Friday Flash Fiction

Memories of a Summer Evening, by Philip Galfano

22/5/2019

Memories of a summer evening
Fond memories of a summer evening,
the moon shined timidly on our window-sill
while you tendered your hand
to a furtive ray of light that landed softly
over your uncovered breast revealing
overwhelming desires and deep emotions
not yet consummated.
As we laid in bed close to each other
one into the other
I turned and graciously grazed your angel face
that reflected my thoughts on your welcoming body.
I offered my arms to you and you gently
surrendered to me as we shared our love
under the light of the moon filtering through.

1 Comment

Pink Roses, by Guy Fletcher

20/5/2019

0 Comments

Pink roses bloom every year
in my neighbour's garden.
Today they are admired by "new" people
for the old lady has passed.
She used to love to watch the roses sway
on warm azure days in the the month of May

but they are ancestors though appear the same
just like butterflies and wasps hovering
and the robin perched on an urban branch
more ruthless than his form suggests.
Now children's voices fill the springtime air,
the lonely woman...is no longer there.

0 Comments

Morpeth Assizes 1742, by Adrian McRobb

17/5/2019

2 Comments

Seven men seven seals
hemp rope kicked heels
names written lots drawn
watery bowels greet dawn
accused tried now caged
men picked deed staged
noose tied ten feet
rough box no sheet
priests sign starts dance
late reprieve no chance
crowd quiet held breath
prisoners hope quick death
John Stuart, Joseph Hall
Margaret Dunn, Peter Ball
blind justice looks down
black door gold crown
milk stools knocked away
four lives end today
seven men seven seals
hemp rope kicked heels...

2 Comments

The Parson and Clerk, by Guy Fletcher

13/5/2019

0 Comments

The train from Paignton speeds through the tunnel
of the rock called The Parson and Clerk.
I am strolling to Teignmouth on a May Saturday
and pause to stare at all its glory:
red sandstone reflected on the mirror sand,
waves gently roll to sizzle on the shore,
it is a view that I peer at with awe.

The sky colours the sea blue,
grey-white clouds make cliffs seem on fire.
Oh, I have passed Coryton Cove
famous for the hole in the rock
and others like pocket pyramids
but it is this cliff that I adore the most
truly a gem...on the South Devon coast.

0 Comments

Unenlightened, by Ian Fletcher

11/5/2019

0 Comments

At sixty-one I’m still
befuddled by it all
with no known God
to finally save me
in a kingdom come
nor words of wisdom
to say to younger
souls who ignore
me anyway. Thus
shall I stumble on
unenlightened along
that well-worn path
towards the grave.

0 Comments

Don't Insult the Crocodile Until You Cross the Water, by Adrian McRobb

10/5/2019

0 Comments

They come
we see
big hats
carry guns
we help
heavy bags
deep jungle
hidden city

We show
Gold-Diamonds
make tea
Yhanga bark
they sleep
we carry
up-up
then eat!

0 Comments

Wishing Well, by Cindy Patrick

9/5/2019

0 Comments

People denounce those without integrity
out of the left of their mouths
Exchange niceties, drink questionable tea
out of the right side
If you’ve never given your whole heart
meant what you’ve said
point to the tea, “Swill!”
how deep is the well of duplicity
how far the fall
We peer down into the well
do we see a reflection of ourselves
if not too deep
does murky count?
Common, we make a splash
climb out again
wash the dank smell off and shrug
The water is below the final rung
What was in that tea?
Throw me a penny

0 Comments

The Yellow Wallpaper, by Guy Fletcher

7/5/2019

0 Comments

She empathises with the woman
in the book, "The Yellow Wallpaper"
driven insane by the never-changing view
as if trapped in a photograph.
She lies in the soft grave of the bed
toxic thoughts swirling in her head

wearing a mask for the world
to hide the torments in her soul.
The pills halt the panic but cannot
free her from the mist of melancholia,
beauty not enough to dispel
the "Furies" forcing her...to Hell.

0 Comments

Twilight, by Ian Fletcher

4/5/2019

0 Comments

Suddenly by stealth
you find yourself
within the twilight
of your earthly years
when there’s no point
in looking forward
and looking back
brings but regret

so forget the future
for you have none
as your life is done
and thus withdraw
into a smaller world
one much diminished
although not over yet

and while it’s too late
to change your fate
there’s still time
to get a hobby
or perhaps a pet.

