M. E. Lucas

Writer, Tutor, Mentor | Flash Fiction, Short Stories, Novels, Betwixt and Between.

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The Plank

A flash poetry writing post composed for February, inspired by the photo prompt; above.


The Plank

‘Neh, sire, tis you, sire,
‘tis you who has to walk,
For ‘tis you, sire, the liar,
With one leg, the stork.’

‘Shiver mi wotsits, capt’n,
I’m innocent of that crime,
No idea how it happen,
That musket weren’t mine.’

A sharp stick pokes in his back,
Further he hops over the plank,
Timber squeaks, doesn’t crack,
Swordsman pushes, hand on flank.

‘This, sire, is my brig,
You’re nothing but a marauder,
A one-legged pirate pig,
Only fit for slaughter.’

‘Capt’n please, I beg of ya,
Mi leg is made o’ cast-iron,
I’ll sink down even faster,
‘an a fully laden gallyon.’

Feet an’ peg scuffle along,
Further, further to the end,
Who’s right? Who’s wrong?
Creaking wood starts to bend.

A loud crack and crunching splinter,
Capt’n and Pirate drop, voices shrill,
They land on grass in fits of laughter,
And two boys roll down grassy hill.


150 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Scribblers Forum Thread – Flash Poesy 114 – Photo Prompt

This Word

A flash fiction entry for the Reflex Fiction Website.


The Word

Another sip of freshly-pressed coffee, as feet pace around the kitchen and into the study. There’s a chill underfoot when emigrating from warm under-floor ceramic heat to room temperature carpet. A fragrant woollen floor covering scented from a rolling, scratching, chewing, dribbling canine partner in procrastination.

Ergonomic seat placed at a cluttered desk, a mismanaged surface of distraction. Computer screen echoes the randomness of clutter in assorted browser tabs. Social media videos and emojis convert to the equivalent first primal attention given to flickering flames of fire. A stare, as distant, as it is close.

Again, up from chair to stand, itching a single shoulder, hoping, as left hand brings money, so may the shoulder bring decision. Or was that the right? A scratch of the right then, which could chase away any resolve. Back and forth, one side to next from shoulder, to neck, to head.

The body is covered in self-doubt. The stronger the scratch, the greater dulling of indecision. But it’s a lie no less, a conversion of mind-fog to red-raw skin. The problem remains unresolved.

Steps retrace to the kitchen, to procure tea, with a snack. A sweet diversion, not needed nor desired, but fulfilling absent headspace. Only, it falls straight through the abyss that is the anxious confused mind, there is no fulfilment.

Again from warm to cool, out from culinary to digital temptation. To the seat, place the cup, hold that thought, tap the keyboard, start on the page, type the first letter, and then the next. A word, there is a word, a fine word. A word of meaning, portrayed from notion, of outstanding literary merit.

It’s there.

Alone.

Drowning in a sea of emptiness. Surmounting pressure from the depth of blank emittance.

Backspace … backspace … backspace, backspace, backspace.

Overwhelming is the strength of doubt.


307 Words.

Edited from an Original Entry on:

Reflex Fiction Web Site – Autumn 2017

Just Another Conversation

A flash fiction writing post composed for December, from the prompt “The End and the Beginning”.


Just Another Conversation

The weather Gods are frantic with their hailstorm task. The bouncy-ball-sized ice smash downwards through the flashing clouds. It’s a surprise they don’t crash into each other. I guess that’s why they are the Gods.

D.Q. Parker-Braithwaite Jr is deep in conversation, I expect he hasn’t even noticed the prostrate pedestrians in the street below his window, hands and heads bloodied and bruised from large frozen water droplets.

‘Oh, go on then, have your say mister bossy-pantaloons-ideas-man!’ He says.

‘You can’t do that, you know you can’t,’ comes the reply.

‘Will you stop being so bossy.’

‘You’re starting it at the end!’

‘Yyyyes,’ he breathes, ‘at the end. What’s your point?’

‘What do you mean at the end exactly?’

‘You know?’

