| Friday Flash Fiction |
|
|||
|
Always aching for something deeper –
beneath the ego, pride and superciliousness was the longing for soul intimacy: nothing transpired – she was too worldly for sentimentality and he was rather implacable. Heel and toe on our pavements every single day
we wear them for work and we wear them for play there's brogues and two-tones, golf ones too our status revealed in a leather cut shoe marching with armies, flying in planes or dancing and tripping to Irish refrains slip ons' and lace ups depending on taste they save our feet and increase our haste I look out
Through the broken eyes of the gutted concrete fortress. Below tiny people scuttle Obeying time Tiny people Deplore my fortress. Content with their riches they hurry through grey streets Obeying time I look up Through those broken window eyes to see a clear blue sky And lie back amidst sunbeams Ignoring time. a white butterfly
flutters by garden netting lands on sundew plant Rain pounds the pavement
Water streams down my back I forget my umbrella The fog over the bog, choking
I stand on the edge, taking in the natural splendor The silence paralyzing, the smell overpowering The dewdrops twinkle, the grass as shiny as the stars The frog’s baritone-like croak disrupts my trance I wonder what the other world looks like The land beyond the fog, ethereal I take in a deep breath, touching the foggy wall The sulfurous smell engulfs me, madness Volcano or magic, land or water? As I walk, I see a dragon’s silhouette, swallowing me whole Fire, lightning, and thunder, the land down under And now, when I look back, I realize The fog an illusion, life’s labyrinth? The dragon, friend, or foe? The frog, king, or jester? Will-o’-the-wisp, magnificent, magical, life’s essence Think about it!
Think about what life has to offer. Opportunities to create and make Rather than destroy, And take nothing in life For granted. Grant oneself the wish To become a real person With thoughts and feelings. Feel hope From the rays of the sun Because this day is the only one, And after something has begun, Attempt to finish To accomplish From pondering the possibilities! Once I was a dust
which fell down to Earth. Now, I'm just an earthling too proud to stay, too patriotic to escape. A mortal being in mortal fear of being mortal. Waiting to become a dust once again. But not yet. The devil stares
And the bells chime The monks are serving Hard times The men die The women cry And the moon in the meadow Is like a thorn in my side from a cluttered pot
a purple flower peeks out the blush of summer On Sunday July 4th, this nation will celebrate
Its freedom, centuries ago, from mighty European Masters. “All men are created equal,” Quoted the free nation’s Declaration of Independence. But those words remained eternally hollowed. Originally stolen from Africa for slavery, Black citizens were freed by “Honest Abe”, taking a bullet in head. Burdened with poverty and inequality, blacks remained inferior. Racism allowed lynching, race-riots and massacres George Floyd, the last victim just rolled in his grave. Overseas, the nation had immersed in faraway wars From Vietnam to Afghanistan, bringing misery in those lands. But, this year’s festivities will celebrate Voting out an empathetic, classless, repugnant wannabe dictator Bringing hope and faith in a democracy for the rest of the world. We have a cottage on Loch Lomond, I row
we have bacon and salt, with an eager bow sentry our house has three windows and a water-butt I row back to that cottage, your washing again I watch you pegging it out, lovely when bending landing with groceries, you make tea by our warm hearth you paint, I write, and we garden, growing magical herbs drinking wine by firelight, your eyes glow wearily we tread those boards again, into rapture and sleep... Her thoughts are interrupted
by a grey squirrel scurrying across the garden. It has a purpose scouring the grass for sustenance, a beautiful specimen fortunate to be so blissfully unaware of painful memories and despair. It halts for a while to survey the scene not knowing if it is immortal just living for this moment in time. She envies the squirrel as she resides on the tired bench which holds such memories and with world-weary eyes she peers around but the squirrel is nowhere to be found. |
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. Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any poems – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear. 
Archives
November 2024
|
