| Friday Flash Fiction |
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Tiny drops of water make a stream,
every single drop fizzles an empty cup. I am but a speck of dust in this vast, loud world, with a voice crisp enough to be heard. I see her less and less these days
moving away through white muslin losing her, day by lonely day her careless laugh, a blown kiss further and further away in folds of a waking dream He tried to warn me, Newman told me of wet face kisses that wrench of sudden parting May and September months apart especially, it would seem by frogs migratory ponds Tiring easily of stolen moments leaving a trail of bread crumbs looking for that elusive something that doesn't exist, books lie about love always missing the sum total he said it would hurt... he was right! What is that siren’s call I hear,
Coming through so loud and clear? From the cupboard and the fridge A vision I cannot abridge. All the various ways ‘tis sold In ice cream or in candied mold. Numerous cakes and pies galore All of which I do adore. Some by Godiva, some by Nestle, Even Teuscher is heaven to me. Sometimes it is paired with caramel Other times with nuts, incomparable! Some would claim I am addicted And my consumption should be restricted. But I say that this magnificent bean Will always be a part of my cuisine. It looked like a long wooden wagon,
As we walked through it down, Around apple and cherry trees became skyscrapper- to hold the bridge of little semilunar. It was one greatest exploration, to walk through the bridge of suspension. A foamy sea was flowing below- which made our vision narrow. Trees were poking out their heads through the jungle- They were creating great obstacle- But we followed the way of a turtle- which made our way possible. We dragged out the hard branches, They made our way adventurous with hurdles, We walked over- And became the great explorer! Inside the Auction House where Art
is measured up and sold, the true purpose of it is found in small amounts of gold. The place the rich compete to steal the heritage of Rome, exhibiting their taste for friends who roll their eyes and groan. And all the starving artists dream, from shoebox apartments, of fame inside the Auction House, to cloak their scrappy garments. Perhaps, one day they’ll find waiting a little gilded note. Invited to the grand charade to earn a simple banknote. Mouths open, a circle of darkness
where the stones of hatred live tears course as easily as rain when lips move in anger Heels clip-clop noisily away hips sway in haughty rebuttal body language of rejection lives severed by hasty surgery later in lonely rooms they lick different wounds cursing God...blaming the other when really, it was just words Taxis have a lot to answer for an evenings autopsy on a too long idle journey simmers many broken pots... Life is finite
Terminal I don’t know How or when Will there be a beckoning ivory shadow or will my light flicker and disappear Eternal peace or nothingness I hope Pray Dream Fight Cry Acquiesce In the end The end To the tune of Sandi Thom's "I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair."
I wish I were a retiree without a single care, I’d move around the countryside or go OS somewhere I wouldn’t rush I’d take my time there’s so much world to see Oh I wish I were a retiree enjoying being free. I wish I were a retiree not just a working wife I’d cut my hair and buy a car and get on with my life I’d leave each winter chase the sun, I never would be cold Oh I wish I were a retiree enjoying growing old I wish I were a retiree I wouldn’t work too hard I’d write and read and maybe paint and watch him in the yard We’d breakfast late and watch the birds, we’d lunch under our tree Oh I wish I were a retiree enjoying being me. The path is an elusive thing, you don't chose it
many seek it, but few find it, they think it promises power Newman warned in his book 'it will burn your soul' the path is divergent, it chose me long ago walking towards it without even knowing now I'm it's creature, shunning the light more comfortable in shadow born into melancholia I was the perfect candidate spelling before I knew how, which is a dangerous thing the path gave me a nudge to firmly bind me to it's arcanity write your own world and you will have power beyond measure... A face drawn with scattered dirt
in a cold winter long ago smiling was forbidden in the place where smiling stood grins and pretty faces, fruit posing Pan, nymphs and gamboling lambs all the world in oil, and framed hiding in the dark...with salt many lighter squares on walls stolen with the people to places far away wheelchairs tipped from balcony height broken faces on cobbles where no-one cared only a face, drawn with scattered dirt... These are moments, surreal,
all things in stasis. She envies a couple arguing and the trauma will never heal. Mortality has been broken apart like a fallen fluorescent tube, his eyes betraying sadness and fear with a furious drumbeat in her heart. Suffering had barely infected her life, the cosy world of restaurants, art galleries and midnight bars has been severed by fate's knife. Now the world is back at its usual pace quite indifferent to their plight, shock has protected her so far but then a tear...rolls down her face. I've beaten the sale target
at my local supermarket I have more toilet tissue in case I have an issue while I'm virtually waiting and not incubating it is most desirous that I beat this virus I went panic shopping committed over stocking a bath full of eels for emergency meals hoarded medication to ward off inflation I've got so much pasta in case of disaster bought enough beans to fill several tureens I haven't forgotten over buying is rotten robs those in need because of my greed I guess I'm going to hell where I'm panic buying as well Under a deep blue Aegean sky
