Monday, August 4, 2014

Mr. Doe's chest hurts. His right-side nipple is an epicenter of rippling pain. He thinks about spokes radiating from the hub of a broken bicycle wheel. His new internist's new assistant squeezed him in for an afternoon appointment. The medical center is vast. Doe does not know where to go. He sits in an empty green lobby and waits around. Finally, a woman in her mid-forties wearing a red and black checkered suit appears. "Sir, are you lost?"

Trip To The Clinic

She directs him, "Go down the hallway on the right. Then take a left at the purple sign. Go past that and you'll see two elevators. They are being serviced, so take the stairwell on the left, not the right, and walk up to the third floor. Walk down the hallway. Take your first left. That's where you need to go." She retreats.

Trip To The Clinic

His nipple hurts. He does not remember which way is where. The lady talked too fast, and his hearing aid is broken. Lost, he plays the maze game.

Trip To The Clinic

He wanders and wonders about the future.

Trip To The Clinic

He arrives one minute late. A couple of patients mill about. They wear sour expressions.

Trip To The Clinic

The doctor's assistant, George Maroon, has been called away. Maroon is at another facility—tending to a medical emergency. Doe's nipple hurts like hell. His mood turns black.


An escape route eludes him.

Trip To The Clinic

Original contents © Robert Rosinsky. All rights reserved.

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Go Past RR Crossing

Friday, July 18, 2014

He rolls to a stop at a RR crossing.

Sign Posts Up Ahead

Just a daydream, he drives through the intersection.

Color photograph of Moodys hardware store in Zephyr Hills Florida

Moody's Hardware catches his eye. "Odd, it's still around."

What Time Is It?

He glances at the daily specials.

Moody Place

He stops the car.

"Go Past RR Crossing" is a tribute to Mr. Rod Serling.

Original contents, © Robert Rosinsky, 2014

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Senior Floridian

June 29, 2014

A white crossover vehicle runs me off the road into the median. Heart racing, I am fine. Is my car? Naughty vehicle still in sight, I follow it. At a close-by intersection, we both stop for a red light. I exit my vehicle. I rush over to ask the bad driver, "Will you wait here while I check to see if my wheels are okay?" The driver, a frail, ashen, corpse-like she-mouse squeaks, "I'm sorry. It was an accident." The passenger, a guy half my age, blows up. "Your wheels are fine asshole; she didn't do nothing wrong!" I disagree. He asks me if I want to make something of it. He gets out of the car and says, "Come here old man, I'll knock you down." I walk away in disgust.


Florida, the "Sunshine State" is home to a patchwork of deranged, senile, gun-toting-adults, hormonally supercharged youths, and dimwits of all shapes. I go home, take a nap, and dream of even-tempered folks—some Floridians, some not.

Later, almost around early dusk, after a thunderstorm, we decide to go out to dinner. Wife drives. She trusts her reflexes over mine—she is ten years younger. I hear Judy Garland singing her rainbow song. We note the pretty sky. We pass a Burger King. No golden arches on the horizon.


At the diner, a tidy young waitress with shiny legs seats us. She doles out menus for us to see. My eyes lock onto the double nickels, "55". I am fifty-five. I am too late for "Senior Savors." I am a Floridian. It's cloudy outside.



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Polite Dogs Meet and Greet

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

He walks into the pet boutique to get his claws clipped. He takes note of the lady with the clipboard. She puts him on the list; there are lots of dogs ahead of him.


A sociable bitch greets him. Avoiding eye contact, she approaches his flank. Dog etiquette: direct eye contact among strange dogs is a no-no; it signals aggression.

For a few moments, they sniff each other. The dogs are introducing themselves—exchanging information. All goes well; they lick each other in the face.


Calmly, fleetingly, they look into each other's eyes—another sign of mutual acceptance.


The lady sheathed in fitted pants sees her pal. She moves along with big dog by her side. The tiny male watches. Does he want to follow the bitch?


Original contents, © Bob Rosinsky, All rights reserved.

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X Marks the Spot

Monday, June 23, 2014

I like watching storms. I see a front moving in. I drive up to the top of a hill—a few blocks away from home.


As I pull into the cul-de-sac, I see an "X" on an embankment.


Windows XP is no longer supported.


An ominous front, it moves fast. Pink and white blankets in the foreground are discards from a tryst, I reckon. At night, city lights sparkle along the horizon. This is a lovers' lane.


Getting soaked, back into the car I go.

Original contents, © Bob Rosinsky, All rights reserved.


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Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Oh Well

June 13, 2014

George presses "two." He waits.


A minute later, he steps out, walks down the hall, enters the waiting room, and heads for the clipboard resting on the wide window ledge. The young one, a long-faced redhead receptionist looks up. "Mr. Doe, your appointment is next month—not today." Doe pivots towards the exit near a set of water fountains.


He sips from the taller one, then takes the stairs. Upon leaving the Medical Arts Building, George sails out into the sunshine. Trailing behind a spry couple, he finds his car.


On the way home, Doe stops for a bite at a roadside restaurant. He scarfs down a New York Strip and drinks cloudy-cool water from a warm glass.

Fast Lunch New York Strip

Original contents, © Bob Rosinsky. All rights reserved.


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Bird Poop

June 5, 2014

A quiet golden-hour view at a rest stop: Nice.

Peaceful Rest Stop

Thup! Huh? What the hell…


Oh crap. A vulture dumped a load. … Look at that.

Vulture Poop On the Windshield

That night, I dreamt I could not wipe that spot out of my mind. … What a nightmare.


Do you dream in color or black and white?

Original contents  © Bob Rosinsky. All rights reserved. Photos are available for purchase.




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