Will you run,

with my soul,

to distant lands, where I

can never be?

I call out.

Do you hear?

my thoughts


in hollow space

Can you hear me?

forging ahead




It is dark.

Where are you?

Can you hear me?


The Daily Post – Abandoned



Digging deep, shadowy moor.

Dark of night.

Never alone, except with

my confession.

Hoping to always,

be out of


Crackling leaves,

whispery breeze.

Snap of a stick,

heart skips a beat.

Smooth down earth,

skulk away.

One score settled.

One more to pay.


Response to dVerse Quadrille



Some run deep,
lava flowing from veins.
Others stay on the surface,
disappear shortly after they’re born.
Recording our lives,
visible for others to see.
But those that hurt the most,
are invisible.

The Daily Post – Scars



I hear the voice from afar

In the darkness where I do not exist

Bringing black from nothing

Looming voice, advancing, stirring

Calling me from within, without

Like echoes of falling rain

Persistent as a virus

I become

As light penetrates the cracks


Trembling with the sound of light

Condemnation whirls around the edge

Of the world in which I am

There seems to be no place for me

In lands of steel and stone

Weather patterns more of me

Entombed inside the global cell

White pain

Lonesome journey of the soul



Memories on Display

Warm, musty air envelopes me, leaving the blustery wind behind. Frozen hands, face stinging, my eyes adjust to the darker space. Objects start making appearances, like actors on stage, their stories as yet untold. I lose myself, and any sense of time, as I move through their memories.

Ghosts of children whisper from above. Stories of heartache, love, labour. Children taken, transported. For their own good, some say. Missing home, they work, pray.

Soft breathes whirl, “Don’t forget us.” Taken by force. Torn from loving arms, to fill an empty land. Sent over seas. Home never forgot. Hearts never healed.


The Friday Fictioneers challenge is to write a story of no more than 100 words from a photo prompt, from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple.

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

For other stories from this photo:  An InLinkz Link-up



Screeching followed as I raced through the countryside, north. I’d heard about a man who’d help, for a cost. Rounded into the murky hub of an old boat, days huddled in cramped, stinking, silence. Waves crashed, straining its joints to the breaking point. Sirens wailed, men with guns stormed down. Terrified, we obeyed; we’d seen what authority could do. They told us we would not reach the mainland as promised. They shipped us to an island camp for processing. Here we sit in barbed wire, on dirt floors, indefinitely waiting. I didn’t know this was what safety would look like.

The Friday Fictioneers challenge is to write a story of no more than 100 words from a photo prompt, from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple.

PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

For other stories from this photo, click on the frog.



How many ways can I fill the days?

The weeks, months and years

Pass by in bitter memories.


Hope is eternally bright

Yet brings the dark stench

Of despair

To my door

To my home

To my heart


Never repaired

As it was never formed





Grounded only by the clunk

Of metal on metal

The scratching within

That will never leave me in peace

Only in pieces