PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
It is our first no-snow winter. Shorelines of the big lakes here — and oceans elsewhere — haven’t frozen, so waves eat them like a giant Pac Man game that isn’t a game at all.
Where snow fails, arctic wind prevails. Just stepping outside risks frostbite. Hundreds of homeless residents of the Great Tent Cities of the North have perished. Their bodies are stacked like firewood behind city morgues, waiting their turns at the crematoriums that now burn 24/7.
I’ve been working double shifts for weeks. My nose is filled with death. My ears with sizzling. My clothes with ash, like snow.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the pragmatic host of Friday Fictioneers.