‘No! I don’t think I do.’

‘It’s a time frame thing,’ he starts to explain, ‘a reminder of what’s to come. A snap shot of action to pique the interest the reader.’

‘Well, it could be action from any decent part of the story. So, why end it before you’ve started?’

It was an honest enough question. And D.Q. has an answer, he’d researched the structure.

‘Wwwwell,’ more lengthiness, ‘you introduce all the characters at a really interesting climax.’

‘Then you’ve nowhere to go?’

‘But you have to explain how you got there.’

‘Who cares, the reader now knows what’s going to happen.’

‘The reader will care, and no, you forget that bit anyways.’

‘So, why add it, if you forget about it.’

‘No, no, you don’t completely forget, only your recent memory, it becomes ingrained into your subconscious, and then at the end of the novel all re-revealed, your head pops and thinks Woah, what the hell! I remember this now, that’s amazing! And you suddenly realise what’s happened, and how it happened, and why it happened, and who it happened to, and when—’

‘That’s a lot of happening.’

‘Yeah, that’s the best part, it all comes crashing back to the readers memory, conscious and subconscious mind collide in a planet sized imaginational vortex of—‘

‘If … you can pull it off.’

‘If I can pull it off?’

‘Yeah, if!’

‘Oh man, don’t bring me down, I had this. All meticulously planned, interweaving the back story of my MC, his family, ex-lover, current love interest, the protagonist ulterior motive, and the—‘

‘Yap, yap, yap, too much woof of back story blunders. Action! That’s what you need, action, more action, platefuls of … restaurants full of … shopping malls full of, no, city centres exploding with action.’

‘Literally?’

‘If it works, big bangs, shards of sugar glass, why not?’

‘I don’t have a mall in this WIP.’

‘Then put one in.’

‘Really?’

D.Q. ponders the inclusion of a high street shopping mall, the plush new finishes, free WiFi, ice-cream counter, could it work with the antagonists sweet tooth?

‘No, you plonker, I was being metaphorical. Just get with the action ASAP.’

‘Which is the end bit, at the start in this case.’

‘Umm …’

‘And! The best part is I can use a great piece of writing twice; at the start and then splice it in at the end.’

‘Copy!’

‘Splice!’

‘You really think so?’

‘Sure, dude, why the hell not?’

‘Because readers aren’t morons, some are pretty intelligent, and reading the same thing twice will feel odd, especially if you made them forget it by stuffing it into the old subconsciousness.’

He has a point, D.Q. thinks. He reaches out for his drink of half-drunk coffee in his favourite Hogwarts auto-stirring magic mug. He takes a long gulp of cold coffee until his cheeks are full, swallows, and gasps for air.

‘It’ll be ok,’ he says after inhaling enough oxygen to get his brain in gear.

‘It won’t, there’ll be queries.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as, ‘… I’m having a Neo two glitching cats moment …’ or ‘… did the author write this bit twice? That’s a bit cheap …’ or ‘… I’m sure I’ve read this before, what a waste of my precious reading time …’ then they’ll close it and bin it, just paragraphs from the end. Chastising it as plagiarism!’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘Well, your it’s your decision I suppose.’

‘It is my decision, thanks, and I’ll thank you not to interfere.’

‘Interfering now, am I? Well there’s gratitude for you, interfering indeed.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah, you’re the boss and if I don’t like it then …’

‘Oh, don’t start that again.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, again, you always start with the boss nonsense.’

‘You mean the bit I started with.’

‘Yes, you started, you know, you where moaning at the start, telling me how to plan this novel, telling me I’m being bossy, when it’s you who are the bossy one, and now we’ve gone full donut back to the start-line again.’

‘Back to the beginning, huh?’

‘Yes!’

‘Like your story!’

‘Like my, no, you cheeky sod, not like my—‘

‘Yes, like your start stop end beginning twisty turny finish ending tale of repetition.’

‘Ah …’

‘You see, or rather you didn’t see it coming. And now it’s here it’s a bit of a—‘ there’s silence as D.Q. makes a movement behind his writing desk. ‘What are you doing with that large jewel encrusted dwarves sword?’

