Motors came to a grinding halt. Journeys and cruise ships became just a muse. As the earth healed and world struggled, it’s all hocus-pocus shrugged the potus.
It’s day 5 of the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction 2020 competition. Every day throughout April, they’ll share a one-word prompt challenging enthusiasts to create 30-word stories. This is mine for the prompt, hocus-pocus. Read more flash fiction on Twitter.
Bright lights and deafening music engulfed me. It was normal—just another day with friends. With every drink, I radiated oodles of joy. Life blurred.
And then we got corona.
This is my interpretation of today’s prompt: blur. It’s for the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction 2020 competition. 30 days, 30 prompts, 30 words. See more #WVFlashFic20 entries here.
It was as if un-roasted, coarsely-ground peppercorns clawed down his throat.
“Er—erm,”
The future father-in-law’s gold-rimmed eyes popped, seeking weakness. Schadenfreude.
“Wow, intense shiraz!”
This is my entry for day 3 of the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction 2020 competition. Today’s prompt: intense. Learn more on their website or on Twitter.
Stepping to the side,
seasons, like generations,
letting new life bloom.
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,
d
e
e
p
pit
of love for words.
