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.
FFM: Discovering PanJanuary flames like embers in my mind, the crisp chill of winter settling about the house in quiet folds, making me restless. Frosting the glass and edging the rooftops in icicles while we huddle inside like mice, wrapped up in reds and yellows and browns, before the small fire in the grate. The drip, drip of water on the landing, and the crackle of wood being consumed by hungry, tonguing flames, the only sounds around us.FFM: Discovering Pan by The-Inkling
Out in the rookery my sister collects treasures, making headdresses from the sharp black feathers that the ravens leave behind. She threads a slender string with seashells and sits upon the rocky shore, wrapped about in blankets, watching as the waves crash, over, and over; waiting for the world to thaw.
In the work-shed all my fathers tools lie waiting, gathering dust as they long for the feeling of his work-worn, curving hands. He sits in the kitchen with his fingers pressed against the dark wood, staring out of the window at the barren branches as they grasp the h
Initiation Ceremony'Pantheism?'Initiation Ceremony by ThornyEnglishRose
He was sitting on her bed, watching her as she glided around the room, moving and looking very much like Morticia Addams.
'Yes.' She lit the last candle, and then blew out the match. 'It's the belief that God and nature are the same. God is not a being as such, but is in everything.'
'You're making it up,' he said.
She shot him a dirty look. 'In the Gardnerian denomination that's generally what I like to call myself, a Gardnerian we call the pantheistic deity "Dryghten". It's an old English word for lord.'
He smirked. 'Stop it.'
'Look, are you going to take this seriously or not?'
'Sure, sure.' He sat forward a little, and corrected his expression. 'So, what's with all the candles?'
'Hmm?' She looked vague for a moment. 'Oh, those are very important. They bring me closer to Dryghten.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Don't question me.
St RainI called him St Rain. He didn't go by any other name; he was as nameless as a baby in the Middle Ages and he didn't seem to care. He came to school in bare feet but wore his school uniform with pride. Even as the dust of the desert came sweeping over from the plains, dirtying the white of our school shirts, he would smile and simply turn to the clouds.St Rain by julietcaesar
That's when I thought he had something to do with the rain.
The drought had been going on for more than ten years now and the dam levels were reaching critical levels never seen before. Five years ago, we could still skip stones across the plummeting water but now they just go plop in the ooze, or sank into white crystals that were spilling from the earth as the waters fell. Someone pointed out it was free salt and we didn't have to go rummaging the city stores for our ever diminishing supplies but we all knew this was the type of sodium chloride we should avoid.
St Rain didn't care.
When the sun popped over the horizon and the kangaroos
FFM FINAL WEEK Party Time - and Winners!:iconflash-fic-month: ALL GOOD THINGS MUST ENDFFM FINAL WEEK Party Time - and Winners! by Flash-Fic-Month
And so here we are, July 31st, and the Second Annual Flash Fiction Month has come to a close. What an epic journey! What stupendous effort! What an astounding wealth of fiction!
There are just SO many people to thank, for all their efforts, support, donations, reading, cheering, chatting, writing
From the team at Flash-Fic-Month, THANK YOU ALL.
And a HUGE SPECIAL THANKS to all our chat volunteers who helped keep #flashfictionmonth a fun and productive place to be.
Special thanks to Beccalicious for all her help in getting us rolling this year!
edzull and salshep might be the instigators of these FFM shenanigans, but its YOU GUYS who made this event the roaring success that it was. We hope youre darned proud of yourselves, whether you wrote three stories or thirty-one.
For those who are, incredibly, still not aware of FFM heres a few links thatll fill you
|-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