‘Changing direction.’

‘Changing what?’

‘Direction. Wait it’s too damn heavy. Ahhhh, this is a much better description.’

‘What the, where did you get that from?’

‘It’s an old one of yours, don’t you remember?’

‘Wait! Yes, let me see, of course. Ultra-pulse photon-clasp automatic firearm with omni-rotator and eyeball recog. That was a while ago. Let me just—‘

‘No! Oh, ho, ho, no you don’t, not this time. Prepare to meet your make, er, your imaginator!’

He points his weapon and the gun lets out a loud Zzzzongping, quickly followed by a ftomb!

‘Bet you didn’t see that coming did you, mate? Change in the plot, see. Little twist. Playing on the end-beginning-end-beginning-end sequence with a drop of sufficient darkness to make the reader—‘

D.Q. peers over the top of his glasses. Then stands and gazes down from his messy paper covered work surface, to the unfolding scene on the shaggy carpet.

‘Are you alright?’

There is no answer.

‘Muse?’


1,044 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Scribblers Forum Thread – Flash Fiction 345 – The End of the Beginning

This Place I Know

A flash poetry writing post composed for December, inspired by the photo prompt; above, and written as an acrostic.


 This Place I know

What a familiar view! This place I know. Do you?
Early evening silhouetting, orangey-pink sun is setting,
Lights sparkling, on show, the whole town a warm glow,
Coming alive, so strong, night-time liquor and happy song,
Overcrowded bars with laughter, echoing over rippling lake water,
Make a trip to the other side; a joyful starlit boat ride.
Excursion, you can keep! Not across still dark-water, so deep.

To sit under canvas up so high, looking down with all-seeing eye,
Over the vibrant town I am watching, waiting, procrastinating.

Mountainous evening hideout, or holiday trip gadabout?
Yet neither adventure is practicable, comfortable, or reasonable.

With self-admonished isolation, my cerebral hill and valley location,
Offset planted mind above matter, away from reality and chatter,
Reclining in a doubting position, of unfocused intention,
Left to my own devices, deeper become uncontrollable rifts and vices.
Do they see me? Do they care? Better sited exclusively way up here!


159 Words

Edited from an Original Post on:

Scribblers Forum Thread – Flash Poesy 108 – This Place I Know [Photo Prompt]

The Crystal Method

A Short Story – 1710 Words.


The Crystal Method

It’s raining; it always rains on pickup day. Especially on this estate, and especially onto these blocks of flats. No wonder they are all coloured grey, any colour has long washed away. It’s as if God himself is pissing through the clouds onto this scum, this rundown neighbourhood of degenerates. The rain is falling so hard, my windscreen wipers are doing their best, but I can hardly see a damn thing. If Mikey steps off the pavement, the first I’ll know is when his face bounces off the streaky glass in front of me.

Heavy rain is perfect for my day: the noise; the overcast light; the fact most people stay indoors, out of it (in both senses of the meaning). The only downside is they can see me coming, the lone cob-head out for his fix. Of course, I’m never the only purchaser climbing these towers to nirvana, I just hope the rest stay in bed this morning.

In my regular college gear: stylish trainers, striped trackies, zipped up waterproof sports hoodie and well-stocked backpack, I feel out of place in this ghetto. There are no on-the-beat constables it’s a strict no-go area, any skirmishes dealt with armed riot police.

I pull into a parking space, and out of horizontal sheets of water steps Mikey. By the time he gets to the car he’s soaked. Grabbing my backpack and pulling over my hood, I step out and greet him.

‘Hiya, Mikey. What’s with the shit weather?’

‘Fuck knows, man, but I still gotta check you boys in da pissin’ rain. I could get pneumonia, or somethin’, and no one give a shit.’

‘Great seeing you, Mikey, even in this shower.’

Two years I’ve known Mikey ever since picking up my first fix of Cobalt; how naïve I was back then. We embrace for a second as old friends. A Costa Rican illegal, short but stocky, with a big smile and matching muscles, he’s one of Faquesta’s chaperones.

