| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Quite right
In the heat of the night Even when darkness descends One can still make amends Not quite sure What lies ahead Even when lying in bed But upon awakening Getting up Is truly a decision To stand up Quite frankly The heroin alarm went off
when they landed from Lithuania they searched all the passengers who tried to enter Australia They read them their rights warned them of addiction mania "it is against the law to smuggle drugs into Australia" Imagine their surprise while searching baggage's interior false linings and fake bottoms and the scent of drugs inferior There were...trainers full of cocaine and bags full of paraphernalia needles, powder, bong pipes to addict most of Australia Border guards are ruthless if you hide drugs in your regalia "you will end up in prison staying much longer in Australia!" November mist rolls in the valley
obscuring the distant Quantock hills. A robin perches on the branch of a silver birch where only a few leaves desperately cling, survivors of autumnal storms. But now it is beautiful: my breath like the mist itself floating into the deep blue ether, the wind has grown silent. It is a time to relish existence as morning dew shines like stars. These rare dry days in the midst of the Fall are truly the loveliest of all. It is the 1830s
and two lighthouses at Nash Point warn ships of the Channel's peril. The sea cares nothing for virtue devouring both evil and good and those who lie inbetween. Yes, lighthouses were built but came too late to stop the steamer Frolic's awful fate. 78 perished including Captain Jenkins, victims of infifferent stormy seas the Bristol Channel becoming a tomb and when the wind whistles on Nash Point you can hear the ghosts of the doomed, a reminder of the power of nature and that we are helpless and oh so small, really of no significance at all. There is no right time
To commit atrocious crimes Please use time wisely Unmoving
in that evening sky twinkling like landing lights an aircraft? A satellite? White noise? Over that house with the strange stairs Turquoise evening with that unerring something twinkling like thoughts of you Cool skin and twined sheets rumpling in pleasure sweat and heat joined like twins Tracing that bead of moisture down your neck to that wetness licking salt and caramel I see that sky and feel light with yearning my souls on fire Babylon is burning... Your leader steered from great to hate
Allowed unrest to permeate Encouraged men to segregate And brought the world to tears In only four short years He misdirected, cheated, lied Awash with arrogance and pride Until the Country's soul had died And he'd estranged his peers In only four short years Our world will not forget his rule How apathy allowed a fool To tarnish what was once a jewel With mockery and jeers In only four short years How will you now regain respect And counteract so much neglect Let human kindness take effect And quieten all our fears We give you four short years.
I could see the white towers miles away:
a tribute to brave Canadians who fought in the battle of Vimy Ridge but perished in their thousands. Colossal statues including Canada Bereft who gazes upon fields of death and screams, frightened lads with broken bodies and dreams yet the ground is green now when once it was filthy and brown, stained with the blood of so many dying in a foreign land decades before their time and in these sad times of isolation let's pray for humankind's salvation. Say a little prayer for those now lost,
Their ship in seas of torment tossed, Torn asunder, ripped apart By the lust for glory, fame and greed Of one whose darkened heart Set out to feed Humanity's basest traits A toxic stew of lies and hate. Is that light in the darkness dawn or fire? Who knows? The world can only watch and wait But more in sorrow and despair Than in any hope this soon will end. All the world feels tension in the air – We have so little faith in those On whom the future will depend. Not my country, not my home, I weep for thee as though my own. Letters intrude, outside world plopping on your mat
bills, from strangers uncaring demand things telephones ring endlessly, cold callers full of enthusiasm takeaway leaflets promising forbidden delights which when explored, deliver cold lifeless porridge e-bay saviour of the psyche, Christmas every three days news reader delivers bad tidings with a desultory smile weather girl grinning expounds tidal news of epic proportions she wonders what she'll cook for tea, and if 'he'll' be there? Drinking wine and thinking your life is much better from the bottle bottom, you start envying the cat and so to bed, dreaming dreams of unfulfilled nothing... The painting by des Landes
entices me into its very soul with a young woman who seems to have lost all innocence displaying a dead bird with her worker's hands, messenger of the gods, a crow, they used to kill the messenger, you know. The birch trees behind are painted not from reality but as if a dream their leaves mirroring the villager's hair, the bodies of crows strewn like corpses on a battlefield. There is disdain and sadness on her face, no hint of joy...in this awful place. War that serves only politicians,
Their shelter from suffering, paid for by too many lives. Some souls are easily sold. Sacrificed by strangers. Innocents die for some cause. And next of kin hope that no news is good news. Our protests are ignored, differences met by violence, instead of finding understanding. How much suffering must there be, until we realise this is not the way, we ward off this abominable evil? As they try to take our spirit, we must pray for peace. It was a vision that forced me into another world, the dream world.
It became my world. A world of illusions. A world I could not escape. A world that made little sense to me. Then she appeared. Her voice whispering like running water. Her eyes, sinister, inviting. Her spirit, captivating. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. She reached for me. I reached for her. She laughed, pulling me into her dimension. Into her exciting world. There was no escape. Like a wayward spirit. I disappeared into that world. A world of unmentionable, pleasure, passion, and love. “Where are my socks?”
“On your feet.” “No, the ones I just bought.” “I don’t know.” “Where are my glasses?” “On your head.” “No, my reading glasses.” “I don’t know.” “Where are my pants?” “You’re wearing them.” “No, the ones I wear to church.” “In the closet.” “Where’s my heart?” “Is this a trick question? It’s in your chest. At least I hope it’s in your chest.” “Nope, it’s not there.” “Then where is it?” “I gave it to you when I asked you to marry me.” “And I gave you mine.” “Best trade we ever made.” |
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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September 2023
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