Occasionally it’s busy, fierce,
or wild. At other times
misty, chaotic and
most days— crazy.
Sometimes it’s breezy,
warm and bright,
at times evergreen, with flora
abounding. . .
thoughts of you
Friday Flash Fiction |
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It’s veiled in secrecy.
Occasionally it’s busy, fierce, or wild. At other times misty, chaotic and most days— crazy. Sometimes it’s breezy, warm and bright, at times evergreen, with flora abounding. . . thoughts of you While tuning in
to ABC Classic 2 on a wintry afternoon, I appreciate successive recordings of Kats-Chernin’s ‘Wild Swans Suite No. 2’ & Chopin’s ‘Piano Sonata No. 2’. Switching across to Double J, I pay attention to the studio version of Radiohead’s ‘2 + 2 = 5’. I’m left wondering whether these radio stations or the Universe are trying to say something more significant or not. Perhaps I’m reaching too far for (il)logical patterns in this bittersweet chaos. It’s the end when you
roll onto your side, pull the blankets to your ear and stare at the blank wall. Closing your eyes doesn’t make the wall disappear. The wall just moves into your head and stays there, empty and waiting, like life, a blank canvas, ready for the artist to apply his brush. Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956)
According to brave Mutter Fierling and contrary to cerebral belief, it is the lumpen northeast wind and rarely ever the erudite sun, that dries up the vapid puddle. Arrived a little late, but I felt this deserved immediate publication. I can't ever recall any previous submission by one of our authors about another – Editor. From the kaleidoscope of hidden tragedies-
Personal losses unseen, unshared, unknown- She pulls the threads, and spins them into stories. Drops of blood flow out from mind to pen, Stained by the gamut of human emotions; She gathers them up, shares them with the world. Her careful capture of the human cost Shatters our complacence; piercing shards Shred through our blinkers, demand that we should see. I skim the latest Friday submissions, And sigh with relief to see her name is there. She is still alive. Still serving her people As best she can. There is a road in the hinterland,
Running straight, like a grey riband, Where I lost my soul one day, at noon, By the hands of a wicked man. 'No-one can hear you scream,' he sneered, 'And none will believe what you say. What kind of woman hitches a ride In a place where the caracal prey?' The heat arose from the swelt'ring tar And shone like a stream in the sun While around me stretched scorched wilderness And I knew there was nowhere to run. So I poked him with my Bowie knife - His shrieks scratched the sky as he fell - And, as night moved in with its scavengers, I strode down that road through Hell. Quixotic dreams disturb restful slumber
I cling to Michelle Pfeiffer’s ebon jersey as we tumble into mustard green fields. Rolling in trampled stalks, her murmurs transform from playful purrs to caterwauls and hisses, feline meows to full red lip kisses. Both our bodies liquefy like Dali’s melting clocks, leaving me in delirium ecstasy unable to grasp my consort clad in a Batman Returns t-shirt. The DC dreamtime favorite endlessly morphs sporting multiple lives, teasing mutual curiosity as she pours her body into Selina Kyle's catsuit. Mesmerized, I’m hooked and imagine sensuous claws itching my back, stimulating nerves like a cat-o’-nine-tails gratifying signals to an emotionally starved brain. She walked with style and grace in haste
first time in heels, the streets she graced, pulled-up her chin fretting to not stumble, even when her ankles begin to grumble. Though griping she reached her destination, dazed. High up on the hills above Cardiff
lies an unprepossessing mound. It is hard to imagine this was once an 11th century castle transforming into a medieval fort so I stroll by a place of mystery in the very footsteps of history. The only living creatures there today are butterflies, insects and birds, too many brambles to reach the summit as branches hiss as if the spirits of long departed soldiers and more recent souls who have climbed up this verdant hill before but now do not walk the earth anymore. All those comic books
left behind in grandma's attic and photo albums sprinkled with heavy dust... Open them and you will find yourself again in the old toy box which is called Nostalgia. But you are so much younger now, abandoned, helpless, broken, forgotten, with the bitter taste in your mouth. She retreats to St. John's Gardens, an oasis in the heart of Cardiff, finches twitter and scavenge along with the ubiquitous seagulls. Ancient St. John's Church peers from behind verdant trees and on this quiet September Monday morning only an old fellow resides on a bench perhaps lost in days gone by as rainbow flowers gently wave from picturesque flower beds. She also sinks into the pages of the past sitting here with a lover long before who's vanished from her life...for evermore. Wake me up
and take me outside to gaze at the sunset, to walk on the nylon leaves, asphalt grass and broken glass. Inject into my brain a lethal dose of digital detox to clear my mind, before I go back to sleep, before I start counting electric sheep. Trudge, trudge, trudge:
every mile seems like a thousand on the indifferent mountain. I long for a hot cup of tea, the rain like a waterfall soaking me through into my very soul for this is torture not a gentle stroll and I fear falling from a precarious path sensing the ghosts of those who've perished here but suddenly the rain ceases and then appears a stupendous sight: the sun paints gold onto Striding Edge as dark clouds break apart like sea ice and a rainbow forms...as if paradise. They found the poet's bones
Long after he'd stopped writing. He died at home, alone, Beside his notebooks Full of lines Like the scars across his skull Later deciphered as a curse From humankind. Better known as Les Miserables.
