I’ve been clearing up the house sweeping up the crumbs. It’s a monthly ritual. Am I mad? Or just dumb? I clear away the cobwebs sweep up the dust collect and bin the rubbish. Somebody must. They won’t wash themselves, mum used to say. The sink’s full of them so I put them away. Make the place spotless so it shines & it hums. & I better get a move on before the cleaner comes.
John L. Malone wrote this piece “… because you don’t come across many funny flash fiction poems :)”
your neck hidden beneath vertical implications of hair
eliciting you from sleep would stifle the moment
no longer yielding to previous follies
i spread out in gilded rays
allowing nature to craft her treachery.
Evan Anders brews coffee for mass consumption in Philadelphia. He is a retired stay-at-home dad who doesn’t know why he writes. It’s something nice to do when he can’t sleep and doesn’t feel like washing dishes.
And I remember you in charcoal dreams and chalky daytime visions. You become we stacking rocks Like stacking a deck Like stacking blocks Like stacking boxes One on top of the other in my mind. This day, we were light as we’d ever been. Heads back in laughter. We carried kings with our lips and tasted salt diamonds on our tongues. Even now, our silhouettes sit frozen forever, mouths open. I blink this image to life, and I think of how laughing looks like screaming when the sound’s turned off.
“I write to get closer to the sublime.” – the writer
To celebrate the end of this god-awful year, we present some our favorite posts of 2020. While we are grateful to all Drabble readers and writers for helping to make this site a success, we want to recognize (in no particular order) a few drabbles we truly loved in 2020. We hope you do, too:
I look in the mirror, but I never see the same guy twice. (Maybe that’s a good thing.)
I know who I used to be, and who I was before that: I’m hardly ever them anymore.
I know who I always hope to see. I keep sending him invitations but he almost never shows up.
Maybe I need one of those fancy dressing room mirrors; one that can reflect my many, many faces
until I can finally settle down, until I can decide which one of me is the one that I’ve been looking for.
Ron. Lavalette writes “to overcome his stir-craziness up on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.” His debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press), is now available at all standard outlets.
Through the mist the crow is watching the beach party as they pile up the stones. He watches them build them higher and higher but he’s not impressed, he knows that the stack of stones was even higher once. Their ancestors built it first and the crow remembers them remembers their faces through the mists of time in life and in death. Remembers that it formed a stairway all the way to heaven. That’s what they told him in life. That’s what they tell him in death.
A black hole lies in wait A future created in limbo Outside forces pull strings like a marionette A veil of darkness hovers on the horizon Tears of joy eradicated and replaced by tears of sadness Perpetrated unknowingly in fields of sorrow A power of destruction moving onward Tentacles spreading like Moriarty’s empire Connecting dots and pulling tighter Waiting in shadows of a street lamp Waiting for solitary confinement
It was a fall evening, I was nineteen with head full of dreams and heart full of love. She was just seventeen, perfect from head to toe, she believed in dreams even more than I did. We were on her terrace, kissing in the afterglow of sunset. She was caressing my hair with her nimble fingers like she always did when we kissed. I tried to go deeper but the train stopped, stirring me out of sleep. The dream popped like soap bubble.
… wet steel tracks flash gold red lips, brown eyes and black nails noon rain makes me smile
Mrityunjay “believes that writing is an act of telepathy.”