All posts by kmjmreed

Beachworld

Micro Fiction, poetry, short stories, Words, , , , , , , , ,

 

footprints cislandAs you stare; stop looking… for answers on every wave, and under the tiring sun that lowers into its new water bed: forever creased. Each nearing roll of surf perpetually attends to the beach where you wander; reaching out and soaking, smoothing scars of soft land and human hand, from land loving creatures.

The bubbling roar of white noise; rising and dipping in volume; teasing your ears into hearing frequencies from lost radios stations: faulty and alluring. Every time this happens something is taken from you, soon replaced by a specific space to lighten your walk inland.

All this… as you stand, feet sucked by gooey miniature rocks that table gels of dead jelly fish; glistening like little brains of the sea; forced up upon confusion and violence from the mighty froths of wash.

 

 

Superhero versus Average Man

poetry, Words

For a while, he was the ‘Invisible man’ because he had to be seen to be believed. 

Suddenly, he rarely spoke, he became the ‘Quiet man’ and then everyone had heard of him.

So, for a laugh he became the ‘Funny man’ and yet everyone thought his idea was the joke. 

He tried to be Superman, Batman, even Bananaman; but their suits never suited him.

Then one day he seemed to blend into the ‘Average Man’ and yet, as bizarre as he continues to feel, being the ‘Average Man’ he hasn’t seen himself since.

For a while he was the ‘Invisible Man’ because–

Lets Talk About the Weather

poetry, Words, , , , , , , , ,

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Let’s talk about the weather.

Let’s lay in bed slightly longer, and nearer together.

Hello, how are you?

Let’s talk about the weather.

Let’s decorate the house in pleasure.

I’m just fine thank-you!

Let’s talk about the weather.

Let’s be blind to age and be young forever.

And how are you?

Let’s talk about the weather.

Let’s plan our holidays and remember the last endeavour.

I am good… thank-you!

Thingmebob Thingmejig

poetry, Words, , , , , , , , , ,

 

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Hey! Mr Thingmebob! What are you?

Oh I’m similar to you Miss Thingmejig, that is… you are my only clue.

That’s nice! but not useful, I need to know more!

Ok, you’re something forgotten that somebody left before.

Soothing… how charming that I fill that void, really though, i’m less than buoyed!

Listen, we’re something! stick with me, in our confusion… we’ll both be happy!

Mars

Flash Fiction, short stories, Words, , , , , , , , ,

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The real landscape of Mars isn’t red, not really. It’s the colour of a fox cub lying in a carpet of dry, auburn, autumnal leaves.

I’ve seen that fox… sometimes, playing, or staring directly into my eyes, searching for god knows what.

A creature clearly unaffected by the boiling, poisonous atmosphere; the fox would be almost entirely camouflaged if it were not thickly outlined by darker, Martian mountains, that appear bloodied and broken, like beaten gums.

On my last sighting of my impossible friend, the fox ambles towards me, and as I bend down stiffly to greet it, its head cocks to the right, and on anticipating my touch; crumbles like stale, birthday cake.

Surprise!

‘Well of course’ I speak morosely. I then return to my position with all the headlines, clinching a flag none the less; with all the feel and comfort of a dying hand in a useless glove.

The Face in the Dirt (in the Festivals Field)

poetry, Words, , , , , , , , ,

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The face in the dirt in the festivals field

Has always kept quiet, never been revealed

The face in the dirt prefers lying low.

Only appears where grass doesn’t show.

One eye is on the clouds, the other; passers-by.

Never communicates, doesn’t even try.

Drinks from beer spilt and other revolting fluid,

Gobbles dropped food out of view from a steward.

A peeping tom from experiments gone wrong,

The face; never has said cheerio, so long!

It may be under a tent, where someone’s sitting,

Under you’re porta-loo with the smells emitting.

Maybe it’s just enjoying the music, the atmosphere.

When you tell people, make that abundantly clear…

And have a nice time!

Sundialling

Flash Fiction, poetry, Words, , , , , , ,

My feet; creased and soft, had flattened a balding patch of spikey, dry grass. What’s more, in the dying light; a magnificent faltering bulb of a lowering watt. I created a sundial. My shadow had clocked-me-late, but ever-so carefully, and was fading out (with never a so long or cheerio). The burning star descended in my peripheral, until it hung in its laziest position. Since then, a peculiar theme; as my markered profile has yet to return in daylight; now forever it seems i’m followed by white outlines that duplicate my body in play and in still; from moon or moonless light.