Not much happened today, the golden boys of wage slavers rose up against their entrenched elders, wanted their cut of the unfair cut earlier. Alas, one of us was among the fallen: Gavroche, urchin of the back streets, slated to be our future leader. Dark sky pressing down
wind-whipped rain lashing windows warm fire, glass of wine comfortable chair, good book. Death can wait. I’m not ready. The official government website read:
AI preschool for the first five years of life or easy installation by chip Your choice! Prefrontal Cortex shaping via repeated and sustained internet exposure Vocabulary acquisition, social skill development, problem solving Response to guided stimuli in adolescence: established prompts already in place Incorporation via neural network: I am my mother and father Dendritic pathway synchrony for groups like “families” Our bioelectric selves: all physical functions generated by designative electrochemical signals Regeneration Comprehension Participation Conformity No more health issues! No more school! No more antisocial behaviors! Absolutely free! Who would ever oppose this lifetime opportunity? What a great time to be alive
In the valley of death, Where the factory chimneys pierce the sky High above the toxic clouds. There is the town of yesterday's glory And today's misery and shame. Because there we learn again The things we all already forgot: How to heal our inner child, How to worship the Game of Creation, How to fight, win and survive... Or run like hell. Nosebleed and cartilage build the private road,
the designer bread is baked with salts of sweat, the hull of the super-yacht is bent by callused hands, ninety-nine goes to the one percent. The gray hurricane runs
the colors out of the rainbow; confused is the mind and empty is the soul now. Writers who can’t think
Of anything to write about Write haikus instead. There’s nothing to do
while death is on holiday except be patient I have known you since you were a baby
We were inseparable We ran and jumped and played and worked We did everything together We felt the greatest joy and the lowest despair Then you betrayed me At first it was little things I could forgive you for those Wasn’t that enough for you I feel different - slower, achy, breathless, fuzzy When I gaze in the mirror I don’t recognize you anymore I don’t see me I see my grandfather Looking back at me And like him We will soon be someone’s memory Sinéad O'Connor's death came as a shock to many. Rather than repeat it, the video can be viewed at Stephen Goodlad's flash contribution. It came as a shock to learn about the demise of Sinead O'Connor, a wonderful singer cursed by tragedy with her son dying at seventeen and Sinead suffering from demons in the mind. Oh, she was far far too young to depart, a rebel with a cause with a pure heart. Yet it's the iconic video of her singing "Nothing Compares 2 U" that really touches my soul as she sheds tears with the saddest eyes. What a voice, tinged with melancholia, an Irish legend with so much passion whose music will never go out of fashion. Editor's Choice "The trees are singing my music or am I singing theirs?" On the edge of the Green at historic Hereford Cathedral stands a statue of Edward Elgar holding on to his bicycle with a notebook and pen in his hand and as I stare with admiration I find I'm playing the Enigma Variations in my mind. He peers whimsically at the cathedral, how it must have inspired his work for he lived in this city for years. As the verdant branches whisper I have my photograph taken next to the great man and then relax in the summer breeze imagining Elgar...listening to the trees. And this is wonderful, if by some chance you've never heard it... |
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
May 2024
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