient; more comments from the family were required. The message ordered him to contact the funeral home and obtain the date of the funeral, or at least the visitation.

Damn it to hell. Nothing is going to satisfy the old geezer. Andrew called the funeral director and inquired about the service. “My editor would like me to attend the service and elicit remarks from the family.”


“I agree it’s a bad idea but I have no choice in the matter.”

“Well you are welcome to attend but may I suggest you remain incognito?”

So it appeared Andy would be attending the visitation on Sunday.

For the remainder of the day he completed his duties: store openings and features on local people in the community, a typical day reporting for a small town newspaper. His mind valiantly attempted to avoid thinking about Sunday.

Andrew slept-in on Sunday and then knowing he couldn’t avoid it drove to the funeral home. It seemed like Bach’s toccata and fugue in D minor played in the air as he steered the vehicle to the next town.

He parked in the small car park behind the building and sat summoning the necessary courage to step out of the car and enter the mortuary. The back entrance led to a side corridor where he came face-to-face with the funeral director. “Hello I am Andrew Forbes, we spoke on the phone.”

“I didn’t really expect you to show up.” The mortician shuffled from one foot to the other and his eyes peered around the room for spectators.

“This is really not a good idea is it?”

“No. It isn’t. You should leave before the family spots you. They’re mighty upset and I know the uncle. He has a temper.”

Rivers of sweat ran down the reporter’s back and from the other side of the wall where the victim’s friends and family were gathered, sobs and wailing drifted loudly into the hallway. Apparently he had been a popular and well-liked young man. Andrew nervously flicked imaginary chunks of dirt from his jacket. He had violated the family’s privacy and his conscience would not allow him to proceed further. Terrified he decided to leave immediately. It felt like he was present at an intervention but he wasn’t sure whose.

Andrew had almost reached the exit when the cyclist’s older brother marched up to him. “Are you the press? The asswipe who’s been bothering my uncle?” He wore a scowl and his clenched fists hung at his sides. The only way the relative could have recognized the reporter was if the undertaker had pointed Andrew out to him.

In broken mumbles Andrew confessed he was the reporter. “M-my ed-editor sent me. I’m afraid he will fire me if I don’t comply with his instructions.” Andy amplified his voice in the hopes the rest of the congregation took notice of his words. “My condolences for your loss.” Andrew sincerely hoped the family believed him but somehow doubted it.

The brother then raised one of his fists as if to punch Andy in the face and grabbed the reporter by his shoulder and pulled him closer, screaming in an insane voice that made Forbes fear for his life. His slim figure was no match for the burly relative. Andrew danced backwards managing to squirm away and evade the hit.  He pushed the angry man off him, pivoted around and headed toward the front door. Andrew smelled the reek of fear emanating from his body. His limbs felt weak and his stomach regurgitated the bitter taste of bile to his throat. He needed a shower to wash away his disgust at himself and his profession.

He descended the seven steps as quickly as he safely could without landing on his butt, just what he didn’t need, and behind him heard   the uncle, the brother, several cousins and friends all in their best clothes, the women’s heels clicking on the hard wood floor, hollering in hot pursuit.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity he tumbled out the door, stumbled down the steps and fled away from the mob.

Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , | 14 Comments

Advanced Reviews for the Bench

The Bench is not published yet – hopefully in March

bits of two reviews

“The Bench” by Sue Koenig gives us an artist showing no fear in giving us her many different faces.  There is something for everyone as you read through the different emotions and subjects presented to us through her poetry and prose and so much more to discover than the sampling given here.



In addition to the differing forms of writing, Koenig presents a range of tones and styles. The poems in particular span the spectrum between immediately accessible and challengingly metaphorical, traditional and post-modern. Koenig similarly plays with genre, writing horror that is mundane alongside magical reality

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

The altercation for Blogophilia 52.6

Google Image

As Stone and Quinn retrieved their books for the next class, their attention was drawn to the high pitched voices at the other end of the corridor.  The green shade of the lockers lining the hallway made Stone think of a Martian with the flu. The smell of moldy socks and sandwiches left too long un-refrigerated soured the air.

They edged closer to their friends, Kelly and Vonny.  Five boys faced the couple. It was their loud taunting causing the commotion.

“Hey Vonny, what’re you doing with Kelly? He’s shorter than you and looks like a geek. Bet his pecker is short too.” The chubby boy in a too tight, red T-shirt pranced before her; his mid-section prominently displayed an overflow of skin.

“Why don’t you get yourself a real man,” said another boy, burly with a brush cut, as he reached out to grab her.

Vonny side stepped to the right  and immediately returned to her original stance, knees slightly bent, one leg in front of the other and arms loosely at her sides; she appeared to lean forward.

A third boy, not as tall as Kelly, with a basketball stomach, called out, “Yeah the jerk isn’t even protecting you. He’s just standing there like a statue.”

Kelly slouched next to Vonny. His book bag sat  on the ground behind him,  hands in the pockets of  his jeans, boot clad feet steady, ready for action, if necessary, assessing  the cluster  of students facing him.

Stone could see the glint of amusement in Kelly’s whiskey coloured   eyes, and guessed he didn’t consider the small mob as aggressive and dangerous as they pictured themselves.

Quinn whispered in Stone’s ear, and pointed to the overweight kid, “That one thinks he’s hot shit  ‘cause he’s part of the gang. He’s following the crowd instead of his bliss.”

Stone nodded in agreement, a small smile played on his mouth as he studied his friends.

Vonny’s narrowed eyes roved around the group of boys watching carefully. The tallest and thinnest one, wearing baggy jeans and a shirt hanging to his knees, strode right up to her and attempted to seize her long, light brown hair.

