The SuitorDon Emilio calls on us each week. My sistersThe Suitor by salshep
watch him like hungry cats: Juanita,
so thin she pokes holes in the sheets,
sour-lipped Pilar, and poor Ines
with her crooked back. But it is to me
his black eyes most often wander.
Mama serves him coffee,
and tightly rolled flautas. Our guest picks
at the food, boasts of his villa
in Guanajuato; immaculate hands dip
and hover like jewelled birds.
I have begun to suspect
that Don Emilio is not looking for a wife.
Gentleness and Its Enduring All Gentleness And Its EnduringGentleness and Its Enduring by salshep
People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us. ~Iris Murdoch
Pothilas set his briefcase down on the hallstand and paused to appreciate the afternoon light that lent his white-on-white decor an almost sanctified air. The apartment was warm. Too warm. He hung up his Directors robes and hurried toward the biotank in which Sverta lay limply, sunk deep in her fluid, her tubes and filaments rustling. The sun was unseasonably hot, and it wasnt as though she had the freedom to shift away from its glare. He frowned and closed the drapes.
Sorry. Stuck in a Board meeting.
Kneeling to adjust the tanks temperature gauges and filters, Pothilas shook his head. Had he really just apologised? When he was satisfied that no damage had been done, he sat on the nearby sofa, studying Svertas vestigal nostril-slits and the smooth concavities wh
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry by salshep
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
Pain PAINPain by salshep
Hangs from your pelvis
like an incomplete, conjoined sibling
with no mind of its own
but enough of yours to make you fear it.
Comes when you are sleeping
to perch on your face and dip its beak
redly into your dreams.
Shucks its claws
on the upholstery of your flesh.
Is a fog-eyed poet, reading aloud to you
endless reams of his own passionate,
Squats in the waste it has made of you,
you dare not look in the eye.
Remembers the body when it moved
with the ease of light across a lakes delicate skin.
Watches your babies grow
skins so thick they cant feel you.
Is an illusion
overcome by mastery of the mind,
an ascetic life, a clean colon, eighteen
valium and a quart of Scotch, a bullet
or all of the above.
Pet Shop RevolutionPet Shop Revolution - 1st draftPet Shop Revolution by tightwhitepants
There are spitting kittens
there are dogs that fight
there are fish that snarl and birds that bite.
There are canaries
with contrary manners;
Jack Russells with muscles
like bags of spanners.
There are hamsters
that you keep in a cage
full of hatred and hamster rage.
There are cynical guinea pigs
with squinting eyes
that scheme and dream of your demise.
There are budgerigars that bear a grudge
curmudgeonly birds the glare and judge
from their poisoned perches of prejudice
while down on the floor the dormice hiss
of the day when the pet shop unifies
and all the pissed-off pets will rise
with a squawk and a squeak and a gibber and a growl
and the cats and the dogs and the fish and the fowl
will snap their chains and slip their leashes
reclaiming the freedom
of their species.
Soon fur will fly, and scales will fall
and all the animals heed the call
Come the furious days
of your pets' uprising
you'll be amazed
it'll be surprising.
The days o
Song of the citywinter; the city shakes its coat,Song of the city by darkcrescendo
and a flea drums cans in the wet.
passing soles splash the rhythm,
his head fills with rain's percussion;
fingers rub raw, arms shudder
and beat the vibration of trucks.
three hours his hands dance,
bones clatter the song of the city,
rattle to the snare of coins.
SpringThe gardener is happy today. Don't get me wrong this gardener is perpetually happy. But what I was trying to say: the gardener is especially happy today. He's skipping around the garden tending to lumps of loamy soil, a tuneless humming escaping him, humhumhum like the buzzing of ticked-off bees. It's spring, see? Spring with its crisp air and new life and fresh flowers poking their bald heads out of winter-bare earth.Spring by tigertailzlc
Spring means a garden of spanking new flowers, and that puts our gardener here in a jolly good mood. Look at him here he is digging for non-existent weeds, there he is flapping his arms in a magnificent rage chasing off a bewildered-looking dog. That dog came visiting during the winter, and mister gardener here was glad enough of his company then, huddling close and letting that flea-ridden coat warm his ancient bones. But now! Gardener isn't having it, oh no stomp get out of my garden and you can come back next wi
Official FFM Prompt Bank 2010Last year, flash fiction month handled its writing prompts through an ever-updating journal, which you can find here. And although it was fantastic, it was, at the end of the month, a pathetic total of seventy-five prompts, barely two a day!Official FFM Prompt Bank 2010 by Flash-Fic-Month
This year will be different. This year we are bringing the power to the people! by opening this deviation to all prompt-suggesting comers. All you, yes you, have to do to add to this year's prompt bank is leave a comment full of as many prompts as you desire right here in this very dev. Soon, all of us will have more prompts than we'll know what to do with! Awesome!
But it gets better! As our FFM veterans know, each day of FFM features three to five prompts for any FFMers in need... see where this is going? This year, if we love a submitted prompt very much, we'll use it and credit the author in one of our daily updates! Double awesome!
We are picky though, so let's see so
|-WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING LATELY-|
Avoiding sinkholes, mostly.
-WHAT I'VE BEEN READING LATELY-
Only Forward - Michael Marshall Smith
I love a book in which you cannot guess the next twist. And love better the book wherein you shouldn't, but do, and then the narrator calls you a 'smartarse' for having done so. Best narrator ever. Genre-defying, exciting, freaky, esoteric, brutal, horrifying, true, fantastical - loved this to bits.
Ring - Koji Suzuki
Compared (unjustly) to Murakami, the book makes the film look better (the Japanese version, I mean; the USA film isn't nearly as good). Still, a decently creepy read if you can get past the appalling translation (or wooden writing, I'm not really sure which it is.)
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Chick lit for morbid people. Beautiful, strange, uplifting. I also find myself suddenly obsessed with sinkholes.
The Riders - Tim Winton
This book gutted me. Gorgeous. Sad. Funny. Read it.
The Invisibles - Grant Morrison
Makes Gaiman look like kindergarten.
Focault's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
Dan Brown, for people who don't breathe through their mouths.
Some Poetry-Related Journals:
Derek Walcott Walt McDonald
Lord George Gordon Byron William Blake
Christopher Smart Maya Angelou
Richard Wilbur Robert Frost
I'll cut the hearts from pharaohs
I pull the road off of the rise
Tear the memories from my eyes
I drink a thousand shipwrecks
Tonight I'll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
The birds will all fly from my head
Take every dream that's breathing
Find every boot that's leaving
Shoot all the lights in the cafe
And in the morning I'll be gone