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Artifice, by Alex Andy Phuong

25/12/2020

 
Deviously
Chillin’
Like a villain
Heroes sometimes lose
But never underestimate
What people do
For behavior
Is character

The Last Letter, by Guy Fletcher

25/12/2020

 
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.

The Blue Pool, by Guy Fletcher

24/12/2020

 
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.

George, by Miya Yamanouchi

24/12/2020

 
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.

Under a Sunset Moon, by Guy Fletcher

19/12/2020

 
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.

Store, by Alex Andy Phuong

18/12/2020

 
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

Christmas Ghosts, by Liz Heron

15/12/2020

 
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.

What They Don't Tell You After the Party, by Kenneth Edmonds

15/12/2020

 
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.

From Darkness to Light, by Jerilyn Kadison

15/12/2020

 
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

Silent Night, by Guy Fletcher

11/12/2020

 
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.

Academy, by Alex Andy Phuong

11/12/2020

 
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

Transcendence, by Ian Fletcher

4/12/2020

 
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.

The Origin of Friday Flash Fiction (in a 100-word sentence), by Carl Palmer

2/12/2020

 
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.

    Poetry

    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.

    Poems submitted should be
    no longer than 160 words
    and contain
    no more than 16 lines.

    100 words remains the approximate target...

    AND SO THEREFORE:
    We have decided
    We really don't like haikus
    They're not proper verse.


    Please submit using the Poetry Submissions Page.


    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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