‘I’m told you gonna see the big man,’ Mikey says and pats me down. ‘You gotta present or somethin’ in that bag?’

‘Nope, just college stuff and my lunch,’ I say, knowing he’ll check it anyway.

He does.

‘A can of coke? That stuff’ll rot your teeth, man.’

‘Yeah, and the Cobalt’ll do the rest.’

We laugh and he finishes searching and frisking.

‘Come on, let’s get out of this shit,’ he says, and jogs off the only way a body builder can, with the look he’s shat his pants.

‘Man these places stink,’ Mikey says entering the grey concrete underpass. He’s right, puke, piss, shit, and something burnt, but least it’s dry. We leave a trail of raindrop splashes, as the weather drips from us, and head for the lift core. Ubiquitous neon lights flash at different rates along our route. A shriek echoes in the distance, it doesn’t faze Mikey, and just makes me glad that after today I won’t need to come back to this anti-social cesspit.

My unintentional dawdle means by the time I get to the lift door Mikey holds it open.

‘Hurry up,’ he says, in a muffle of jacket, held over is mouth and nose. The reek stabs at me as I enter the lift, and I raise a damp sleeve to my nose to filter the worst of it.

Not a millimetre of the metal lift car lining is spared from spray-paint and graffiti, floor buttons likewise, however, Mikey finds one for the top floor. We say nothing as we rise. The paint covering the light dulls the lumpy and sticky contents of the floor. A camera hanging from the ceiling is the only item not defaced; Faquesta knows we’re on our way.

Out of the lift, up a flight of dark stairs to an access door, where we find another associate there to frisk me a second time. When I finish my explanation about the college books and my lunch, Mikey looks into an eyeball recognition camera and the door opens. We’re all out on to the roof, back into the rain and taking deep breaths of fresh air.

Ahead is the curved-roofed glass structure I’ve heard so much about. The Crystal penthouse suite with unobstructed views over the city, inaccessible, and built without planning council approval, but who’d object to Faquesta. We all trot across the roof to sliding doors, more recognition and we’re inside a dry draft lobby–cameras are evident as are faces behind glass walls.

‘This way gentlemen,’ a cute long-blonde-haired girl instructs us. We follow. A semi-automatic hangs from her shoulder; the autocratic state of Faquesta.

We’re ushered into Faquesta’s inner domain and there with the backdrop of the city skyline he sits, puffing on a large Havana and gloating in his ill gotten wealth; the raw face of abuse and gangland scarring. This old-school man had not got to where he was without a number of scraps.

‘So, my friend, you want to work for me,’ the man says, straight to business, ‘is that right?’

Faquesta, sitting; body guards standing either side, poised with fingers on triggers of similar semis to the girl; me, between Mikey and another henchman, standing three in a row.

‘Actually, my offer is for you to work for me,’ I say, cutting him dead.

There is a pause until Faquesta laughs out loud in a cloud of cigar smoke, revealing his nerves.

‘Look around you, my friend. You are in my Crystal, surrounded by my men. I am Faquesta, I’m the law and I work for no one, but myself.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I say, and reach into my bag.

‘Stop!’ One henchman shouts and raises his gun.

‘Relax,’ I continue, hand raised slowly dipping into my open bag ‘it’s just a can of coke. Your hospitality is lacking, Faquesta, I had to bring my own drink.’

‘You’re not impressing me, my friend. If you have nothing else to add, my men will help you off the premises; and it’s a long way down.’

I move behind Mikey as I talk. ‘There’s no need for that, my friend.’

Obscured from view, my hand reaches into Mikey’s jacket pocket and retrieves the handgun I placed there during our embrace in the pouring rain. Before anyone realises my pick-pocketing skills, I’ve raised the gun and shot one of the gunman in the chest. As he goes down and everyone kicks into action, the second bodyguard befalls the same chest shot; armour plated shells make a real mess. The henchman raises his firearm as I grab Mikey and place the barrel of my gun against his temple.

