Blog Archives - Friday Flash Fiction

Mr McGregor's Garden, by Adrian McRobb

17/1/2020

Neat rows
of military precision
calico bags gathered
move in moaning wind
shallow troughs like graves
potting shed shackles
manacled tools
manicured nails protrude
oiled and polished
peat bags brood
in sinister greenhouse
filling soiled bags
compost steams
in a rotting dream
leek-trench an altar
strange vegetable religion
Mr McGregor lives
in his blooming garden
always digging
always weeding
a grave place...

Free Will, by Bruce Levine

17/1/2020

The day languished before them,
as if suspended in time,
choosing a course
and yet not choosing,
but rather letting the course choose them
without care
because freedom
and abandonment to choose
presented itself
in its own inexplicable way
and their free will
became incapable
of deciding.

War Memorial Sonnet, by Guy Fletcher

16/1/2020

The trees are bare, leaves fallen,
scattered as if bodies on a battlefield.
The grey soldier leans wearily
on his rifle by Whitchurch Library,
a solemn expression on his face.
The names of the dead are listed
from two brutal wars, civilians
as well as the doomed soldiers.

After the autumn deluges
when rain dripped off the soldier like tears
the sun shines illuminating the statue
and the poignant plethora of poppies.
Oh, but the First World War was not the last
and humans have learned nothing from the past.

Postcard from Penarth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

10/1/2020

"We are having a lovely time,"
was written below the photograph of Penarth Beach
where hundreds gathered on a sun-kissed day
back in 1902 when the world was so different.
There were no bikinis or shorts,
hats were donned to avoid burning.
I stare deeply and imagine the noise
of seagulls, the laughter of girls and boys

but this time in the sun has passed
just like the writer of the postcard,
I wonder if she lived to a ripe old age.
Today the beach is all but desertrd
yet I picture the ghosts from long ago
waiting for the ferry on a summer afternoon.
Oh, we are all like waves heading for the shore
brief moments of power ...and then no more.

Reading the Blogs, by Bruce Levine

10/1/2020

Reading the blogs
Is a perpetual challenge
Wondering why something is there
Wondering if the author is scared

Are they writing to write?
Or writing for reason?
Or are they simply compelled
Just to put something up?

Fashioning fancy after
Reader’s approbation
Extending a handshake
To comments not meant

Reading the blogs
Of writers prolific
Joyous new wonders
A daily dose of cheer

Writers keep writing
And upload your treasures
The universe awaits you
To savour your gifts

Eastbourne Pier, by Adrian McRobb

10/1/2020

Palace on a bridge
jutting into angry sea
cruising on a budget
braving fires destruction
smooth decking charred
phoenix in new paint
Taj-Mahal of the coast
reflected geometric meccano
twisted iron howdah
on pachyderms back
double imaged in salt water
wrought iron band stand
commoners Royal Pavilion
flowers caste in iron
pagoda roof skylined
smooth grained sand
rocks and barnacles
spires and pinnacles
hold light at sunset
balustrades guard non-swimmers
the tide recedes
crabs scuttle into rockpools
googling at girders
glass roof reflects
light into inner space
so we promenade
in Sundays best
wondering...what the butler saw?

Among the Stars, by Mary Wallace

10/1/2020

Come walk with me among the stars
I thought your mind was torn
You pointed out the star like flowers
That twinkled on our lawn

Come sing with me there's music here
I smiled at you instead
But quietly you called the birds
Soft music filled my head

Come live with me and be my love
I thought it was too rushed
What if we failed and our love died
My heart it would be crushed

Come find me in another world
You said when illness came
And now I walk amongst the stars
And softly call your name

The birds still sing among the trees
Our love it never died
I wonder if the stars still shine
There on the other side.

More Than Today, by Mary Wallace

3/1/2020

Today only has twenty-four hours,

From start to finish, that's it, no more,

Yesterday blends with other yesterdays,

Long golden days melded together in our minds.

Remove the pain and golden yesterdays are the best.

But not for all. Pain can stay,

You try to disguise it, cover it with more gold and bandaids

Today is only twenty-four hours,

Tomorrow comes with promise,

It reaches towards the future pain free still,

Endless days endless possibilities

No past to hide with golden light.

Tomorrow is white, maybe tinged with blue like the endless sky,

It stretches forever, nothing to hide, ready to be discovered.

Holcombe on New Year's Day, by Guy Fletcher

3/1/2020

We saunter by St Gregory's Church, Dawlish
where some epitaphs are eroded,
weathered away, souls forgotten
on this silver-sky New Year's Day.
The hiss of the stream is soothing
and bare branches rise up like monsters' claws,
at the top of a hill I stand and pause

to stare at the grey ocean down below
as dusk drops down, a most sinister time,
lights of a tanker illuminating
the horizon as we reach Holcombe village
drinking tea in the Smugglers Inn
contented to be with my dearest friend,
talking of God...watching darkness descend.

The Derelict, by Adrian McRobb

3/1/2020

Sun setting
on the estuary
water ripples
blistered silvering
on an antique mirror
golden light illuminates
cracked wood
bare ribs
crazed paint peeling
a patina of neglect
nails which hang
heads bent
pushing from the rot
half in half out
stern dragging mud
bow amongst reeds
once nets rubbed thwarts
tarnished rowlocks witnessed
pipe smoking fishermen
trawling for herring
the missing mast hung sails
speeding them home
with a full hold
smiling into the sunset
on the estuary...

The Town Crier of Comics, by Bruce Levine

3/1/2020

There once was a man
Who thought he’s a comic.
He didn’t need logic
‘Cause still he dreamed on.

He’d open for this one
And open at that.
On sidewalks, in nightclubs
If they’d pass the hat.

He followed his plan
And eventu’lly made it
On cruise ships and Vegas
He moved right along.

Through ups and through downs
And fights with his agents
He fought and he battled
And weathered the storm.

And now he’s retired
From stand-up and show-rooms
And calmly announces
As comics move on.