hurrying down the sidewalk
on six spindly legs.
She enjoys her morning walk
as much as you enjoy yours.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Don’t step on that ant
hurrying down the sidewalk on six spindly legs. She enjoys her morning walk as much as you enjoy yours.
8 Comments
After weeks of dreary relentless rain
the sun is truly a glorious sight as I stroll in the cool crisp morning air. The grass is painted white and as the sun languidly rises it seems the fields are bedecked with jewels as innocuous clouds drift slowly by. Mist rolls over the golf course and my breath is like ectoplasm as a squirrel scurries up a tree with branches as if skeletal fingers. It is a fine moment to be alive with the frost mimicking snow and the weather beautiful...for now. I've got a Beretta
and I'm going to make my day better by making you deader Fragmented and pale, the antelope lies
Sprawled on the forest floor, And the wolf cubs howl at the gibbous moon As its ghost glides on before. Now dinner is done and bellies are full, The cold seems less horrendous And the bones of the winter sacrifice Are a presage of something tremendous. I view a heartbreaking photograph
of a mountain of glasses stacked in a doom-filled room. Each pair has a story to tell from a normal life and into Hell. I imagine sun-kissed days on the Continent: weddings, wine and laughter but then it all came down to this. The glasses are different shapes and sizes, some for women, men and children yet all speak of a terrible fate that we simply cannot comprehend. Yes, each pair has a story to tell from a normal life...and into Hell. Cast into a world of darkness,
the dusk sets me free. So many years, remembered, so many forgotten. I’ll meet you in the darkness. Hunt you in your dreams. I move within the shadows. It is abrupt for you to see. I take it from you without asking. You’ll clutch at my pale form. Your yielding flesh gives without tearing. Your warmth nourishes my needs. I bring you within death’s reach. Gazing into your lifeless eyes, reflecting what I’ve become, and what you are to me. I didn't go to the pub
I didn't go to the bookies I didn't get drunk I didn't place that bet at 100 to 1 The good old boys are having a wake for me again I did everything you asked I stayed at home with you But I'm in the doghouse again She ain't half yelling The good china always flying out of the kitchen I wish I had hearing aids just like my grandad So my batteries can always run flat A day late for Burns Night, of course, and sorry for the Scots. No apologies for the sentiments. Muckle, inflated, jumped-up numpty
Whit sortae packaging fills thy heidie? Ye’ve won the Republican race fror certain – For de Santis and Haley it’s surely the curtain. Ye mumble, ye stumble, ye drivel oan Yet yer followers worship ye like yer on a throne. Oan a throne? Maybe wan in a cludgie Where yer empty crap is safe in yer duchy. MAGA? Morons Are Germinating Again – Whit are ye planning this time when It doesnae gae yer way in November? Riots – even civil war– in December? For us o’er here it beggars belief That a liar and sex-pest could be commander-in-chief. Sae tae oor friends o’er there we send this letter: America – and the World – deserves better. Aurora Borealis is dazzling above us
but still no traces of snow under the feet. Here is only barren soil carried away by warm, ghostly breeze or washed by the rain. My kids hardly remember the touch of Ice and Frost. And our sled is locked in the shed years ago. Now we make snowflakes from styrofoam because there’s nothing left to do. Even the poor old Santa lost his job years ago. I miss you, Snowman... So welcome, Mudman. In the cattail marsh
Yellow-winged blackbirds declare Summer’s arrival It is the little person who suffers
when huge corporations are rotten and this led to suicides, breakdowns, prison and, of course, enormous debt. It took a TV drama to awaken the horror and anger of a nation after decades of grief and frustration. Alan Bates was one of the little people who rose to become a giant and now we can watch the bosses squirm yet it's far too late to say sorry. The real culprits should be incarcerated and victims' paid proper compensation after decades of grief and frustration. He got out of the shower
had food then fell asleep He was out cold stone cold dead until the morning when he rose like the sun Sun
bursts appear muted though a cataract lens like Monet’s multicolored mist floating over Olympic crests squeezing past cedars nestling crowns, circling canopies an impressionist’s horizon subdued dawn’s light. The evening was dark and gloomy,
sky the colour of depression but she made it to the hall where the choir began to sing. Not all voices were mellifluous yet it was still a beautiful sound and a sense of tranquillity she found, her troubles melting away like snow on a spring day. She became lost in a song part of the universal mind wishing these moments could last forever, drifting with the angels for a short while and upon her face...a radiant smile.
Red books, green books, blue books, and yella; Books in the attic and books in the cellar, Stacked on the table and piled on the floor... 'Whatcha want for Christmas?' 'Books! I need some more!' Fire engines rush to the scene but it's too late to save the pub: angry flames illuminate the night air burning the old photographs on walls of locals from years long before. Ghosts will be gazing sadly as the ruthless fire rages on. The man watches with a tear in his eyes remembering drinking here when young, a time he seemed to be immortal. Soon the bulldozers will arrive to remove all traces of the tavern yet nothing lasts forever, even planets crumble into dust but life goes on... as it must. Who gives a fuck
how you feel? I'll tell you who: no motherfucker in the Big Apple, that's who. Under a blood-red sunset sky
I watch starlings as my breath drifts into the vast, indifferent ether. The scenery is transformed by their magical presence, just like a dark fisherman's net they sway, strength in numbers and now not east prey. It's a sight which makes me gasp for this is nature at its best a reminder this can still be a most wondrous world. But then the scarlet clouds turn grey, the show is over, starlings disappear into the chilly autumn atmosphere. If today
was your last and tomorrow was too late what would you do . . . You can't have a champagne lifestyle if you have a lemonade mindset A kingfisher perched on an electrical line
searched between rocks & examined slimy shadows gliding like river u boats wiggling back and forth, revealing oxygen red gills while riding currents like scaly surfers submerged in icy water; ever on the wire, sitting upon the same spot we saluted evolution’s therapod watchman we christened Joe Cocker; cyan/blue feathers radiated brilliant tie-dye plumage like the Woodstock revolutionary, as it wailed & glared at swimmers, kayakers & duck hunters who blocked its view-- people perplexed yet indifferent to its strident rattle, ruffled head crest, accusing beak. I was rudely awakened from my daydreams
early on a Saturday morning hearing a loud thud on the lounge window and peering outside I spotted a still form. I donned a pair of gloves and reluctantly picked up the doomed seagull, a forlorn sight which had crashed to its death with all its might. There was no blood as far as I could ascertain but I only half-stared at the poor thing as I threw it over the garden fence. It was a reminder of my own mortality and how uncertain the future is. I imagined it at its best soaring high, beautiful view...but it fell from the sky. He went to fight the Kaiser’s War,
returned alive from Flanders mud, but not the same man as before, his life too stained by death and blood He lived another fifty years back in this world of life and light and locked away the days of fear, the stink of gas, the flare-lit nights. But for two minutes, on one day, the pause before the great bell’s chime, his mind would travel far away: A distant land, another time. To see the faces of his friends, a line of men now lost and gone, and feel a guilt which had no end that they all died while he lived on. Suburban tree on the edge of the golf course,
its branches blowing softly in the breeze and under a deep blue autumnal sky its leaves are illuminated with gold. The other seasons I have passed by never gracing it with a second glance but now I pause and just stare as golden leaves flutter to the path below and a squirrel ascending far up high. The beauty of nature can be found everywhere yet some people are too preoccupied to notice the wonders on their very doorstep. After a while I continue my stroll knowing nature is a boost...for the soul. |
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. Archives
April 2024
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