| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Albo
or ScoMo? Nearly all know but some don’t know as the Sun rises in Tokyo & we prepare to flex elbows. As armrests support elbows, & the Quad talks in Tokyo approach, polls close. Fewer votes go to ScoMo. ‘Albo!’
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Crimson and pink Rangoon creepers
hung low, delicately fragrant. You and I seated just there taking in the delightful perfume diffused by the cool evening breeze while Marbles lounged beneath our chairs eyes closed, mouth slightly opened. In our small pond, a hundred tiny guppies flit and flash in the shadowy water. The sound of a key in the door and a declaration, "I’m home". Marbles opened his eyes in anticipation, and we smiled. the violins broke down
the pianos went west the drums hit town the piccolos wept The pink and white blossom has descended
flickering like snowflakes to the ground then chasing each other like lambs at play. But they will turn a rusty hue before crumbling away into dust and the spring tree will revert back to green with no trace of the beauty there once had been. We'll never again stare in awe at the alluring sight of the cherry tree so every time I admire this view I think of you but life is transient and feel dismal after the blossom falls remembering halcyon days gone by with pink blossom under an azure sky. thunderstorm
baby stars tremble in the bed of skies winter night the lone child finds friends in the little dipper morpheus abandons orpheus's lyre lulls insomniacs to sleep The Botang is a tidy fish
and swims upon its back lives on the Serengetti alone, or in a pack The Botang hates the Elephant because its scared of snakes likes, raspberry ice cream trifle and drinks chocolate milkshakes When hunting the wiley Botang don't approach it from behind because it has wing mirrors and rancid bacon rind If I had a pet one which, I would not advise they spend the daytime knitting and have dark hypnotic eyes... A crisp spring morning.
My solitary walk brings inner peace and joy from the first cry in the womb
to the last smile in the tomb so much sorrow and joy in this life still passing by 57 units of pain or just 21 grams of soul you have always been between those lucky endless numbers Editor's Choice Maleficent Mary was terribly scary
So they burned her alive at the stake, But before she died, she opened her eyes And said, 'I curse all the bread you bake!' As the flames climbed high and scalded the sky Her voice rose in cackling laughter, So the Inquisitors ran with bucket and can To put out the fire with water. But Maleficent Mary ever so scary Crept out of her funeral pyre To haunt hearth and home and sing in the gloam As she danced between graveyard and spire. When I wake this morning snow covers the ground
Creatures are sheltering not a one to be found And the birdsong is silent there’s nary a sound A season’s portent some may choose to say But enlighten me please if you can I pray Why is winter encroaching on a bright summer’s day? Balmy hot countries now shiver with cold And cold climes suffer when heat waves take hold Our planet may be spared, if I may be so bold To beg climate change to cease from today So our environment can thrive in its own natural way Then winter won’t encroach on a bright summer’s day Navigating storm cellars
we’d crawl along floors flattening our guts, wishing the farmhouse stove’s warmth had traveled with us as we burrowed ourselves far below rotating columns of air its twisting, turning vacuum leveling the barn, throwing tractors and pick-up trucks in four directions, setting them down in cornfields where ripe husks opened wide, absorbed seismic shocks, fashioned random crop circles as we siblings & I huddled tight atop damp dirt. It's been over thirty years
and now her face is as worn as a homeless man's old pair of shoes from too many toxic substances. Age has withered him too as he observes her world-weary hands shake like leaves in the breeze. Oh, how swiftly the years fly by : he remembers being entranced by her youthful beauty like a Botticelli painting but now only when she smiles a trace remains. She always appears youthful in his sleep knowing his obsession...was only skin deep. The sun shines brightly
Please sing your heart out, everyone, for the world to hear As a child I learnt
British Sign Language I still can say Pink Blue Please Thank you and F off As I saunter across the pebbles
of Penarth beach next to the pier my thoughts conjure Kathleen Thomas who at only twenty years of age became the first to swim the Channel from Penarth to Weston-super-Mare. Due to the tide the distance between shores became twice as long. What elation she must have experienced as she reached the sands of Weston. I watch the placid waves sizzle on this somnolent, sunny spring day and seem to view Kathleen Thomas' ghost beginning her swim from the South Wales coast. |
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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