0 Comments

Drum-Beat, by Adrian McRobb

3/5/2019

0 Comments

Bows slice water
flagship heels over
Phalanx cannons
spit fire
Fearless

Mirage trails smoke
flies lower
toward horizon

San Carlos
trapped fleet
Mirages shock wave
release ship killing
Exocet!
Klaxons sound

Exeter bridge shattered
runs aground
Ardent bombed
and smoking
Yarmouth transfers crew
Sheffield gone
like Hood

Uganda
white ghosts patrol
rows
of shuddering bunks
a cargo
of nightmares
on a silent sea...

0 Comments

Going Down, by Tate Christie

2/5/2019

0 Comments

Be honest —with yourself —at least,
you stalk him like he’s prey
he works on the fifteenth floor,
you’re far too scared to say,
‘Good morning, how’s it hanging, man?
Have you lunch plans, cos I’m free?’
He makes the mistake of smiling
Freshly showered, smelling great-
Shoves your decorum off a cliff:
pushes ‘Stop’ around floor eight
You’ve pinned him against cold steel
Before your brain kicks in
You stutter an apology,
But all he does is grin
He dips his head, kisses your nose,
Continues to your mouth
Then the intercom breaks the mood-
Demands you proceed south…

0 Comments

Gale Over Weston Bay, by Guy Fletcher

29/4/2019

0 Comments

I struggle on the soaked sand
between the Sea Marina and Grand Pier.
The severe wind is so fierce
it threatens to send me through the air.
There is something frightening
about the power of nature, I feel frail
insignificant compared to the gale.

The slashing rain has left the sky
and a weak sun turns the Channel silver.
There's not a soul on the beach,
it has a terrible beauty.
The breakers crash into Breen Down,
it leaves me so breathless but I adore
the vast empty splendour of Weston shore.

0 Comments

Easter Sunday, by Adrian McRobb

26/4/2019

0 Comments

Four miles left, thighs strain in energy sapping pre-cramp tension
tired and sweating, spokes flashing like silent movie sprockets
not expecting, in my path...a line of runway aircraft resting
a stained glass wonder, surprise on a sunny day
Star-Wars comes to Bedlington, V-Wing fighters explode
in a galaxy of colour, red-mauve-magenta-orange-purple
a nose full of magical fairy dust...butterflying cloud, unfolding
fluttering by, disappear into a wonderful sky-borne miracle...

0 Comments

This is a Man, by Ian Fletcher

25/4/2019

4 Comments

This is a man
living in harmony
in all dimensions
of this world

the physical: the gym
his appetite for food
strenuous exercise
and female flesh

the social: the pub
the office, friends
and the football
on weekends

the spiritual: his faith
in God, his church
his inner certainty
of his immortality

yes, this is a man
whose congruency
makes him an alien
to you and me.

4 Comments

Orange Moon on Maundy Thursday, by Guy Fletcher

23/4/2019

0 Comments

The moon shines through innocuous evening clouds
creating a halo, the street-lights
a more dazzling orange but without the allure.
The majestic full form invites admiration
yet some people peer at the pavement
ignoring the beauty held in the sky.
Long after my bones wave the world goodbye

she will still be master of the tides
quite indifferent to my fate
and I reside on a wall to stare
with wonder as in days of old.
Oh, I long for no light pollution:
a star-freckled dome and moon mystical, bright
moving so slowly...the queen of the night.

0 Comments

The Shadow of Death, by Guy Fletcher

19/4/2019

Holman-Hunt's portrait is a masterpiece:
Jesus has completed a hard day's toil
as a carpenter appearing to celebrate
but there's a far away look in the eyes
and his mother stares in horror at his shadow,
a ghost vision of Jesus on the cross.
His arms are outstretched, the tools on display
references to that historic day.

The circular window acts like a halo
over the head of the Saviour,
parched hills of the Holy Land
sun-kissed in the background.
The crown of thorns is symbolised by
a red head-dress near his feet.
The painting has such an awesome power,
I picture the Lord...at his bleakest hour.

"The Shadow of Death" by William Holman-Hunt (1873)

Notre-Dame by Ian Fletcher

16/4/2019

The Other Guy, Doug Bartlett

12/4/2019

Three guys were convicted of a crime.
Two guys committed the crime.
The other guy didn’t.

Three guys were crucified.
Two guys deserved it.
The other guy didn’t.

Three guys were buried.
Three days later, two guys remained buried.
The other guy didn’t.

Perfect Love, by Julie Achilles

12/4/2019

As Winter snow lies on the ground,
And nature sleeps,
I think of you.

As signs of Spring begin to show,
And nature awakens green and new,
I think of you.

