| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
According to brave Mutter Fierling and contrary to cerebral belief, it is the lumpen northeast wind and rarely ever the erudite sun, that dries up the vapid puddle. Arrived a little late, but I felt this deserved immediate publication. I can't ever recall any previous submission by one of our authors about another – Editor. From the kaleidoscope of hidden tragedies-
Personal losses unseen, unshared, unknown- She pulls the threads, and spins them into stories. Drops of blood flow out from mind to pen, Stained by the gamut of human emotions; She gathers them up, shares them with the world. Her careful capture of the human cost Shatters our complacence; piercing shards Shred through our blinkers, demand that we should see. I skim the latest Friday submissions, And sigh with relief to see her name is there. She is still alive. Still serving her people As best she can.  (Photo: (Great Karoo, Cape Province, South Africa, 1983 – by the author) There is a road in the hinterland,
Running straight, like a grey riband, Where I lost my soul one day, at noon, By the hands of a wicked man. 'No-one can hear you scream,' he sneered, 'And none will believe what you say. What kind of woman hitches a ride In a place where the caracal prey?' The heat arose from the swelt'ring tar And shone like a stream in the sun While around me stretched scorched wilderness And I knew there was nowhere to run. So I poked him with my Bowie knife - His shrieks scratched the sky as he fell - And, as night moved in with its scavengers, I strode down that road through Hell. Quixotic dreams disturb restful slumber
I cling to Michelle Pfeiffer’s ebon jersey as we tumble into mustard green fields. Rolling in trampled stalks, her murmurs transform from playful purrs to caterwauls and hisses, feline meows to full red lip kisses. Both our bodies liquefy like Dali’s melting clocks, leaving me in delirium ecstasy unable to grasp my consort clad in a Batman Returns t-shirt. The DC dreamtime favorite endlessly morphs sporting multiple lives, teasing mutual curiosity as she pours her body into Selina Kyle's catsuit. Mesmerized, I’m hooked and imagine sensuous claws itching my back, stimulating nerves like a cat-o’-nine-tails gratifying signals to an emotionally starved brain. She walked with style and grace in haste
first time in heels, the streets she graced, pulled-up her chin fretting to not stumble, even when her ankles begin to grumble. Though griping she reached her destination, dazed. High up on the hills above Cardiff
lies an unprepossessing mound. It is hard to imagine this was once an 11th century castle transforming into a medieval fort so I stroll by a place of mystery in the very footsteps of history. The only living creatures there today are butterflies, insects and birds, too many brambles to reach the summit as branches hiss as if the spirits of long departed soldiers and more recent souls who have climbed up this verdant hill before but now do not walk the earth anymore. All those comic books
left behind in grandma's attic and photo albums sprinkled with heavy dust... Open them and you will find yourself again in the old toy box which is called Nostalgia. But you are so much younger now, abandoned, helpless, broken, forgotten, with the bitter taste in your mouth.  She retreats to St. John's Gardens,
an oasis in the heart of Cardiff, finches twitter and scavenge along with the ubiquitous seagulls. Ancient St. John's Church peers from behind verdant trees and on this quiet September Monday morning only an old fellow resides on a bench perhaps lost in days gone by as rainbow flowers gently wave from picturesque flower beds. She also sinks into the pages of the past sitting here with a lover long before who's vanished from her life...for evermore. Wake me up
and take me outside to gaze at the sunset, to walk on the nylon leaves, asphalt grass and broken glass. Inject into my brain a lethal dose of digital detox to clear my mind, before I go back to sleep, before I start counting electric sheep. Trudge, trudge, trudge:
every mile seems like a thousand on the indifferent mountain. I long for a hot cup of tea, the rain like a waterfall soaking me through into my very soul for this is torture not a gentle stroll and I fear falling from a precarious path sensing the ghosts of those who've perished here but suddenly the rain ceases and then appears a stupendous sight: the sun paints gold onto Striding Edge as dark clouds break apart like sea ice and a rainbow forms...as if paradise. They found the poet's bones
Long after he'd stopped writing. He died at home, alone, Beside his notebooks Full of lines Like the scars across his skull Later deciphered as a curse From humankind. Better known as Les Miserables.
Not much happened today, the golden boys of wage slavers rose up against their entrenched elders, wanted their cut of the unfair cut earlier. Alas, one of us was among the fallen: Gavroche, urchin of the back streets, slated to be our future leader. Dark sky pressing down
wind-whipped rain lashing windows warm fire, glass of wine comfortable chair, good book. Death can wait. I’m not ready. The official government website read:
AI preschool for the first five years of life or easy installation by chip Your choice! Prefrontal Cortex shaping via repeated and sustained internet exposure Vocabulary acquisition, social skill development, problem solving Response to guided stimuli in adolescence: established prompts already in place Incorporation via neural network: I am my mother and father Dendritic pathway synchrony for groups like “families” Our bioelectric selves: all physical functions generated by designative electrochemical signals Regeneration Comprehension Participation Conformity No more health issues! No more school! No more antisocial behaviors! Absolutely free! Who would ever oppose this lifetime opportunity? |
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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