Category: prose
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12 March: Rough Sleeping Since
Sleeping Rough Ever Since It was a Saturday, and Adam was having one of those stream of consciousness thingies. Like a dream, but not. He’d returned to paradise. Had a small blot hole right on the beach. Maybe a little caravan, or an RV in need of cheap repair, like in those advertisements that fill…
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5 March: Stream of Consciousness Saturday
Captain Ahab It’s getting cold, and it’s raining again, and the one-legged pigeon is stood like a moody hiss on the gutter, staring in the frosty window at me as I crunch on toasted raisin bread. This bread’s been in the freezer for about a year, about the same time as when I named that…
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5 February: This is fiction – trigger warning
The Incident of the Woman from the House with Two Stone Lions The old house was saffron and butter colour, and those cicadas singing in the trees pushed us into manic. Mama had swept the cinders from the fire, left them strewn and broadcasted across the kitchen garden – sweeping the old year out the…
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17 January: dVerse Prosery (Flash Fiction)
Stitched Up We measured moody clouds by hand widths, and when we bored ourselves of that, we played cops and robbers. We pointed fingers at each other, and then blew smoke off our fingertips. You made siren sounds. I was the bad guy. It was always me falling down dead. And Mum sat on the…
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23 Nov: Prose for Miz Quickly
A Poem Not Beginning with a Line by Elizabeth Barrett Browning I’m just a slug on the wet inner-face of the discourse, writes Jack Underwood. I don’t know Jack Underwood, but I read what he wrote, and assume lots of people also read him, and I believed every word he wrote about dead rabbits, and…
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23 Nov: NovPAD Day 23
Prose: Postscripts to a Story Once upon a time, my dad and I were a story. I speak about him in the narrative now. My dad was Swedish, but turns out that might not be so. My sister swabbed her mouth for an ancestry DNA test, and discovered that she’s German and English. Seems Dad’s…
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21 August: That Old Photo
Note: this is pure fiction based on an image at Café of Imaginary Dreams. That Old Photo: Ekphrastic Prose On the right is Jeff. Granny S named him after Jefferson. Not that Jefferson. Jefferson Street, where she worked as a waitress on Saturday afternoons, where Grandpa S always came in for his regular burger with…
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15 Aug: Prose #FFFC
Another Song A passer-by offers confetti cubes of stale bread, casually thrown into the thicket of wings, and the air is trampled. What does it mean, all that hysterical noise that shakes the air, those elbow wings cutting sunlight, and enfolding space. Birdsong echoes against the clouds. Shrieks that cling as if by claw. Its…
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14 June: dVerse Prosery
Prosery Thinking There are places I’ll never reach because my feet ache, and there are mornings when I see a sunrise and it feels ancient and seamless, and it saddens me to see its oxygen-rich colours bleeding across the world, and sometimes the sound of new day reminds me that I’m minus one more, and…
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1 June: Sanctify
Sanctify I remember our last goodbye. A small slip of a tear between us. A kiss on the cheek. Yours felt surprisingly cold for a scorched autumn day, and I remember the blue-eyed sky, the old orchard, apples that fell like red hoofs thundering on the ground, and sunlight was my eternal joy. I have…
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