As Summer's sun burns hot and bright,
And clear skies show the stars at night,
I think of you.

As Autumn leaves begin to fall,
And carpets the ground in gold and brown,
I think of you.

With each new season time between us grows,
I think of you,
A Perfect end to a perfect love.

Life, by Kirsty A. Niven

11/4/2019

Live like a sword in the wind,
those were the words you chose to live by.
You were all too aware how brief time is,
the guillotine forever hanging over you.

Through all our memories, children picking buttercups,
teenagers thumping away on a bass,
the executioner followed you –
everywhere you looked, there he stood.
Death was like family to you,
the annoying aunt who squawks and fusses.
Yet you instilled in me this message –
cut everything and never stop.

Endgame by Ian Fletcher

11/4/2019

The first moves
proved fraught
yet there seemed
such possibilities
until I was caught
amidst the maze
of the middle game
which I weaved
my way through
the best I could
to this final place
where the board
has been laid bare
and there is space
ah, infinite space!

Snow in April, by Guy Fletcher

8/4/2019

There's something surreal about snow in April:
farmers' crunching over hillside fields
and lambs shivering as a bitter wind blows,
winter's last breath, or maybe not.
Yet in February it was 20c,
weather different from when I roamed
on Caerphilly mountain as a boy
carefree, throwing snowballs with sheer joy.

Yes, there's something surreal about snow in April:
rather sad for it's doomed to melt
long before snow in winter-time,
reminding me of the transience of life
and that each moment should be grasped.
April is a fickle month
snow creating an alluring scene
but now the land... has transformed back to green.

Hero Worship, by Ian Fletcher

6/4/2019

Their heroes were that rebel
without a cause blue-eyed
James Dean or Marilyn Monroe
peroxide blonde on the screen
and Elvis Presley the ‘King’
heralding Hendrix, Janis Joplin
and the poetic lush Jim Morrison
a change of taste bringing in
those icons of my generation
from Sid Vicious to Kurt Cobain
meeting untimely or tragic ends
in decade after dismal decade.
Who are your heroes my friend
are they living or are they dead?
Spare me as it matters not a jot
for all the ragged glamorous lot
are consigned like you and me
to the foul dustbin of history.

Across the Land, by Philip Galfano

5/4/2019

Children’s voices familiar sounds playful happy across the land

Children’s cries stricken with terror hiding unsure sound of guns
Dead bodies tears broken hearts
Living in fear life is unfair
Death is approaching a young man holding a gun
Screaming pacing slowly step by step pointing at children
Scared faces trembling praying
Sound of gun clicking shooting blood pouring

Across the land children playing
Running chasing each other laughing holding hands
Across the land
Life is unfair

The Tourist, by Ian Fletcher

3/4/2019

Her latest selfie
grins out at us
from the very top
of the Acropolis
with the Parthenon
in its immensity
towering behind
in profound silence
a timeless symbol
of the sublime.

So thus she came
saw and conquered
the ancient world
in a mere snapshot
who yet cannot tell
an Ionic column
from a Doric one
or see the temple’s
masonic geometry
as a grand mirror
of Plato’s abstract
realm of Forms.

Oh how Socrates
would have laughed
himself to scorn
at this presumption
as if travel could
broaden such minds
with ambits narrower
than the spaces
between these lines.

<<Previous

Memories of a Summer Evening, by Philip Galfano

Pink Roses, by Guy Fletcher

Morpeth Assizes 1742, by Adrian McRobb

The Parson and Clerk, by Guy Fletcher

Unenlightened, by Ian Fletcher

Don't Insult the Crocodile Until You Cross the Water, by Adrian McRobb

Wishing Well, by Cindy Patrick

The Yellow Wallpaper, by Guy Fletcher

Twilight, by Ian Fletcher

Drum-Beat, by Adrian McRobb

Going Down, by Tate Christie

Gale Over Weston Bay, by Guy Fletcher

Easter Sunday, by Adrian McRobb

This is a Man, by Ian Fletcher

Orange Moon on Maundy Thursday, by Guy Fletcher

The Shadow of Death, by Guy Fletcher

Notre-Dame by Ian Fletcher

The Other Guy, Doug Bartlett

Perfect Love, by Julie Achilles

Life, by Kirsty A. Niven

Endgame by Ian Fletcher

Snow in April, by Guy Fletcher

Hero Worship, by Ian Fletcher

Across the Land, by Philip Galfano

The Tourist, by Ian Fletcher

Poetry

Archives