Welcome to another edition of Friday Fictioneers, with your host, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week we have a picture of an empty amphitheatre, as provided by Sandra Crook (a fantastic writer and apparently photographer as well. Who knew?)
This photo struck a lonely chord with me, as well as dug up all kinds of insecurities about not having an audience (my initial draft was very bitter, and involved a reference to really only having readers once a week, but I thought that that might be too jaded and ungrateful, and so I scrapped it). I’ve said before that the very nature of what we do is almost like mutual masturbation, and I hold to that, as distasteful as it may seem. Writing, like music, requires an audience. I’ll do my best to be yours if you’ll be mine, darlings.
Here’s a first for me — a poem — but it just seemed the thing to do.
100 words egg-zact-ick-ally.
What if you gave a concert but nobody came?
Not a soul to hear you; not even your band.
Would you break down and cry in frustration and shame?
Would you sing all the songs that you planned?
Would you stand on the stage looking broken and hurt?
The indelicate punch-line in someone’s cruel joke.
Would you collapse like a rag doll alone in the dirt
And then scream at the void until your voice broke?
And that harrowing sound
Barely audible past your cries?
As you fall to the ground
That’s the noise your heart makes when it dies.