"From Here" - Superb Flash Prose/Flash Fiction Piece by Stephen House

From Here

I go upstairs, grab my bag, kiss her on the cheek, and head back down the narrow creaking stairwell. “Stay here,” she shouts. I keep moving; leave her softly crying and looking out the window and down to him on the boardwalk by the river.

I go to the boardwalk, hold him tightly for a moment and begin moving away. “Don’t go,” he whispers. His plea is like a knife in my heart. I so want to take him away from this and them; from all that I am and have been too. Find some of what is dragging me to flee and try for change and offer it up to him. But I can’t; I don’t know how to give him anything at all; I’m incapable; because I am struggling so hard to somehow help myself to try to not be what I’ve been for so long, that I have nothing left to help him along.

The drunks and addicts are playing some silly morning game like we all do around here. He kisses me on the cheek and drifts down to join the chaotic tribe. I watch him for a moment, through my tired, foggy, eyes; tempted to run after him, take his vulnerability in hand and continue this thing on; deeply sad, but strangely beautiful too.

I turn away and pace; past some angry red head shouting and swearing into the air, past my one-time lover outside of his nasty bar; laughing and chatting to his new gullible trade, past some skinny hustler that I once bought pot from, or sold it too; across the bridge, and get into a cab on the corner.

The green-eyed driver turns to me and asks where I’m going. “I don’t know; as long as it’s away from where I’ve just been. Have you got any suggestions?” He smiles and I smile back, and for a long moment we sit silently, almost face to face, two men looking deeply into each other’s struggling life. He pulls away from the curb and moves us onwards, turns quickly, and asks what way. “The Central Bus Station” I answer, and he does a crafty U turn and merges into the traffic. I have no idea at all where I’ll go from here, and right now I don’t really care.

"From Here",

Is an adapted excerpt from Stephen's one hour monologue, "Almost Face to Face", published by Australian Plays Transform. But of course, in this form / stand alone adapted to flash fiction, it has never been published.

Stephen House has had 20 plays, 3 short films, and several exhibitions produced. He has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright and actor. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council to Canada, Ireland and USA, and an Asia-link India literature residency. His chapbook “real and unreal” was published by ICOE Press Australia. His poetry is published often, and he has performed his acclaimed / published monologues, “Appalling Behaviour” and “Almost Face to Face” widely. Stephen’s play, “Johnny Chico” has been running in Spain for 2 years and continues.

 

Two Poems and Two Flash Prose Pieces by Matthew Bowers

The Forest

Where do you leadeth me

I long to see thy path

Thickest forest blankets thee

Once begun, there's no turning back

Celtic Isle, beneath foliage skies

A wind whispers 'follow me'

Secret tongues, Gnostic bones

The journey has hold of me

I bare the name of ancient rites

Descendants of wandering tribes

Hunters, gatherers, magicians

We shine as stars

throughout the night

It's my calling to find and recover

The golden vessel

where cherubs stand

One faces east, the other west

Return them to our holy land

Somewhere far, beyond these gates

On top of the good kings mound

Hidden there, beneath the soil

Buried mysteries are surely found

An Egyptian Queen, escapes with her love

From the desert, to lush green hills

Rolling emerald valleys, and distant shores

Their destiny fulfilled

In a word of light, without a lamp

A breath of life, from absolute sentience

We break the bonds of our mortal coil

Humbled, within the presence

Deep within this Phthalo green grove

I feel my Calling throughout my veins

My hunger's fire, drives my destiny forward

As an archer with truest aim

Not born a hero, created as man

Sophia's wisdom I reclaim

I am the Son, I am the One

The world has proclaimed

Amalia Whispers of Fae

Beneath a heavy crimson sky, charges of electric neon flood the airs of night. Naked trees, with cast off leaves, stand as Nephilim reaching high towards the Ether above. Children laugh, point to the MagicK, creating visceral enchantments, above lofty beds of rich green grass. Flashing lights, blink, and hide, and reappear upon a whim. Like fireflies, willow-wisps, dance in circles, round and round round a fire. The childhood innocence draws the fae, from her realm of beauty, just beyond this dimension door. The key between the worlds unlocked, giggle, laughter, play and sing. Curiosity has called the rich benevolent soul, to engage in the frolic of the two young girls. In the distance, illuminated souls, contemplate their very essence. A tragedy struck them long ago, a fire, to a home of five, the youngest just a babe six months is carried by its auroral mother still in her arms. Like stars, reflecting, shining glimpses of spirits, flitter beneath the ceiling of dried elm. Pointing to the sky, the girls celebrate, the thinning of the veil, here there is no line between life and death, the reality is the same. Beautiful fae, sparkling wings, hair of golden spun tresses. Like nothing of this world is she... whispering... enjoy, welcome to the light.

Sister Morphine

The More Phine, The Better

Hollywood 90-94

Things were Crazy back in the day, days blurred together, then into weeks and months...time had no definition, it just passed through us, like ghosts carried on a breeze of after thoughts... never quite tangible, or within reach. Simple echoes, and shadows, and pieces of dreams, never coming into focus, or coming to fruition.