‘Drop it, or Mikey dies,’ I say, pulling Mikey to the glazed roof and city backdrop.

‘What the fuck, man!’ Mikey says.

‘You’ve just made a massive mistake, my friend,’ Faquesta stands, his cigar smokes, as if he pulled the trigger.

The girl bursts into the room with her weapon poised to shoot. My back is to the window and Mikey acts as my shield to the others.

I whisper, ‘Get ready to run, Mikey.’ Then out loud I say, ‘No mistake, Faquesta.’

‘So, why not shoot me?’ Faquesta says.

‘Because I’ve done my homework, my friend. My intell informs me you’ve full body armour underneath that designer suit, besides, this coke …’ I begin to shake the can in front of Mikey my arm across his chest. ‘… this is for you, mind the fizz when you open it.’

All eyes on the can of drink as it spins across the room.

My gun flicks back.

The can lands under Faquesta’s desk.

I shoot the glass behind me.

In expectation, he jumps away from his desk.

The plated shells do the damage on the reinforced glass, it shatters and a sudden cold and moisture laden draft washes in.

Nothing happens to the decoy can as it rolls to a stop.

Cubes of glass scatter on the flat roof and over the edge of the building’s parapet wall.

I let go of Mikey.

A little confused with recent events he hesitates, but I don’t. I’m through the opening, running fast into lashing rain, along the edge of the roof towards the fire escape staircase, trying not to slip. Mikey turns, still between me and the girl’s gun, and draws his revolver.

‘After him!’ Faquesta shouts, Mikey follows at last, the whipping rain hinders any chance of a shot.

Timing is perfect. As one of Faquesta’s men opens the door, my speed carries me through. A kick to the door smashes the guy in the face and topples him over the stair balustrade. I jump through the door and it slams on the rebound behind me. A dead weight thumps down the stairs below. I turn and take a peek through a gap in the door. Mikey is waddling towards me, soaked and pissed-off. Faquesta is frantic, shouting at the girl behind the missing piece of his cracked Crystal.

Mikey enters the staircase fist first with his gun held tight and dripping water. A quick grab and I’ve pulled him in with arm twisted behind his back.

‘You took your time, Mikey,’ I say.

‘He’s gonna kill you, man.’

‘I doubt that,’ I say and let him go. ‘Let’s take a peek shall we.’

As I push the door ajar again, the drizzling rain continues as does Faquesta’s ranting. The girl and another one of his henchman climb through the window frame on to the roof and into the downpour.

‘That can of coke!’ I say.

‘It wasn’t coke was it?’

‘Nope.’

Chemicals are my thing, and I don’t mean just cooking up crystal meth. Several rocks of calcium carbide, drop of water and a good shake. Faquesta’s cigar will do the rest.

As the two run towards us we hear a muffled pop and watch the ensuing fireball explosion. Faquesta and his Crystal penthouse are blow to pieces, spraying glass and contents high into the air, out over the estate, along with the henchman. The girl clings to a parapet and claws ruffled and bloodied back on to the roof before collapsing.

With my main competitor spread all over this shitty estate, I turn to my old pal.

‘Looks like you’re out of a job, Mikey. How’d you like to come and work for me?’


Words: 1,710.

Case Closed

A flash fiction writing post composed for November, from the prompt “The Encounter” and the photo above.


Case Closed

The tube train jolted as it rattled around a bend, business men and women who stood, swayed like seaweed on a coral reef. The platform appeared out of the dark and the speeding transport slowed. Newspapers ruffled, folded under arms, briefcases clicked closed with paperbacks and earphones stowed safe inside. All passengers sensed alighting at their chosen destination and were ready to ride the wave.

The sardined school of professional workers, flowed out from the train. Relieved to breathe cooler subterranean air than the stuffy borrowed breath of the carriages. They dispersed, as quick as a flash mob, down passages, along corridors, upstairs and out above ground. Left behind, the silence on platforms and farther rickety clacking in tunnels.

