| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Fear the dark, malevolent rage,
blackened tar that stains your soul. Retribution will not help your case. His blood will not ease your pain. The search to fill the hole he left, the temptation to fill it with hate and his blood will drive you naught but insane. signs and initials
of lovers through history an oak tree's secret A twenty years occupation of a faraway historic land,
Three trillion dollars spent for the “war on terror” and “spreading democracy” Your mighty military just surrendered to a regional extremist group. The effort of two decades evaporated in a matter of a week. Soldiers escaping, leaving behind countless patriotic collaborators To be slaughtered by the madmen of the conquerors. Similar defeat in Vietnam, two score years ago The scene of army helicopters packed with defeated soldiers, Escaping from the rooftop of the Saigon embassy. History repeating itself, now from the rooftop of Kabul embassy. Oh America, the world’s oldest democracy Why didn’t your leaders learn from Russia’s defeat in the same land?  A walk in an elemental graveyard unsettling in its 'not quite dead' feeling
as you circumnavigate the stone garden, faces follow in quartzite curiosity sculpted decades of wind and rain, structures hold knowledge magnetically strangeness of a neolithic place of worship we can't seem to quite remember no phone signal distraction just the hairs gently lifting on the necks nape walking through this dead ground expressions slip and change grotesquely natural things become spiritual, blooms of lichen with strange amber iris eyes the same feeling in a shop with a manikin standing behind you things are seldom what they seem, childhood phobias slyly visit our souls Brimham Rocks release fear like a generator magnifying our senses Nidderdale; an ancient place where older gods rule mist shrouded moors... If the zebra
doesn't see it it's simply not cheating. It was not Bobby Charlton
nor Georgie Best I adored the most from the famous team in red. No, it was a wee blond Scot who I tried to emulate on the park but failed miserably I have to say in my youthful days...now far, far away. The iconic moment he back-heeled the ball into United's net when playing for City stands out, he left the field in tears, United relegated. How tragic that he is afflicted by double dementia but his life is a wonderful story, a golden player enshrined with glory. She came to Cardiff from Bristol town
to fly over the Channel in an air show but Neptune was despicable that day blowing the balloon off course. Louisa Maud Evans was only fourteen, what horrors she must have felt crashing into the indifferent sea 125 years ago. Now she reposes in Cathays Cemetery, her body discovered three days later at Nash, in the vicinity of Newport one minute soaring free amongst the clouds and the next moment being blown to her doom, the Channel a temporary tomb. Hip Hop didn't just come
knocking at the door it kicked it down like a lawless government gang. Opportunity wasn't given it it created it and took it whilst flipping the bird. Meet me at midnight on the far shore
where fireflies compete with solar systems lighting up black holes—twinkling, twinkling twinkling—giving us time to recline on close-cut fields of barley & rye, plan for the future, reminisce about the past, understand creation’s feet touch down momentarily—at best—in this place & time while we bask in immediate heavenly sights yet glance off into the distance, uncertain the adjacent coastline’s really been lost in squalor & if plans for escaping our youthful cradle amount to rebellious journeys, haphazardly driven by impulse, desire, aspiration-- wistful fancy incessantly longing for exception.  Rubber wheels are turning
jet blast drowning screams fuselage is moving forward it's bursting at the seams Rubber wheels are turning picking up more speed scrabbling fingers imploring ignoring humanities need Rubber wheels are turning skipping across tarmac thanks for all the help but...we're never coming back! Oh, thee serpentine-like dragons
Thine fire shan’t smolder us We wield the Excalibur Thine doom inevitable Gather ye demons, while ye may Thine poison arrows can’t provoke us Do as foul deeds as ye may, corrupting thine souls We hold our ground in the wake of the tsunami Ye can’t provoke us, try as ye may, despite thy spite As resolute as the divine rock, the citadel of our divinity Thine kingdom shall fall, the inner blazing fire to dust Thou shall not pass, as iron rusts into harmless smut Why are thee so cross? Why can’t thee stand happiness? Oh, thine corrupt soul, obscene, the abyss of darkness Ye aren’t the center of the universe; it was never about thee Learn to see others’ divinity, the architecture of belief as this virus spreads,
heroic people don masks to save people's lives |
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. 
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