But in our own ways, we thrived, and lived out these dreams. Hollywood pirates, dressed in silk and velvet, lipstick, eyeliner, long before Captain Jack Sparrow took to the seas, we owned the city, the social music scene, with acts of debauchery, fuelled by Crowley, we made sacrifices of our youth, in the name of fortune and fame. Our heads filled with images of sex, drugs, and rock- and-roll. We didn't know it at the time, but that's how we paid our dues....

'Will-o-the-wisp'

Emerald tree Home

To Will-o-the-wisps

Bright

Sprites

Dancing

Through bitter flames

Prancing

Alluring

And fooling

Leading astray

Men, women, children

That have lost their way

Wandering adventurers

Town's folk on rye

Circling

Confusion

Their senses now lie

Devious orbs

At play in the night

Do you hear in the distance

An echo or cry

A haunting

A vessel of

A Mischievous devise

Around and around

Twirling to new heights

Now lost from whence start

There's no turning back

Caught up in the black arts

Tangled and racked

Days turn to weeks

Weeks into months

Months bleed into years

And years come undone

Will-o-the-wisp

Fairies

Spirits of ghosts

Heirs of the forest

Nocturnal hosts

Believe me my friends,

There's more to this tale

Don't fall for their enchantments

The illusions through the veil

The evening remains silent

Not a single crunch of a leaf

Vanished, to aether

Where your soul, he doth keep

Matthew Bowers is a native of New England, born in Springfield Massachusetts. In his youth Bands such as The Doors, The Beatles, and Led Zeppelin were very influential to his later writing. In 1988 he moved to Boston and played the local Rock-Roll scene that was made up at the time of Glam, Rock, and Sleaze Metal.

 

True to his roots that consisted of the likes of David Bowie, The Rolling Stones and the Finnish punk/ glam band Hanoi Rocks, he moved to Hollywood, California in 1990. Landing in the heart of the Rock Music capital of the world, he began preparing the formation of his band Sister Morphine.

 

Matthew (Jamie Childs)'s musical background as front-man, vocalist, and lyricist paved the way for his departure from music into writing and poetry. Early writing influences of his consisted of Nick Cave, Tom Waits, Charles Bukowski, Iris Berry, Pleasant Gehman, and David Bowie.

     

In 2020 Matthew started his own concept of supporting the arts and talents through his vision The Calling. The Calling ranges from Social media groups, Bandlab, Reverbnation, Podcast, YouTube channel, website and online store. 

   

In this last year, Matthew has met wonderful, talented poets, writers, and artists from all over the globe. To coin a familiar Rock-n-Roll phrase, "What a long strange trip it's been"

  

Two Flash Prose Pieces by Kathy Z. Price

 

THE LOVE LESSON

 

 

If I pricked my finger + the last one + the tiniest one + the most useless +  except to pinky promise+ if I pricked + with a needle so faint, + I barely felt it, + could hear + the single drop of rain of blood + from your house + one million miles away + where you lay + outstretched on your bed +  your dog comfortably + beside you like a live + teddy bear  + your holiday glass of margaritas + and something stirring by Bronte + or Lispector+  what would that one + single drop of blood say to you + with every thought + it wanted to say + my hand outspread for you + to stroke my palm +  kiss the lifeline + say this is good + if you felt the drop of blood as rain + would you believe me + if I told you + at the same moment a tear + fell when I thought + of you, pinning my hem badly + because I do not sew + and there’s drop of blood + suddenly every single person + who ever turned + their back stood up to dance + ah,  + if only+  you felt it once +  then maybe you + would have been just a little bit kinder + maybe you would have remembered + that social justice starts with the nearest friend + who is + nearest stranger +who be+ comes  +the next + nearest friend

 

 

 

r/obert & the rabbit

 

i want robt / his

missives on the daily     beginning of sun & 100 thousand new comets or concepts      robt tell me   i          am important                hold to belly my mouth        imagine lips

against skin     conversation      heart thrusts out the chest cavity with each penetration & isn’t that how it shld be

blue skies resolve idle trivia like you are married   we dizzy once on christmas eve, right    & there wasn’t wine, neither    & has since forgot me  in the long ago

in rabbit of eternity    this is end of the zoo’s

tale           skunk flung bee-herder over his tail, sued a rat & rat won by just a flicker

 

it levels out in the end is the lie

karma blurts out in her rem sleep

& yet, yet, yet,

still

want you

 

 

Kathy Z. Price is a recipient of a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry. She's also a Hedgebrook and Edward Albee Fellow, a recipient of Archie & Bertha Walker Poetry Fellowship at the Fine Arts Work Center Provincetown. Recent work was published by storySouth, and more work is included or forthcoming in TriQuarterly, Rumpus, Cincinnati Review, Bayou, Pleiades, and Prairie Schooner among others.

Kathy Z. Price

Mardi Gras Almost Didn't Come This Year

Simon & Schuster 2022