Mania and depression met at a party. It was love at first sight—but soon enough, one realised that the other had got it by the eyeballs.
This is my entry for the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction 2020 contest run by Writers Victoria. Every day throughout April, they’ll publish a prompt on their website and Twitter handle. The competition is to come up with a flash fiction incorporating the prompt in 30 words or fewer. Interested? Check it out!
There’s no right or wrong. No rhyme or rhythm. No period, no commas, and no bloody capitalisms—oops, I meant capitalisations. It’s all about order, or lack thereof.
No rule book, no guidelines—no restrictions can be placed upon it. Sometimes we need to be passive to be actively engaging. From a drunken writer to the sober reader, from one heart to another, poetry is raw—like broccoli—uncooked it has a crunch, with every munch like mulch it lives with you, seeping within you.
It’s an uninvited reality check, like a rule-brealing badass teenager that refuses to abide by laws—setting out to transform the world with their far-fetched ideas and enviable immunity… to sensationalism.
Poetry is escape. Like the tiny, almost invisible insect crawling up your desk, words, with their innate and not-so-explicit meaning, clamp into oneness, clasping your throat, binding you to a chair, and leaving you mesmerised at their beauty, their soul-sucking tentacles wriggling in the air in front of you, with life-affirming waves, playing, teasing, gripping your attention as you slowly fall… …………… ………… ……… …… … . into the deep,