New Flash Fiction

New Jazz Gang flash fiction: Make a Wish

Saint

Quirky, troublesome saint,

thrust into my life by circumstance.

Edge of madness.

Edge of life.

Existing on a knife blade

where we slip and fall.

All the kings horses and all the kings men.

Cut your wrists.

Cut and run.

Cut your teeth on structure.
Plant hope in shifting sands.

Put everything in its in place:
Order from confusion. 

All the best saints first know pain.

Answer the dreams
of the fortunate few

while searching the soul's pasture
for signals.

Every meandering trail
ends in a dismal spot.

All roads lead to now.

We didn't need a crystal ball

to know where this would end:

(tablets ropes bullets)

They broke your locks

for one last time,

and you rose on the fifth day.

Canonized: perfect at last.

The young get hagiographies.
Mythologies.
Doxologies.

You're an unreliable specialty saint

who will not answer prayers.

But you left some useful memos.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Legend

Should I let things stay unspoken

and in silence turn away?

As you say.

As you wish.

Clasp cold fingers

across my lips

and dare me not to speak.

But I invoke your name,
pray to you

in troubled times.
I kneel before your altar
and read your tattered works.
I do as you would do,
but not as you have done.

You would have me
bury your memory,

and scour your footprints clean.

But instead I trace the etchings,

take my knife

and carve them deep.

Unforgettable.

Oh mad genius,

you are legend.

En memoria de VAM, falleció 4 marzo 2014.

New Flash Fiction

I have posted a new Steal Tomorrow story. This is part of the City News flash fiction offshoot: Collector.

New Flash Fiction

I have posted a new Vince story: In the News

Signs

There's a sign outside the window

of the room where I get my tea:

New

Coming Soon

Countdown

I am wearing my poker face

when I hear the news:

gossip

innuendo

I smile and nod,

but keep my feelings safe

from prying eyes.

It's all a charade, you know.

They don't just come,

but also go.

And so I don my mask,

paint my lips,

and style my hair.

Blend in.

Camouflage

There is Ginseng in my cup,

red ink on my hands.

Outside: blue screen of death.

This is my day, writ large.

And when the clock strikes

and it's all over

(tea and sly asides)

papers crumpled in bins

(do not shred)

I descend the staircase,

step by step.

Outside, my glasses fog

in summer's heat.

I am blind.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Steal Tomorrow Flash Fiction

I have posted a new story in the Jazz Gang series on the Steal Tomorrow site: Sunny.