Deviously
Chillin’
Like a villain
Heroes sometimes lose
But never underestimate
What people do
For behavior
Is character
Chillin’
Like a villain
Heroes sometimes lose
But never underestimate
What people do
For behavior
Is character
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There are tears forming in his eyes
as he writes a letter on a basic desk, the last letter to his family professing adoration for his boys. Is this the man who ran the trains leading millions to their deaths? He did not halt the transports even when Himmler ordered him to cease yet does not appear like a monster, no frothing at the mouth with insane eyes. Oh, the banality of evil a phrase synonymous with Eichmann and soon under an Israeli sky a balding man will be taken to die. I stroll in the winter sunshine
past picturesque Castell Coch : a fake fairy-tale castle constructed by the Marquis of Bute. In Fforest Fawr lies the Blue Pool, legacy of an old iron mine and nowadays boarded-up. But I remember back as a youth coming here with a long departed friend believing tales of ghosts of the drowned conducting a séance on a warm afternoon yet the only spirits now are two boys who sought to conjure up the dead, one gone and one an ageing man instead. Your phone had been off for days.
I called the hospital to see if you were there, not expecting you actually would be. Gave the lady your name, not thinking I’d hear: “intensive care, love.” Messaged your brother, not ready for: “induced coma, darl.” This isn’t you. You who at 61, sprints to betting houses without breaking a sweat, who traipses 50km daily just to feed the cats, who carries boulders for a living, who does 100 pushups in quick succession. This isn’t you. And you have to wake up. Mountain clouds are painted
orange and gold in the sunset sky as the sun casts its last shadows. Starlings bend across the oval moon which is indifferent to his woes for the reason he stares above is that her eyes have lost their love. Light fades and clouds shed their alluring colours returning to an urban grey. There is a chill in the autumn air. They wander streets in silence when once they said so much yet now...they do not even touch. It could be a chore
To visit a store But still salute The ones who provide Salutations As customer service Requires both Patience and speed While these workers Serve anyone in need Crunching along the canal path, breath visible still
Icicles on the bridge fuelling expectation Anticipation growing; boots unable to keep pace Protesting, the wooden, icebound gate resisting our eagerness, the icy path beckoning We tumble past granny A crackling fire throwing up magical sparks, illuminating a sea of parcels Christmas Eve. The spinster aunt emerges, smiling Lovingly she removes his leather cap, earflaps first Beaming innocence, he had not yet lost his way The icing on the wholesome Christmas cake this gift of giving Two children, two suitcases filled with love Laden, we trudge homeward, snow swirling in the lamplight. he has to remember to drink water in the morning.
this is not an innocent habit. he is glad his hands do not shake any more. that was a not so subtle reminder that he didn't drink water. THEN he knew water had its place. it cooled the open sores where acid pooled washed the stale scent of bile off his teeth, thinning from corrosion. NOW he understands that he has been marked the vultures trailing his scent. he still struggles to drink water in the morning. Oh heed these words - do not despair
The end of your suffering is near As we forge on your journey - take my hand You are not alone – do not despair Have courage - trust -we’re going back to go forward We go into the cave - first dark - then a glimmer of hope We clean the wounds - let them go - do not despair Illumination is here – the end of your suffering is near Electric blue and white snowballs peer
sadly down on St Mary Street, there's only the sound of weeping rain from pre-Christmas Cardiff rooftops surely a parallel universe for it's late on a weekend evening and raucous revellers by rights should roam but, alas, most people are trapped at home. Will a ghost choir fill the midnight gloom singing carols from St John's Church? A lone drunkard zig-zags by the castle throwing his empty can with fury, there's no-one to listen to his rants as he breaks the silence of the night but the illuminated reindeers do not care as a distant siren punctures the air. Educational institution
Cinematic judges Of artistic achievement Beauty all around That surrounds The learned For utilizing the mind Can help the ones Willing to learn Appreciate the sublime I am too old to harbour
the delusions of youth or the fraught ambitions of tortuous middle age and though my hopes have all come to naught evaporated like the dew I have crossed at last that shadow line that borders death’s domain where the sure knowledge of my own annihilation frees me from regretting the paths trod or untrod in my ever receding past as now I have transcended all petty desires and fears having escaped the prison of the self and may simply look at the sea, stars or trees for my soul to be at ease. Gordon Lawrie,
teacher, author, publisher and editor from Edinburgh, capital of Scotland, tells us on his Comely Bank Publishing page LinkedIn was an online social media site, a sort of Face-Book for business people, where professionals and wannabes would promote themselves, also like on Face-Book, with a section called Discussions, again like Face-Book’s Messenger, where in 2013 a challenge was issued to post a 100-word story that following Friday receiving only a couple replies the first week, a dozen the next and within two months thousands of entries arrived prompting Gordon to create his wildly famous website, Friday Flash Fiction. |
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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