The Cut

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creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, metaphor, short stories, stories, story, The Cut, writing

I wait. I wait and watch; watch with one single, singular goal. A goal born of necessity, survival and desire. I wait with a patience which is incomprehensible to you and your kind, silent and invisible, ever alert, never sleeping, watching for the chink, the tiniest of cracks which I know, one day, will come. Will come and welcome me in.

I see you all, assured in your confidence and complacency, secure in your impudence and infallibility. I see each and every move as you drift through your time in presumption of immortality, unaware of the miniscule; the invisible threat which hides in every fissure. I see it all and bide my time, waiting always to seize the chance that I know will come.

And then, in a split second, in a moment which is as unpredictable as it is expected, I see my opportunity, and I am upon you. I am as alert as you are unaware; as swift as you are slow as I seep into your being and set about my work, my purpose. There can be but one outcome now; my victory assured as all too late you seal the cut.

The Nightmare

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stories, short stories, fiction, story, writing, creative, flash fiction, flash, The Nightmare

I was falling. I was tumbling heads over heart over heels, cascading like a waterfall over broken rocks. Behind me, or  perhaps above me, depending on which up I was facing at any given  moment, the piano came tumbling after me. Stairs gave way to rocks which in turn began to melt into a murky fog which itself without warning transformed into daylight and then once more a staircase. It was as if I were falling through one of Esher’s woodcut prints, down an endless set of staircases which repeated upon themselves ceaselessly. And still, the piano came hurtling towards me, threatening (or promising) to catch up with me without ever quite managing to do so. Like a mouse in the grips of a domestic cat I was nothing more than a plaything, a toy with which to pass the time. Teeth, white then black then white once more, chattered after me. One moment it felt as if I was destined to be devoured by them, perhaps to return as some discordant melody, the next I felt that they had something that they needed to say to me, a message, perhaps, a sense of purpose. And yet still the piano remained both  as close and as distant as it always had.

My eyes opened, stinging with the salt from a cold sweat. I swung myself out of my bed as if it were the source of all I did not want to face. I opened the door to step from my room.

I was falling.

The Step

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creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, short stories, stories, story, suicide, The Step, writing

It was at that moment, standing at the full rise of the cliff, staring out at the endless nothingness of the ocean, that understanding came to me. Here, where the grey expanse of sea met the grey emptiness of the sky, where there existed no demarcation between the two, where all states became one, realisation stood out, stark and clear. The air around me twisted and twirled like an uncertain ballerina rehearsing pirouettes in the stillness of her solitude. It mingled with the spray as it leapt from the water settling on my face, hands and clothes – a fruitless reminder that all was one; that change begat change begat change until the circle was complete. And I realised then that all was a lie, a pointless dream thought up by forces intent only on prolonging our sense of isolation and confusion; our need for some fragment of belonging.

A step, one solitary step, either forwards or backwards, would have no effect on turning of the rock upon which we all stand. No ripples would be felt, no chain of events started which would lead to armageddon or to the rise of an Humanity built on love and compassion and empathy. A single step which, like countless others, would pass unnoticed. A single step.

The Car

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creative, fiction.flash, flash fiction, metaphor, short stories, stories, story, The Car, writing

The car raced through the metaphor as if it knew its destination, its purpose; as if it had, with one final combustion, burst free from its shackles, escaped the confines of the pen, and set itself free, driverless, rudderless, free from the grid which criss-crossed the air which wrapped itself idly about it, its gentle fingers guiding with persistent insistence, free from the thoughts which sought to trace its path; free but shadowed by clouds which longed to drain their heavy weights upon the car as it cascaded through the landscape that, by now, even they failed to recognise. 

The Bed

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creative, death, fiction, flash, flash fiction, short stories, stories, story, The Bed, writing

One bed had been replaced by another, but whilst the first, firm as it was, had been warm and safe, draped in crisp sheets of white, this one, the one on which he now found himself, bore the hallmarks of a table – firm, practical and precise, with a surface designed more for cleanliness than comfort. Despite the anaesthesia, the sedation that rendered his body, his physical being, inert and immobile, he was acutely aware of the movement around him; voices low, measured and controlled, assured in their certainty, each sound filling every inch of the room with unquestionable authority. He was aware too of the gradual slowing of the air which moved gently, peacefully, in and out of his lungs, its diminishing pace echoed by the sound of blood pumping through his arteries, filling his veins, as it eased its ways back to the chambers of his heart.

He could hear one voice more clearly now, a resigned tone, authoritative still, but tinged with a hint of failure: there’s nothing more to be done.

‘So this is it, then,’ he thought.

Condensed

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creative, destiny, faith, Fate, movie, one line, Philosophy, poems, poetry, song, verse, writing

What is this thing

That we have been given,

Or gifted,

Or borrowed,

Depending on the philosophy

Or theology 

Which runs through your veins – 

Or perhaps because of the way

In which the wind blew

At a singular point in time?

This thing that we call home,

Or Heaven,

Or Hell,

This constant oscillation

Between the beacons we mark

In invisible ink – 

The landmarks we trust

Or build our faith around,

That will lead us towards

Revelation

Or at least an end?

This inhabited shell

This organism over which we hold

No control 

Or order –

A set of random sparks

And pulses we hope will connect?

What is it then

This life that can be condensed

Into a single scene from a film 

Or line from a song?

Heroes in the Sand

And now your heroes

Are nothing more

Than shadows on your thoughts

And shadows fade

In the absence of light,

So where are the ghosts

The ones to whom you cling

Their words like scratches

Down your spine 

The ones you dreamed would

Save you?

And were their thoughts

That you breathed as if

Their purity

Their sanctity

Was all that gave you life

Any truer than your own?

And shadows pass

Like lost heroes on the sand

Engulfed by the darkness

Of heavy clouds

And endless night.

In the Mirror

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creative, Doubt, In the Mirror, Love, poems, poetry, Self-doubt, verse, writing

In the mirror

It’s always sunset

Waiting for the shadow

Of you

To fall across the glass

And mask the dreams

That lurk behind my eyes.

Mostly Truth

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creative, Mostly Truth, poems, poetry, verse, writing

And in the end

When everything 

Is put to bed

Then you will know

That every word

And all I said

Was mostly truth.

3x3x3 Inspiration? (2)

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3x3x3, creative, Ideas, inspiration, poetry, thoughts, writing

Watching the days Faces falling from me Realising that life Has not finished with me yet	You never stopped loving And the slightest of threads Held your dreams	Can the flowers still speak To the hearts Of the fallen?
I was always there In your dreams and hopes And fears	And I know your heart And I know your breath As it fills my lungs	I left my home To never return A soldier of a forgotten war
And when we froze We felt at last All that could have been	When you left I drowned in the silence Of the room	Racing through the amber We never caught up With the hearts that we sought

A few ideas which may (or may not) be/feel connected in some way.

Once again I’m indebted to Michael for this idea which he shared a few weeks ago here.