There’s no gunf today. Have a couple of poems and a flash i want to do so let’s get to it.
There’s also no gunf because I think my brain went into overload and reset after the last few days of running around like a loon. No thoughts, no nothing. It may make the poetry hard but I’m hoping this serene grey-matter canvas makes my imagination pliable.
I also want to share a couple of pictures with you before we start. They are of Keri and I performing at Verbose on Monday.
There we are. Don’t we look spiffy? Let’s get to it shall we?
Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘dogma’ and comes from MSPoetry
My love for you is fixed,
my unshakable dogma.
Permanent as Sleipnir’s hooves,
Jesus’ beard, Chronos’ balls…
Wait, forget it.
Here is another poem. The prompt comes from Magick_Words and is ‘clueless’.
I stare at toast clinging
to space between cooker and cupboard,
I shrug, bite my scone
and fling it at the wall.
OK, now for a flash fiction. I wrote a collection a few years ago called Lightspeed, or to give it its full title, Lightspeed: 299,792,458 m/s-Fiction. It remains the first and only collection I have written to date and is still being edited, rewritten, bastardised into other forms of writing and back again. The flash fictions I will be writing here are intended to be a new collection. Something quite ambitious for me. I want each piece to be stand-alone yet intertwine with the others to create a full story, world. There may not be one every day but while these ideas are in my head I want to get them down.
Here is a flash fiction.
She doesn’t like the crust on bread. She doesn’t like bread but finances do not allow for taste to be met at the moment.
She cuts the crusts off two slices at a time and puts them in the toaster. The dial is set at seven. Cremation to the point of carbonisation. She prefers the taste of coal to bread.
As the bread toasts, she puts the crusts in a food bag kept on the kitchen table. She bites her nails when she is nervous so untying the knot each day takes longer than it should. By the time the bag is open, small ropes of smoke are charming their way from the toaster and with the thud of cheap metal and plastic clashing, her charcoal bread is done.
She puts the toast unbuttered on a plate and sits at the formica table eating slowly. Once finished, she brushes crumbs out of her blonde dreadlocks.
I will finish this one tomorrow. Nighty night!