Stone and Quinn uttered, “Uh oh,” simultaneously.

Vonny shot out her leg and kicked the tall boy, then spun around and in a one-two motion kicked two others. They all landed on the floor. Stone heard one of the boys yell to his buddies, “Get out now before a teacher comes along.”

Vonny straightened her shirt, turned to Kelly, smiled and said, “Let’s go,” as she hooked her arm onto his.

“That conflict wasn’t very challenging,” she added.

“Perhaps not, but a triumph nonetheless.” Kelly replied squeezing her arm.

The four friends had taken kick boxing since toddlerhood and each could defend themselves. As the couple approached Stone and Quinn they all laughed and headed in the other direction. Away from the boys on the floor.


Written for:
Blogophilia Week 52.6 Topic: Follow Your Bliss
Bonus Points:
(Hard, 2 points) Incorporate a quote from Thomas Paine*
*The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(Easy, 1 point) Use the phrase “get out now”
Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , | 20 Comments

Hark for Blogophilia 51.6

Hark – photo from Google


It’s the Christmas season, not that I have anything to be cheery about, I’m still living on Church Road in my cardboard box.

‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ blares through the speakers at the Eaton Centre and unconsciously I hum along.

I heard somewhere about a stitch in time so this morning I hunted up some newspapers to wrap my feet in. My running shoes are thin and the wet snow goes right through. The insulation didn’t work. Slush soaks the shoes and my feet are cold; though the sun feels good on my back.

In my neighbourhood I can usually find a barrel or two going with a fire to keep warm. But I’ve come downtown for a change of scene and a bonfire wouldn’t be in keeping with these folks’ general air of snottiness.

A dog comes up to me, sniffs my foot and wags his tail then sits, his head tilted up with what appears to be a smile, as if he’s saying, “Hello friend.” He’s a funny looking thing, chocolate brown dachshund. He looks like one of the sausages the near-by food vendor is selling off his wagon. I am salivating at the odour and I think the dog probably is too.

I look at the animal and say “Hark.” Don’t ask me why. He jumps up from his sitting position onto all fours, wags his tail so fast the little stub is a blur and licks my hand.

I seen the dog around before, he has no tags so perhaps like me he’s homeless and a stray.

His reaction to “Hark” was like I called his name.

So now I have a dog. Just what I don’t need.


Written for
Blogophilia Week 51.6 Topic: A Stitch In Time
Bonus Points:
(Hard, 2 points) quote a Beatles song* I quoted two
(Easy, 1 point) mention a bonfire
Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , | 25 Comments

The Visitor for Blogophilia 50.6

Art by Sol Siegel

Art by Sol Siegel


The view from my seat in the park appears as an out of focus photo, or a surreal painting, the green of the ground blending with the azure of the sky. Red and yellow blotches dot the landscape. I sense the fresh summer breeze but I cannot experience physical elements.

A woman visits me every day. She comes in different guises, sometimes youthful vibrancy, sometimes mature assurance.   She stands facing me as if she has urgent news but no words flow from her lips. Lips naturally pink. A sweetness befalls my tongue, as if a recollection, or of a guilty pleasure.   Images flit through my mind, insubstantial, yet edged with sturdy memory.

Her perfume caries a familiar nostalgia. My hand, on its own accord, reaches out to caress her softness.

Tears sparkle in eyes that gaze upon me with loving grief. I do not recognize her but wonder if we were once lovers? She seems so troubled.

I mentally kick myself for not reacting to her as she wishes, with tenderness, but in my reality physical contact, like speech, is virtually impossible.

Her aura is one of regret but I cannot understand what she possibly could feel sorry for. If a woman such as she had ever been in my life, I would have loved her with all my soul. This much I do know. If anything it is I who is remorseful.

An image blooms in my mind that my sudden departure from her world to mine left her alone, sad and angry.  All colour, joy and laughter faded away. This knowledge hovers like a bird skimming the ocean’s surface.

It is out of my control that I cannot be with her.

She gives me strength; the strength to endure this existence far away from her warmth.

I look forward to her visits.

All too soon she vanishes.

I rest my elbows on the back of the seat, stretch my legs out in front of me and settle back into my reality on the other side of a dream.


Written for
Blogophilia Week 50.6

Topic: The Colors Fade Away

Bonus Points:

(Hard, 2 points) include a virtual reality effect

(Easy, 1 point) mention a guilty pleasure




Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , | 20 Comments

The Old Man for Blogophilia 48.6

Artist Sandra Andrijasevic Baraci

I struggle into the wheelchair for our daily constitutional down the hallway. My care-giver,  Rosemary,  wraps a blanket around me.   I loathe the helplessness. I barely feel Alive.  The living room is dark as if night had fallen but it’s only three in the afternoon. We haven’t seen any rain in a while. The wind hoots owl-like. As she rolls me through the corridor I smell Fiddleheads emanating from another apartment. I used to love rich foods and wine but now I look at my dinner, a mish-mash of colourless pap, take two bites and push the plate away.


Today Rosemary found my blue jacket. Before we leave she hands me a cup of thyme tea. “It’s good for you. Drink it all then I have a surprise for you.” We ride the elevator to the ground level, but we don’t come close to the outside door. It’s an Adventure I exclaim!


Sunshine illuminates the room. My aid dresses me in a heavy sweater. Where is she taking me? She sets my chair on the patio. I smile.

Written for
Blogophilia Week 48.6 Topic: Have You Ever Seen the Rain?
Bonus Points:
(Hard, 2 points) Use the name of two magazines *
(Easy, 1 point) Incorporate rosemary and thyme
Posted in Blogophilia, Fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments