Some elegant urge
A black gift rose
To celebrate the decadent
Vision of the death stare
Trapped behind which
A 1000 apparatus soar
Moan and rend
Too raw from the wound
Where the bull’s horn
Has gored her, she cries
“Is this it? Should I stay
Hit and not standing?”
Her mind the proverbial
Ship in a lather that drives
The storm, until at last
She hears her final
Tag Archives: Fiction
Some elegant urge
After peace solves naked disorder
Angry he moves, the shadow
Where the body of the lion lay fastened
To the fatal impression
A photographic arrangement of
The anxiety of vibration
This is the formula moistened
Darkness becomes the issue of blood
For the end of whiteness
At last, to thee is risen
It originated to be finally you
So sleep well now on your beds of stone
Ye brave-hearted bellatores.
I have a friend whom I haven’t seen in years. Over twenty years, if I’m going to be honest. We went to high school together and then went our separate ways. She’s since married, as have I. I’ve also had a child since then. But I’m pretty sure she never did start a family of her own.
We were “real close friends”, back in the day. I’m sure she even sold me my first bag of dope. Marijuana, that is. Nothing too serious, just a sandwich bag stuffed full of leafy weed. We were just stupid kids, I suppose, hanging out after school.
She also had this thing for a while going on with the female drama teacher up at the art college. That was cool, too, I guess, I said.
So anyway, now, right out of nowhere, she has blown back into town. She’s even sent me a text to say we should catch up, after explaining she’s manages a “big top” tent with which she travels the country putting on cabaret shows and such.
You’d think I’d be happy. Well, I should be, don’t you think? But I haven’t answered her text, not yet.
I mean, I still remember picking her up from the local milk-bar she worked at, when I got my first car. Or how I told her I loved her when it was obviously already hopeless, as far as our ever getting together, all that long time ago.
And as for the measure of each of our levels of success, well, she’s doing everything of which she ever dreamt. Whereas I always talked of becoming a writer; but, quite honestly, I haven’t found my wings yet.
I’m not so certain I ever will.
Sure enough, I’ve kicked around in a few deadbeat bands and written a song or two. I even wrote a novel, much to my own despair.
Nothing came of any of it. I’m still living in the same backwater we grew up in, and a good halfway to becoming a failure in my own eyes.
Close friends can do that — hold a mirror up to our lives, that is. Just by their very presence. And so maybe after such a long break in contact, as it has been in this case, it’s not our long lost friend we don’t want to see, but ourselves…
Hell, in the end, I don’t know, maybe it’s only really little children who get excited when the circus comes to town.
I hate to be the one to break the news to you, people, but the novel is dead!
No? What’s that you say? You beg to differ?
Well, then, in return, I say to you, “So go and buy a copy of my reasonably priced eBook, Missing Zero! Go on, prove to me people still want to buy novels…”
Uh-huh. Now, here’s where you’re gonna start to make up lame excuses about your having a ton of other things to read currently and how you’re suffering another one of your infamous cluster-fuck headaches and how your pet hamster’s got her period, right?
Yeah, right! Just admit it. You haven’t read anything longer than this blog since those navy seals supposedly shot Bin Laden dead and then mysteriously dumped him overboard.
Not that I’m suggesting the two things are in any way connected; trust me, I’m just simply pointing out to you the extreme length of your novel-reading abstinence in a (slightly) overly-sensationalized way.
Sorted. Ok, so we’re agreed the novel is at the very least flat-lining as we speak (metaphorically speaking, that is).
So what the hell are we writerly-types going to do about it? Become poets? No, not bloody likely, let me tell you! I flatly refuse to smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, for one thing. And for another, I don’t own a single hand-knitted woollen vest. Sorry!
Anyway, poets are to Literature what wanky-poseur jazz musicians are to good music.
Which again leads us back to the question, “Quo vadis (trans. whither goest thou), Sweet Wordsmith?”
Well, if I might be so bold, I think I might just have the answer: Flash fiction – (cue singing, “A-ah, Saviour of the Universe!”).
Let me apologise. As you’ve probably, no doubt, already noticed, I can’t hear the word “flash” and then not be compelled to imitate Freddie Mercury belting out the theme song from Queen’s soundtrack to the 1980 film version of Flash Gordon. Don’t worry, it probably isn’t all that contagious.
But I digress. On a more serious note, let me say that I didn’t really have any experience with micro-fiction/flash fiction (what have you) — “A-ah, It’s a Miracle!” – until about a week ago.
In one of my previous blog posts, I recently detailed some of the experiences I have had since joining Helium, a professional blog-writing community. But what I didn’t mention at that stage is that I also had a go, for the first time, at writing some 400-word flash fiction pieces, as part of a creative-writing competition Helium runs over there each fortnight.
In short, from my brief foray into the condensed format flash fiction offers, I would say it may well end up driving the final nail into the coffin of the whole moribund novel-writing caper. Just sayin’?!
Some guy called David Gaffney wrote a good introductory article for the Guardian back in May, 2012 about this new-ish phenomenon, which should whet your appetite enough, if you haven’t given flash fiction a go already. See the link below:
And should you wish to check out my own first attempt at a short-short story (written under the pen name of Hadiran Brand), please follow the link here!
Pathetic Earthlings…who can save you now?