Tag Archives: Life

Psychedelic Leopard Spots

creative writing, Flash Fiction, , ,

The fact that I have just seen a minuscule leopard; no bigger than my thumb; nonchalantly roaming between the taller blades of grass in my front garden was not as surprising as I would’ve first imagined.

Then I notice a tiny family of three; lying down not so far away from the minuscule leopard; the baby is twice the size of its assumed parents and the Leopard. Somehow I overlook this irregularity in scale and look away, determined to see what else that I can find that defeats logic. Inevitably, they all vanish before I look back on my search for absolute confirmation.

Feeling aggrieved, I sense that I’m being watched — but still I scan the garden; my mannerisms acquire some semblance of pretense loss, as all I see now is scattered autumnal leaves. Within a matter of moments I disregard the miniature marvels; I smile, subtly, as I come to the conclusion that I’m very temporarily insane.

I continue to walk to the gate and plan my route to work as usual.

September Poem

poetry, ,

The seventh month

That’s actually the ninth

Those Romans still rule

But we can’t change it now

Why suddenly the embers

People start up the fires

And the burning I can smell

Quick close that bloody window

A signal to slow death of leaves

Look up and celebrate their beauty

Oops there drops another one

Somebody sweep that mess up!

August, the last noisy neighbour

September is the first peace in autumn

For winter is the drama-queen

So roll on next September

The Park Bench and the Downpour

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, ,

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As the day passes before you, you sit longer than you had planned

on the most servant park bench.

Then, subtly, a lost shadow whispers into your ear, It says, shame about the

cats and dogs. You haven’t the heart to tell it that it hasn’t rained for days.

Meanwhile, time must be folding inward; squeezing itself until a residue from

a meaningful downpour leaps from your chin.

You remain seated on the bench getting wet, and as you do, you’re

unknowingly and repeatedly shapeshifting; into every person who has ever sat

there for exactly the same reason you do.

Lost Gravity

creative writing, Flash Fiction, poetry,

When I walk on the pavements that knit together my small town, I occasionally hover, fleetingly and quite randomly above the colourless concrete.

Recently, I stood still behind a tree and measured approximately one centimetre of nothing between my feet and the inevitable, and for those seconds I did not wonder how, all I asked was… why? Until, my feet felt firmly on the ground.