| Friday Flash Fiction |
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A grenade tumbles
outside the bar only soldiers there at this late hour Who stare and gape in drunk amazement at the missile bouncing across the pavement Soon to explode and from its mesh sear red-hot shrapnel in to human flesh... "Living in a world of make-believe." - Daydreamer In the 70s he fell into success
blessed or cursed with beauty, girls fainting at his concerts: David Cassidy once the greatest pop-star. Yet it was all an image he couldn't escape and as his looks faded so did his fame easily replaced by another name. A world-weary man records in a studio face painted with alcohol, in pain, a pale shadow of the beautiful boy drinking to cover up the sadness. He yearned to be a "serious" musician but never became a rock n' roll star, a tragic figure...as many of us are. sunlight lancing feathers
golden eagle slicing through air spirit of the plains Bella Kotak soaring and diving almost, out of sight her spirit possesses the sky as she spirals framed at the limit of the world that freeze-frame emotion at the edge of reality The silver birch collapsed in the night:
it must have creaked and groaned with its mighty death rattle toppled by a howling winter gale as I was lost in the land of dreams. In the morn the wind was no longer wild but the silver birch I climbed as a child lay slumped on the rain-soaked grass. It narrowly avoided the greenhouse and will have to stay, I cannot lift it away. The ghost of a young boy sheds a tear but the weather does not care. Yes, the old silver birch fell in the night, a giant carcass...a most forlorn sight. They first came to stay
uninvited but quite ok Yesterday they made me cry forced me to lie Tonight they are shouting squeezing, in my brain They even have a plan they've got knives too The voices, in my head... Near a quiet house
teenagers gather Blondie breaks the glass their in... 'Get the party started' booms out a chair gets smashed porridge on kitchen floor Blondie sprays her tag on walls "BlondiE (heart)" Jumping on beds muddy boots and weed foiled roaches Short break weekend away Mr & Mrs Bayer (and baby) won't be pleased! I stroll past the Animal Wall
and through the West Gate of Bute Park relieved to escape half-term crowds. The Gorsedd Stones are in shade but although it's only late February there are petals of pink and white on the alluring cherry blossom trees, daffodils dance a waltz in the soft breeze. It's the warmest February day in history with the blue Taff reflecting the sky, joggers, dog-walkers are out in force and families enjoying picnics but later the gothic castle will stare through the trees at a magical carpet of frost to confuse nature in the ghostly night and melt to shine as if stars in the light. Faltering steps on ice
clumsy, timid, testing but confidence growing cutting through permafrost steel blades tight laced making curlicues patterns cut glass Mouse fur hat bobs as she glides spinning in arabesque completing a Swan Lake sequence no witnesses a private pond in a Scottish winter faster and faster timing the snow flakes Woollen leggings against the chill velvet collared coat red pearl-back mittens pleated tartan skirt pirouettes on the turn circling into herself decreasing, yet increasing a gyroscopic toy in a frozen wood When my mood is at low-tide
my thoughts turn to the young woman in a wheelchair who knew that everyday might well be her last. Yet her spirit soared like a white eagle in a northern sky, her body has gone but she did not die and on this fine day at the edge of spring I feel her spirit in the daffodils and in the roses of the church path. She is my inspiration, her soul shines like the morning dew reminding us how transient we are, each one shining...like a miniature star. The mist drifts
in wraiths of moisture caressing cold stone pausing as if gossip was its mission The spire disappearing into the ethereal ether delivers liquid messages to the almighty Drifting across the road wetting leaf and shrub phantoms appear dissolving once more on missions unknown Walking in this other world is a non-existence is this what death feels like seeking relative comfort in the world of life Shadows of cars pass in a grey wash muffled engines adding to the mix exhaust fumes and mist turning the streets into dream-like memories... |
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. 
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March 2023
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