Sophie Brown, MP for Righton and Grove, shuffled behind the masses, not a dawdle but thoughtful. It was a big day. Her big day. The biggest big day of her political career so far. She had an appointment with the PM. A meeting of minds; her suggestion for success; a pitch for security, prosperity and sanity. It was a big day. It would be an encounter to remember. No doubt about it, a day to reminisce.

Clattering heels and leather soles echoed along pedestrian tunnels as the ocean of commuters passed onward to workplaces. Miss Brown’s black boots were no different: heeltap, heeltap, heeltap, shuffle tap, tap, was the rhythm. Pleasing to the ear, settling to the feet.

This young women’s idea, so secret she divulged to no one, except, and only hinted to the prime minister, held a solution to the countries woes. Suffice to say, a plan for non-exit from the EU, but to save face, to please the Germans, the French, and the exporters. Also, the importers, the Brexiteers, the Remainers, those who voted and those who didn’t. Such a sublime scheme all parties would support it, bar none.

She should be important.

She was important!

Detailed arrangements would change the UK’s future for the better and provide a glowing history for the leader of the government. A change in direction, in fortune, and a change which had surprised Sophie. Surprised her that nobody else worked it out.

This importance and drive compelled her to succeed. An unstoppable force. A tornado to sweep aside red tape, the awkward, the doubters. And the shifty characters loitering ahead of her in the curved underground passageway.

Big chunky trainers, trackie bottoms, Puffa jackets with baseball caps, times three. Bling flashing in the shadows.

‘Lady is steaming, boys,’ the first said. ‘Must be in a major hurry.’

‘She important, boy,’ the next added.

‘Wiv da heavy case, all shiny,’ the final musketeer said. ‘Wonder what’s inside, boys?’

But Miss Brown was on a mission, no time to waste, or squander arguing with these morons. Unless they stepped out and blocked her route, which they did. She stopped.

‘Lady, the case,’ the tallest in the group said, hand out ready to receive.

‘My case?’ Miss Brown said, and looked at the swinging silver flight case, borrowed from her boyfriend to bring her more gravitas, which bought only attention.

‘Pass that case over here to me and then you can help da boys out. Right boys.’

‘Yeh, man she’s well hot!’ The second guy eyed her up and down, arms wide, fingers pointing, slight lean backward in his torso. He mimicked is finger. ‘Psssssssh, owww.’

‘Mate,’ said the other, circling around her, nodding approval.

It wasn’t just the case they wanted, but her. In a public space on the London Underground, they wouldn’t, they couldn’t try such a thing. As she thought about her situation and their requests, they surrounded her. This wasn’t happening.

‘Do you not know who I am?’ A rhetorical question, which might save her …

‘Yeh, babes, you is the bitch that’s goin’ to be suckin’ on this package,’ one said holding his groin.

… but perhaps not.

There faces were showing and their clothes distinctive, how would they dare to?

‘CCTV,’ she said, looking up at the curved roof of the tunnel passage. ‘You’ll all be caught on camera.’

‘No we ain’t,’ another said. ‘Do you see any camera, girl. No one’s seeing nothing, ‘cept us.’

‘We’re in a blind spot see.’

And they were. She looked. No cameras.

The ground rumbled, as a tube train passed somewhere in the vicinity.

‘You really don’t know who I am, or what I do?’

‘Girl, we’ll know when you’ve done it.’

They giggled and laughed and stepped closer. One minute she‘s a successful MP due an audience with the prime minister, then she’s an unknown to these male members of the electorate, with a similar one to one audience, but primed to appease their sole primary urges.

This wasn’t important.

But, she was important. Too important.

‘No cameras you say,’ she said.

‘Just this one, bitch,’ the main man pronounced, as he held out his phone, tapping in a password. Only it was short lived.

‘How about a selfie?’ Sophie said, as she swung up her hard case, bashed it into his forearms, pushing phone and hands towards his face. But, it didn’t stop there.

