July 1, 2015

Flash Fiction By CN Hueston: "They Called Her Detroit"

C N Hueston surrounded himself with books at an early age. He admires the classics, history, philosophy, and biblical commentaries as well as the beat generation viewpoint and beyond. He says "My wife and son are excellent writers so I thought after years of pondering, I'd try my own hand at it". He added "Poetry is not my forte unless it's humorous" and They Called Her Detroit is one of his first attempts at a more "solemn reality based" poetry as he describes it. His concerns with social issues and the plight of dying American cities drew him to respond to the call for works on Detroit.





Frozen River





They Called Her Detroit

Her once alluring auburn hair has turned to a most dirty gray. She will not wash it either. It is of no purpose now. Too many years have passed, she is in the deepest despair. No one visits, and no one calls her baby anymore. You can see the glint fading in this Michigan girl's eyes, as she'll rhetoric the
many suitors that once came a courting. Men of high renown she thought. Doctors. Lawyers. Athletes. Men of industry, invention, and culture. Her beauty allured. She opened her heart to each of them as a young virgin does, seeking her destiny, her life. Many afternoons of beautiful exchange and joy turned to weeks, and months, and years, and then decades. But alas they all became disinterested and left her after drawing quite deeply from her well. One day she was old and drained. physically, emotionally, spiritually.

She had no family left to hold, no newborns cooing in the hallway, none to laugh in the park, or cry at weddings, or embrace, or quarrel. A neighbor offered to paint the once grand mansion and things began to spruce in the heart. But it was only paint, and paint cannot speak to a damaged soul. 'Yes death would be sweeter,' she thought.

Alone, even neighbors thought she might be in a better place. The money had been gone for years now, and she starved more oft than not. In her weakness, strangers robbed the mansion of its decor, its history, her art and her music, even her prized rose bushes. The police were few and could not help her. Neighbors were now strangers. With tears she wanders alone at night when the sleep fails her...a bench to lie on. Nothing now, just slowing heartbeats along the once great, frozen Detroit river.               
            
~CN Hueston                                                                                      

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