Normally people take stock of the old year in January, me, I wait until the middle of February, and I’m not even going to beat myself up about it. I had other things to deal with, and if it took me an extra six weeks to get things straightened up, then it took an extra six weeks.Continue reading “Short Story Finalist And A Poetry Submissions Blitz”
The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows:
- Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements. [Oxford Dictionary]
- Use the image below to write a story, poem, perhaps even a script. There are no rules about form or style. If you would like to create a piece of art in response that is also welcome. This prompt is about being artistic and creative in whatever way suits you best.
- Please keep entries PG as this is open to all. (i.e no erotica)
- The prompt is open from the first of the month to the end of the month.
- Use pingbacks to link up to the prompt or leave a link in the comments section. Whichever you prefer.
- I try to at least read every entry in the prompt and I’d love to encourage anyone taking part to try and check some of the other entries if they can.
- As always, re-tweets, re-blogs, and shares are gratefully received. We are always open to new participants.
Is there a quota for mercy?
Do they give it to the younger angels,
take their hands on clear mornings,
and steer them to the edges of clouds
where they can peer over the banks
into the depths of blue beneath.
All our little prayers bubbling up
to be popped by small celestial palms
crumb dusted from the mercy
their mothers have parcelled out
so they can toss it to the mortals below.
And do some of us know the places
to stand on those clear mornings
where the young ones chatter
and rustle their down like tissue.
Which ones crumble mercy to dust
so it falls evenly and ripples far,
the others who wodge their palms
into pebbles that punch through
but settle far too soon.
Who’s voice calls them home.
Mary Mother of God have mercy, mercy on us all
Vertigo & Ghosts by Fiona Benson
I usually solve problems by letting them devour me.
There are useful things inside wolves and shadows,
with moonlight in the blades
to show the way back out
from the darker places in the bellies of beasts
that perhaps may not be beasts
once they’ve be carved into smaller, scurrier things
that run rather from, rather than swallow
all the things that shine.
They put the footings in to retain the planning permissions. Susan booked the day off to watch. Invited him as well, suggested they take sandwiches and tea, to watch the first part of their house take shape. Afterall, they’d spent eight years fighting the council for the go-ahead. They might not have the funds to build the entire thing yet, but they could celebrate starting.
Then there were doctors, hospitals, a man in a grey suit with a sombre face.
Susan’s brother giving a reading.
All that was left were foundations.