The momentum continued on to his jaw where it swept passed with a crack, which was either bone or phone screen. The small but heavy silver case reached the top of its arc and with a hammer throwers twist she turned and pulled back on the handle to bring it in a circular direction around her. Perfect length of her arms and depth of shiny metal and wood changed the carry case into Thor’s hammer.

The slavering lapdogs, didn’t see it coming, too interested in rubbing their own egos and doubted her ability to pull off such a stunt. It caught them both square-on to their stubbled chins, with such force their heads swivelled inside their baseball caps and continued to turn as they fell to the ground.

The whirling hammer-thrower brought herself and her silver case to a halt, then looked down at the bloodied and shocked faces of her assailants.

They wouldn’t forget this encounter.


Words: 1,010.

Image: Unknown.

Edited from an Original Post on Scribblers Flash Fiction Thread 344 – The Encounter.

Oh, God.

 

Following on from Dylan Thomas’s birthday on 14th May, below is a piece of Flash Poesy (in Thomas motif) starting with the first line of his Fern Hill poem “Now as I was young and…”.

As seen here… http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/498/flash-poesy-31

 

Oh, God

Now as I was young and fresh with belief,
Creator of land with riches bountiful and scarce,
Moulder of dough strata of silts and rock stacked as pancakes,
Former of water, clear as glass, elixir to life,
Air invisible, yet brother wind gives lush green swathes of vegetation movement,
Beautiful bright weeds to majestic kings of the forest.

Symbiotic home to every beast I invented,
All six strands of the glorious animal kingdom:
Amphibious mixers,
Ornithologists’ stimulus,
Colourful aquatic explorers,
Leathery reptilian stalkers,
Mammalian siblings,
And the invertebrates.
Oh, the spineless invertebrates, more numerous than the grains of sand.

Now as I am older and blessed with wisdom,
Standing back behind the audience of men and women,
It is the dominant mankind effect that’s affected the planet,
My naïvety,
Leaving an intelligent human species sole custodian,
A global ecosystem, balanced like a yin yang seesaw,
Now tipping like a pantechnicon of household rubbish.

Wings

A flash fiction writing post composed for December, from the prompt “Jump”. Spoiler: Contains profanity! Just so you know.


Wings

School. Teaching, it’s just not for me. Uniforms and rules: no room to manoeuvre, no creativity, no individualism. No understanding. No understanding of complex minds reaching out for help and the result: warnings, detention, exclusions, then; expel the little shit before he kills us all with his deviant attitude of defiance.

Expel the little shit. The boy has little respect for authority, has no respect for authority.

They want me to fall on line, well I can’t. How can I? How can I follow the nerds. There’s no room in the line; no desire to be in the line. The line doesn’t need me either, no desire at the line of desks to share knowledge with an expressive individual. Does not compute with the scholars of dullness, the blinkered academic parent pleasers.

‘What do you mean you got expelled?’ My parents views of a their failing offspring. ‘You prick, you’re a useless little prick.’ Really? That’s really what you think. ‘What will the neighbours say? Father Joseph? My boss, oh no, he can’t find out, I’ll never be able to show my face.’

What?

Fuck the neighbours, fuck the church, fuck your oily grumpy shit of a boss, and fuck you, Mum. Fuck you. I’m leaving.

An’ I did. I left.

I got a job.

I didn’t get a job.

I couldn’t get a job.

There are no fucking jobs. There are no fucking jobs for school dropouts, school throwouts. No jobs for homeless creatives. No jobs and no money. And no one. There’s no one to help and there’s… no one.

A broken window, on a broken street. It’s a glorious gateway to a new home, for now. The dust and dirt, the shards of glass, the pigeon shit. The pigeon shit, my god, everywhere, pigeon shit. Nothing worse, except the needles.

Except the needles weren’t the worst to start with.

I got a girlfriend.

I did, I gotta girlfriend.

She had needles, she had drugs, she had crazy eyes that watered with ecstasy. And fear. Shelley had crazy blue eyes. I never saw her normal eyes, just the crazy ones. I had crazy eyes too, probably. Heroin: analgesic heaven. Euphoric narcotic. Narco euphoria. To heaven and hell and heaven on an endless circling trip.