a thin layer of spring frost lies on the silent golf course like stubble on an old man’s face. The lethargic sun rises and turns it into shining diamonds and I find the scene loosens the shackles of my mind. Shadows dance from trees like ghosts and a seagull dives into the pond creating hypnotic transient ripples. I imagine golfers here long ago escaping from stress for a while watching the white ball darting through the air, their time has gone…but the sun does not care. A squirrel turned the street corner,
I focussed on it either- it would turn the other way sooner. Its small arms were kicking up snow, I lowered my head to be low, And did not let it go. A gust of wind shook it's body- And I took it on my arm unabashedly. Previous days The streets were clogged with vehicles, The squirrel might not be so reckless. Back to nowadays Roads are lone due to Corona lockdown, Within my grip- the squirrel tried to leap- I loosened my palm and it jumped down. On these dark times a rocket launched
from the Kennedy space center into an azure American sky soaring like a shooting star to the ISS. What a mixture of fear and adrenaline For the two astronauts locked inside following heroes in the sky who've died. Yes, the spirit of adventure of these men is a wonder to us earthbound ones, the perils of the impervious universe true isolation in a brittle machine, the ultimate roller coaster ride yet their eyes will be met with such a view of the troubled, lovely planet of blue. Under burning rays
of a merciless sun that beats down from azure skies they hurl their caps into the air hoping they will soar higher and higher defying the laws of gravity as if they have not a care in the world so sure of the future bring what it may they would not heed advice from such as I for indeed this is their day and my voyage is ending while theirs has just begun. Whenever you see one
you want to join the line never even knowing if they'll have it in this time whatever your after they'll have it on board? You must do your penance to earn your just reward keeping social distance fiddling with your phone at least when your queueing you know your not alone finally...your at the front it's time to buy that beer the fire alarm starts sounding "Please keep the building clear!" My kingdom is beneath the bridge
A shopping trolley One wheel gone Another contorted, looking to escape I should tell him there's no escape I've tried before, it's not possible A striped companion His zipper stronger than plastic Is keeper of the treasury His sturdiness attracts conflict Beckons thieves Invites hostility They come Avarice in their eyes Snarling, we joust for my chattels Broken umbrella thrusting Screaming insanely "Mine, they're mine" They slink off... The steel General and I victorious His crooked wheels stood firm We reign For this night In our Kingdom beneath the bridge As was normal,
they stopped at 10am, called it peacy time; came down from scaffolding, up from ground holes, off from ladders. They would leave gloves and hard hats on makeshift tables; boards strung between perches. Flasks poured hot tea, rolls came out of boxes, jokes were shared, hands warmed. Their peace hut was wherever they could make it. When a house was watertight, the peace hut moved indoors. Then, there was this one time, when curly fries were cooked in an oven, shared hot. Tea mugs were washed in the dishwasher. They reminisced of that day. I passed a squashed rat
on the road some truck or car’s wheel having flattened it into oblivion like a steamrolled character in an absurd Disney cartoon though this poor creature will never rise up again its frenetic activity erased in an instant leading me to think our little lives amount to but this, more or less, when all is said and done, one moment full of purpose scurrying about our business yet in the twinkling of an eye extinguished into nothingness. A months rain
has fallen in 24 hours the water furious plumes and cascades forcing through the rocks pulverising the stones below who watch nearly worn away next year they will be gone nearer the top hatchet nosed and angry facing the full force shouting silently in water roaring debate they face the sawmill of corrosive water worn into angrier form bared teeth and wild eyes their argument continues lower down in swirling pools algae grows feeding dippers birds and fish as the rage relents it sparkles encouragingly salmon spawn herons angle until the rain comes again... the very fibers of the water,
trees, and plants stretch, fold over themselves, tear and rip apart a gaping hole left, the stars of the night sky peeking through; entered with hopes of understanding transported to a garden on the other side of the Earth, the same solemn tree above the listless water, the dreary clouds whose tears now stream from my own eyes relishing every second of the confusion until a step forward is taken - no longer willingly chained in place I come to. She walks the lonely woods
picking coloured pebbles from a stream bed a nest wind blown goes into her bag wooden shapes like faces pine cones she will paint later the woods are quiet no-one comes here so things lie undisturbed once long ago fingers protruded now long moss grows as birth creates renewal so does decay mushroom and wild garlic patient years and long shadows until the collector collecting the unusual to decorate her home her pockets are full of feathers a bird fascination collaged into crows to keep stuffed owls and dancing mice company the woods are coming home... "Things fall apart" - Yeats. All is calm under the antarctic sun:
seagulls and sea lions scavenge then there's a crack like a giant creaking gate and the towering ice sheet collapses ensuring the sea is briefly wild. The people in the boat have mixed feelings: this is some scoop, a photograph to behold but tragedy in the land of the cold. Nothing is permanent, "thing's fall apart," and next day all is tranquil again, distant clouds like the ghost of the mighty ice-cliff that's fallen. Icebergs drift and the blue ice has retreated but still far from finished yet thousands of miles away on the shore the water creeps up... Just a little more. |
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. 100 words remains the approximate target. Archives
September 2020
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