Tag Archives: love

God of All Things

23 Jul

100 words for Friday Fictioneers a group of writers from around the world who meet at a virtual restaurant every week and choose one story from column A and two from column B. The head cook and bottle washer is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and the stories are inspired by the photo prompt below from Marie Gail Stratford.

My story is a requiem for two goats, dear friends of a dear friend, mauled to death by a pack of wild dogs on a recent moonlit night. The link to the picture is obscure, but has its roots in the Japanese superstition about not placing chopsticks upright in a bowl of rice.

God of All Things


No luck today in my search.

In a shaded grove of tangled bamboo, iridescent Tui’s fill the air with mournful song. A shaft of sunlight bathes a low mound.

Khalil Gibran said, “Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”.

I don’t blame the dogs. They are man’s best friend in daytime, but at night and in a pack they answer only to the moon.

I do blame the owners and pray we never meet.

In fresh turned earth I stand two lighted joss sticks, one for Brad, now at peace, and one for Calvin, still missing.




goat on stump




In this Life

21 May

100 words for the rest of my life.

Based on love, prompted by the photo below from Erin Leary, as a weekly submission for Friday Fictioneers. We are like birds hidden in the tree branches, singing to each other, singing to ourselves….singing because we must. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields keeps poachers at bay and waters the lawn, but doesn’t get paid enough.

Thanks, friend. It’s a peaceful place. Come and sing with us.


the next prompt2Copyright Erin Leary


He wrote to say he would arrive at the beginning of summer. She named the time and place.

He had been moving in her orbit all of his lives. She had been waiting for years.

Between the great tree where her children played many years ago and the old basalt steps that led down into the park, she let the walls of her reserve fall, then stepped over them into his arms.

He held her and let the light of a new world illuminate him. The fog was lifting, warmed by the heat of memories. She relaxed into his love.



In this Life


The Impressionists

26 Dec

A 100 word story based on the photo below taken by some-damn-body from a penthouse on the Rue de Passy with a bargain basement digital camera and a pair of binoculars. My thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for using it and to all the structural iron painters in Friday Fictioneers for adding their layers of paint to the edifice.

While visiting Paris in 2007 I climbed part way up the tower and saw firsthand a team of two painters out on the iron going about their work. From that memory and others comes this week’s story.

The ImpressionistsCopyright Douglas MacIlroy

“You’re getting sloppy, Gustave. Her again?”

“I’m sorry, Rene, yes.”

“She’s on your mind often?”

“Only when I’m breathing.”

“Have you told her you love her?”

“Every day that I can.”

“You’ve missed a spot. Hand me that brush. What is she waiting for?”

“It’s complicated.”

“If the inspectors ever see your work, it will be.”

Gustave adjusted his safety lanyard and swung to a beam that faced her apartment. Seventy-six bright red hearts with her initials in white already adorned the tower.

“You think she’ll ever see?” asked Rene.

“One day,” replied Gustave as he finished. “One day,”




23 Oct

100 words for Friday Fictioneers, an orchestra composed of guest writers from various symphonies around the world who each week use a photo for inspiration in a flash fiction composition. This weeks prompt was provided by the lady on the podium, baton at the ready, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who has recently completed her first year in the conductor’s position. (Congratulations, Maestro.)


Out of loss and loneliness, ecstatic transportation and catharsis. The heart yearns and fingers fly across the keys. Nightsong.





He played though there was no one to listen.

Con dolore, because she was gone.

With abandon because that is what he felt during their short time together.

Con amore, because he loved her still.

He played so hard that he’d gone through three keyboards since her heart began a duet with another.

His best music, played to the night, unheard by her.

He played Edward the Mad Shirt Grinder because he could get lost in Nicky Hopkins’ wondrous melody as he imagined her dancing free under the stars.

He loved her still.

He played because he was so alone.



marooned piano

Edward the Mad Shirt Grinder

(not recommended for those that won’t like it)

The Wolf

8 Jun

Dear Friends on the Friday Fictioneers bus,

Here is a guest post by Ian Partlow,  a wonderful boy who is having his ninth birthday soon. He sees the world with the eyes of a child. While this comes naturally to him, it is a perspective that many writers would love to have restored to them, if only for a little while. Unfettered by the chains of time and with his Wolf by his side, Ian has the greatest gift of all — Imagination.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

Not inspired by the photo prompt from El Appleby just below…..

The Wolf

but issuing forth from the same magical world of mythical beasts and a young boy’s heart, here is….

I have a glassy white wolf
Who is made of silky white fur
I have a wolf who brings the moon to the sun
Who howls at the day of the night
I have a wolf
Who can make the sound of wind
Who lives in the light of the moon
I have a wolf
As big as the sea
Who takes me to the other moon
I have a wolf
Who is not to be seen
Who can protect the wind from the sea
I have a wolf
Who floats to the end of life
Who can protect me from anything
by Ian Partlow

Ian and his muse

Ian's Wolf


16 Nov

Here is my 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers, a group of electrifying individuals who write flash fiction stories based on a photo prompt (provided this week by Sean Fallon and shown below) under the watchful eye of Shop Steward, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. All of the stories can be found here. Please take some time out of your busy blogging or surfing day and check out the submissions. You will be glad you did.

My story is not a poem. The shape of the text and the choice of names and words has an underlying theme that I hope will not be viewed in a negative light. The extra challenge I set for myself gives me an extra charge and is offered with positive intent for your reading pleasure.

(To those gracious souls who commented on last weeks story please accept my heartfelt thanks. Though I was not able to respond in a timely manner I want you all to know I read and appreciated every kind word. Thank you and Aloha, D.)

Anne owed

her sister Kath a debt of love

that she was determined to

pay no matter what the cost.

Years of debilitating dialysis had

drained Kath to the limit of her

strength. She knew everyone

had a price to pay for the gift

of life and that her energy was

almost completely drained. Kath

was ready. All Anne knew was

that Kath was family and once

the tests showed their tissue

matched there was no question

what would happen. Donating

a kidney to her sister would re-

charge both their lives and fore-

stall for many years the payment

Kath owed.



Empty the clear path to Heaven, crowded the dark road to Hell.

29 Sep

Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.

100 words for Madison Woods’ Friday Fictioneers inspired by Sandra Crook’s fine photo. Aloha, D.


We pass between the lacquered columns of the spirit gate and I ask Grandfather what the verdigris symbols mean.

“The pen of the tongue should be dipped in the ink of the heart.”

The answer changes with the seasons, even after I learn to read. When I enter college he tells me:

“A person who says it cannot be done should not interrupt the person doing it.”

And on my wedding day:

There is no economy in going to bed early to save candles when the result is twins.


I light joss sticks on Grandfather’s grave and wipe away my tears as I hear him say:

All of life is a waking dream, all of death is a going home.