The first time was the weirdest. The last time was the weirdest too.

The last time.

Shelley flew. Shelley flew away, on the fix of fixes. She dissolved into the numbness, the swirling, beautiful numbness. She dissolved. I know because I dissolved next to her. On the pigeon shit carpet. She escaped to the bright lights, the cloud of peace, the cloud of forgetfulness. Escaped from the shit.

When I returned, she stayed. I returned to find her cold. Cold and bubbled with vomit. Cold. The stink of puke. The pigeons pecking at the regurgitated cubes of food. She didn’t return.

‘Get away from her you fuckers,’ I shouted. ‘Get the fuck away from her.’

And they did.

And so did I.

I left her.

I had to, I couldn’t…

I just couldn’t.

They’d blame me, throw the book at me, throw a punch or two for good measure. They’d lock me up. Prison. Prison nutters, they’d knife me for killing Shelley. I didn’t kill her, she fell, from the clouds of heaven. She lost her grip on the clouds and slipped to hell, with the pigeons. She slipped with the pigeons. They won’t believe me.

I had to leave her, I just had to.

I couldn’t…

And then I’m here. High above the ball-freezing water running fast below me. Deep, darkest brown and quick. And ball-bloody-freezing. Hands cold on the frost covered cast iron, gripping hard out of necessity. The loud rattling thunder of early morning trains shakes me, I grip tighter.

The rusting rivets of metal beneath my feet twist my ankles, I shuffle on the edge. Perched on the centre span of the railway bridge, with the pigeons. I’m a pigeon. A bloody pigeon. If I’m perching like a pigeon, can I fly like a pigeon? Fly like a fucking puke-pecking pigeon. Fly like Shelley.

‘Take me away, Shelley,’ I shout, competing with the rumbling rolling stock. ‘Take me away from the fucking pigeon shit!’

And then she’s here, Angel Shelley, flying towards me with wings of white. Silky white feathers, strong wings keeping her effortlessly afloat. Strong white silky wings, not shitty, dirty pigeon grey wings. Not like my wings – dusty, grubby, broken wings holding me down, keeping me on this ledge of guano. Not like hers. Not like the glistening angelic form in front of me.

Surely, on a flight from heaven; she made it to fucking heaven. Those crazy blues made it to heaven and now they beckon me, those crazy, crazy beautiful eyes; a spell they cast. The fuzzy feeling in my back, the shredding of grey, the bloom of white. She’s conjured me wings. Wings to match hers. Pure, magnificent, strong.

I jump.


Words: 827.

Image: Unknown.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Scribblers Forum Thread – Flash Fiction 314 – Jump

So!

So, here is another attempt to motivate…


Hold on, what’s with the “so” business? I mean it’s everywhere these days. Anyone who is anyone starts their sentence with a “so”. (And yes, I know, no conjunctions at the start or end of a sentence, doh!)

‘So, this is how I wrote ten thousand words in one day.’

‘So, whilst the pot of molten tar boils…’

‘So, money was no object…’

‘So, I like totally got wasted.’

‘So, what happened to my MC? That’s a good question.’

And, so on…

Every other person being interviewed on radio or television, when questioned, starts their diatribe ‘so’. So much so, it’s becoming addictive.

So, anyway, another attempt to motivate myself and my muse; a clearer and easily administered blog.

Of course, it’s empty at the moment, because I’ve not added any writing. Now, I did think to add all my old scribblings from my previous blog, and I may do so later, but for now the emptiness should help with motivation (as I’ve said so many times already-just to expand the word count!).

Flash Fiction, Flash Poesy, excerpts from my WIP, and any other rambling that may confine itself to my tablet writing app will be posted (or blogged) hereabouts from time to time, hopefully from less time to less time.

Consequently, with procrastination being a wonderful pastime, if you’ve not seen a Tweet or Facebook post telling you I’ve blogged again, you’re welcome to prod me with a sharp pointy stick, or request that I Make It So!


Words: 249.

Image: Unknown.

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