Tag Archives: flash fiction

Handwritten Pages #20 Sunlight

He grasped the early morning shafts of sunlight striking through the gaps in the curtains. Strips of sunbeams speckled with diamonds of dust. Harvested like shards of honeycomb, stored in jars and placed around the house as lanterns. He spooned mouthfuls of amber twilight from the jars and ate the light to satiate the darkness.

 

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Handwritten Pages #19 The Baptismal Slough

Under the shelter of the summer storms clouds he waited, held within a womb of humidity, his body slick with sweat.

As he drew breaths, held deeply then exhaled slowly, the skies rippled and pulsed, heaved and held back their waves before splitting above him in a gushing of waters.

The tackiness of his sweat sloughed off like old skin beneath the baptism of new rain.

A midwife to his own rebirth.

Renewed skin, perfect in its newest gloss, dressed in the lifetime of variables: family, work, love, pain, futility, faith, doubt, hope and sex, until worn threadbare, stained and tattered. 

And he would wait for the next storm, for another baptism, another cleansing, seed to impregnate the soil with his vision of himself.

 

with acknowledgement to Bruce Dawe and Shakespeare

Handwritten Pages #18 The Kiss

Their kiss was a reintroduction to joy; the passionate self-belief everything would be ok in a screwed up world when the screwed-uppedness manifested in a constant shit-storm that threatened to drown them and salt the earth in the aftermath.
To get there, invitations slipped in as ordinary moments as the antithesis to pain’s physical form: meals in Tupperware containers reheated in microwaves and eaten with grief and gratitude; cups of tea with phones ignored and flowers as prayers for healing.
And in the end, the scraping away and the shovelling of shit to make manure for a broken soil leading to the kiss of forgiveness and the parched desert of intimacy soaked with rain awaiting the bloom of wild flowers.

Handwritten Pages #17

 

Standing inside the phone booth, its panes of glass crumbled to hail stones on the concrete floor, with the receiver cradled against my ear, I pretend to put coins in the slot while listening to the dial tone. The static drone a soundtrack to the anonymity of pain. Stabbing the numbers in a sequence I have never forgotten, hoping to call the ghosts of the future to tell them not to wait up for me.

Handwritten Pages #15

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     She ties the dressing gown around her waist. Lines up her toes where the metal coping separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom tiles. A diver’s stance. Anticipation of the tiles’ coldness.
     She steps. Plummets. Side steps the bath mat. Plants her feet squarely. Small ripples quickly subside. The cold tiles prickle the soles of her feet until it stings. Tapers off to an equilibrium.
     Repeatedly she will lie on her back on the bathroom floor undressed. Lets the cold of the tiles fight with the heat of her body. She relents. Acquiesces. Adds a layer of permafrost to her heart against the fire of her mother’s tongue.

Handwritten Pages #14

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     It is the rhythmic rasp of the sandpaper she likes best. A counterpoint, and companion, voice to her grandfather’s asthmatic wheeze as he makes furniture and occasionally toys. Punctuated by the cough of the match head on the striking paper to light his hand rolled cigarettes.
     She can discern by ear the coarseness of the grit against the grain. Jarrah, pine, mahogany. He gives her the cork block and a sheet of sandpaper. Converses with her through each stroke.
     She knows, one day, this conversation will cease.

Handwritten Pages #13

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Sonia waited on the platform, trailed by her shadow, for the last possible moment to board the train. She wanted to time her entrance into the carriage with the closing of the doors to separate her physical body from her shadow. So far, she had not succeeded.

Today’s Handwritten Page was inspired by this image. It was a  random prompt given to me by a friend. 

train-station