| Friday Flash Fiction |
|
|||
 (Photo created by ArthurHidden/Freepik} apart for a day
two lovers of a kind meet at the horizon catching up on what they’ve missed tales of the sea and heaven A blood-red opens on the horizon,
dark clouds lifting like depression as stars seem to be scattered on the low hills of Cardiff. The Channel emerges into view swirling, dangerous with a terrible tide, the Quantock hills on the other side. The gloom softens but the blood-red sky is transient and morphs to grey as people in the city sleep one off after the rigours of the week. The peace of the night will be shattered yet I saw with wonder-struck eyes the most beautiful Saturday sunrise. Here she stands
all dressed in white waiting for the spring clean ready to be lost again and again in the maze of green spleen. Trees bend in the wind
Petrels fly south on storm wings Father died today moments shared between
one magpie and one possum on these power lines fast clock ticking sound
windows fail to stop traffic bulbs need replacement when the mind is empty space ideas flying in the air "Nobody laughs at God in a hospital"- graffiti
Ill in hospital, no visitors allowed to the sound of an ageing man wailing for his long dead mother. Strange figures haunt the sad corridors and the neon lights are always on. There's the continuous tone of bleeping, a place for dark thoughts, but not sleeping. But if by chance there arrives a most beautiful dream it is so cruel waking at dawn. Each person owns their own demons and must endure isolation so ignoring good times is a crime for sickness can strike... at any time. Most weekends now,
I spend more time with the dead than the living. The spider weaves the web, dewdrops glisten
The morning dawns, the fly awakens Melancholia stretches its shadowy entrails Dark, abysmal, the stench of despair Is the nightmare over? Is the realm real? One last flight remains in the fly; yes, I can fly Am I the Sisyphus? The fly wonders Where is the spider? The heart’s tragedy, eternal Can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move, can’t drink Yes, something nasty has gripped the soul The stone rests on the soul; the heart bleeds soundlessly Sad violin notes flitter through the air into the fly’s ear Is the spider playing the violin? Is the hallucination real? Or is it all just in the head? The fly wonders and moves its limbs Dear spider, please play the cello, the fly pleads After all, it’s another play, another pantomime She's motivated to seek help; otherwise, she wouldn't have asked for the answer,
she wouldn't have repeatedly pursued the same line of questioning, causing stress, just to get the conversation flowing, even when she knows asking the same question won't get her a different answer, she thinks she's entitled to a response -- a way out to release her pain once and for all, which has been making her cry to sleep every night and dream dreams that remind her of her insult, a way to make her feel important again for all she wants is to hear that everything she’s been told was false -- she knows what to do with the answer if she gets it, she wants to make sure there's nothing missing in the answer she’s so that she can complete the picture, or to make sure the answer she’s is ‘true' — a different answer from what she wants to hear — so that she can be set free. Painted words
that are out of control Rhymes that have lost their rhythm The rule-breaking recalcitrant little rebel rouser has no place for the play it safe stay at home poet |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
Archives
September 2023
|
