One thing you need to understand:
This ain't Hollywood.
|Friday Flash Fiction||
This is the L.A. Mafia.
One thing you need to understand:
This ain't Hollywood.
Ambient air currents
entice geese in flight.
Migrating Honking. Honking.
Honking. Honking. Honking.
Lightweight sky squadron
of three rotate leadership
the skein overhead defies
gust resistance…feathers float
on tailwinds, lead bird inching
forward, honking, encouraging
communicating, pulling each
avian crisis like an andon cord,
leaving no impaired fowl behind--
only flapping wings creating lift.
Under a night sky
They dance around the tombstones
With bones that rattle
I have been meticulously built, and I flow.
I have a tale to tell that will truly melt your heart.
Or I might be tough, using fear to gain attention.
But get it wrong, I'm going nowhere from the start.
My font must be Times New Roman, size twelve, double spaced.
There's the title, word count, and a bio, slightly tweaked.
I'm a copy. There are more like me orbiting cyberspace.
One might land if an editor's interest can be piqued.
Times are different, all has changed, walls are closing in.
The pandemic caused a lot of people who were bored,
to remember we were each meant to have a novel in us.
Subsequently, this begat a whirling, swirling writing hoard.
However, it won't be long before a string of rejections,
will separate the keyboard wheat from the chaff, so to speak.
Those who bounce back, edit and re-write each sentence,
if then published, will experience something quite unique.
She is overlooking Dawlish beach
observing the hypnotic swell
of the blue ocean at full-tide
remembering, remembering long ago
when they stared together at this view
before the great flood and new concrete wall.
They sat on a bench watching the sea
on a summer's day eyes full of hope,
just as well the future is unknown.
She admires the red cliffs
peering down at the quaint harbour
Exmouth far in the distance
then she imagines viewing his ghost
high above the picturesque Devon coast.
Who am I?
What will I do?
So much to figure out!
The joy of being a child!
Puberty strikes, hormones rush violently, emotions seethe.
My blood settles, I ease myself into adulthood.
I survey the world, bend it to my will.
I am glorious, living at the height of my powers.
Then, unawares, I fall from the grace of youth.
Life becomes a comfortable routine, possibilities close down.
The repetition lets time pass easily, unnoticed.
Then the end seems uncomfortably close!
What was it all about?
I still don’t know!
So many regrets!
flirting winds rustle
She should have more recognition,
this tragic and beautiful poet
who once drank martinis with Sylvia Plath
on Massachusetts afternoons.
Anne Sexton wrote Confessional classics
such as "The Truth the Dead Know"
and "Mercy Street", far too young to go
into the arms of The Grim Reaper
at just 46 years old
gassing herself in her mother's fur coat.
The psychiatrist had advised her to write
in order to placate the mental torture
but it wasn't enough in the end,
terrible scars...too powerful to mend
The cobbles have caught the rain in hexagonal polled patterns
green water rushing out to sea salutes the staithes in passing
slab cut steel silhouettes the history from submarines to wind power
the old jetty watches the blades describe giant swathes of energy
as breezes carry the scent of vinegar reminding me of lunch...
I two and six myself into the queue amongst the other battered hopefuls
uneven glass distorts the old lighthouse highlighting 'salt water baths'
memorials like ancient guards tell stories of Spion Kop and Dunkirk
Wensleydale Terrace to the bandstand, stone bollards promenade
the beach road sugared with sand describes the arc of the bay
toward the beach huts the colour of fishing cottages catching the light
sword grass in the dunes wave tourists past the shore battery
navigating the walked links, a final glimpse of Blyth masts in the distance
My coat is toasty warm
The temperature is deliciously cool
Birds chatter in the trees
Across the dirt path
A white rabbit runs swiftly
I will wait my turn
An old shed, a cold shed
A spider-webs and mould shed
But it's my shed, my place to escape
Through the roof I see stars
Through the walls I feel haars
I'm inside yet I'm out, part of the landscape
Cliff top view, the smell of mildew
Waves roar and thunder, fill me with wonder
I can breathe again, shed the red tape
As the curtains are not completely closed
and they open enough to slide through,
she comes into the room,
when she sees him coming up to her,
throwing her arms around his neck
and drawing him close to her,
who’s wearing a dress,
elegant and majestic,
a train of silver light trailing behind her,
lit to form a pathway
that seems to lead to the moon,
measured a length
that seems to be made for a grand entrance
into the eternal light.
Wild trackless waste of reed and marsh grass a landscape where only the weather moves
its only inhabitants the Fell ponies, shaggy manes, long unkept tales, warm oily coats
they move with the cloud and as varied colours, huddling, frisking, fighting, mating, feeding
only the sky sees their wandering lives and the odd walker with a spare apple
ancient war horse of the Britons now indentured and counted by dim controlling bureaucracy
too busy conserving wild plants, the ponies are invisible on PC's no prizes for saving wilder things
a majesty of existence strangled, modern things have tags and numbers
can we not leave some parts uncounted?
This 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.