Autopsy (Sonnet with Iambic Pentameter)

They gathered with a wicked air and tools,
A duty which defiles the man of form.
The imprecation cast from metal stools,
They felt through gloves on skin no longer warm.
The man was just a man, of twenty-five.
His hair was light, his eyes were dark and glazed.
A man who lived when he was once alive
Now faced intrusion, like a patient fazed.
Could death destroy the beauty that is life?
She wondered as the scalpel pierced through.
A dozen men had been under her knife.
Not one had gasped in horror, that she knew.
A monologue she had prepared in thought
Romanticised the fantasy she sought:

‘My eyes had never seen such pulchritude
As which beheld your angelic figure.
At hands of gods were you sculptured in nude
And glowing with fortuitous lustre.
Just like a king commanding jesters’ dance,
I waited on your soul, your mind, your breath.
The cataclysmic build up to the chance,
A disconcertment leaving me bereft.
Earths gravity asphyxiating us,
Though you were far from the sterility.
Your smooth surreal skin remained lifeless,
Fluorescence had disturbed tranquility.
Absconded life early and not complete,
As I bequeathed the cloak-like ghostly sheet.’

Five Very Short Stories

Funky flash fiction. Yay for alliteration.

Stealing All the Sevens

Richmond Bridge

37, day twenty nine

I only sort of did a post yesterday. I did my lunch break thing, but not a regular post. It still counts!

Since it only sort of counts, I wrote five short stories for today. When did I turn into the kind of writer who can sit down and write five stories? I don’t know. I didn’t notice it happen, but now that it has I am going to make sure to keep doing it.


The Dragon Shop

As usual for Tuesday morning, Gerald Pickering went to the market. When he got there, he found that the market was not only closed, it was missing entirely. Instead of a shop there was a great purple and green dragon. It appeared to be asleep. Hanging from its snout was a sign.

Green Street Shop Transfigured Due to New Management

“Well this is just brilliant,”…

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Base Camp (A poem using the structure of the song “Reckless” written by James Reyne, and inspired by.)


Meet me back at the base camp
Where we held back uncertainties
Gagging on the cloves of garlic
The shadow of the summit
Creeping with the breeze

See our footprints getting shallow
So fast we fade away
Rations small and tensions rising
Not what I wanted
Especially not that way

The fog ahead is thick and daunting
I clamber for your hand
I fall and take your glove with me
That’s all I have now
I hope you understand

Feel like this can’t be the end of us
Too far from where we came
A Polar Bear in Central Park Zoo
Some things aren’t meant to happen
It’s tragic all the same

Meet me back at the base camp
Before I got reckless
We’ll find heat in the freezing weather
I will be watching for
Your call of distress