Writer
Fevers of the Mind Volume 3 is now out, including a piece of flash fiction of mine called The Ride.
They look like my sons, but they’re not. I pretend they’re driving me to town as usual, but the radio news verifies my suspicion: there’s no way Carl would listen to that man and not shout obscenities. At eighty-two, I’m old enough to know leukaemia ain’t gonna kill me, despite it running wild through my withered body.
Click here to find out more…
Language
her pitch is subtle
tickling local dialect
subverting language
Worn
dealing with the day
leaves me worn near-transparent
and hung out to dry
Precious
precious, those times hide
slipping from a question’s grasp
to cosset reason
Thread
we take too much time
unpicking our tangled lines
and losing our thread
Start
I don’t recognise
his tawdry passing comment
as the start of it
Drift
keeping so busy
time drifts through my worn fingers
and I soon forget
My poem, Echoes of Suzanne, features in this anthology of works dedicated to the memory of Leonard Cohen. Many writers and poets have contributed pieces inspired by the music and words of the great man as well as his cultural and personal legacy.
You can find it here on Amazon.
Edited by David L O’Nan and Hillesha O’Nan
Illustrated by Geoffrey Wren
Loss
her slight finger cut
paper sharp and drawn across
my blood weeps with loss
Eye
his large hands flicker
faster than my father’s eye
the coin disappears
Creep
I watch the shadows;
they creep across the backyard
smothering the light.
Perfume
perfume on the night air
hazing his brute precision
a big flaw exposed
Curls
he scrapes his few curls
with a fallow antler comb
and pungent hair oil
Desires
formerly unknown
paths twist between our desires
sorrows are shrouded
Easy
“An easy walk,” he said.
The bramble-strangled footpath
simply disagreed
Ash
you poke dead ashes
smear the smuts on my conscience
wiping your hands clean
Laughter
the depth of feeling
is hidden by his put down
and crude laughter
Slow
roots tear the concrete
rip apart the old blacktop
a slow eruption
Just
Presently we sit,
nursing an awkward silence.
You were just kidding.
Room
my blood runs colder
when he snaps his long fingers
silencing the room
The prompt tag #vss365 has become a near obsession for many of us on Twitter. Every day, hundreds of writers contribute flash fiction, poetry and other writings based on a prompt word, chosen by guest moderators. They make fascinating reading and are a daily inspiration for me – both in terms of the work others produce and through the challenge of inventing something daily. Of course, the Twitter character limit adds another element. Brevity is key!
Recently, the author who designed the concept of #vss365, Mark King, initiated the idea for an anthology. This is now available – he writes:
“We tasked a talented global writing community to produce their best work. We provided them with 37 challenging prompts. We gave them a strict 280 character limit.
From thousands of entries, we selected just 365.
What can be achieved with just 280 characters? On these pages you will feel the fabric of love and depths of loss, you will explore mortality and ponder what it truly means to be alive, you will find poetry, prose, wonder, despair, humour and courage.
Most of all you will find exceptional thought-provoking authors who are pushing their form to the very limits and beyond.
All royalties of this anthology go directly to a children’s literacy charity.”
I am absolutely thrilled that three of my flash fiction pieces were chosen to form part of this anthology. You can find out more here:
Peek
When I take a peek
at the dreams I’ve locked away,
time seems more precious.
Need
my addictive need
an old friend’s bitter whisper
so familiar
Dust
as I watch dust motes
anger burning my reason
she touches my hand
