‘A moth-craft, ether, a plant that tells your fortune’
Those crumpling brown wings, which I once thought ugly and decrepit, let the sun through so beautifully, that I had no choice but to embrace its warmth. I stood beneath that large moth as it flew overhead, the rays overlaying another shade of brown to my skin. At last I bathed in it, and let it fasten itself to me. Then, as I strolled through the rest of the garden, the clouds drew themselves together. They were following the trail of liquid behind me – so I called to them:
‘Come, children, follow behind me.’
They were often jealous and angry, shifting their moods more frequently than the seasons themselves
(but I suppose in that sense they do take after their mother).
Cumulo chased ahead, riding the mists of the azure. The concave sky gave into his weight, as he dipped into the atmosphere to walk alongside me and drink from the pools of hawkmoth below my feet that carried me forward. In rage I blew him back up into the air, but in rage he blew it back out at me, flooding my pools with rain. Drop by drop, I began to fall through the slow-forming marsh, encased in his horrid opaque secretion, like that hideous spineless creature I expelled those years ago.
‘Walking back home along the rim of the galaxy’
A bed of thorny white roses lay strewn across the garden;
the flowers spilled over the walls and the vines coiled in and around empty
bricks, thick and piercing. The evening sun threw itself across the leaves,
turning them transparent. Their veins suddenly rose to the surface, like a
diver swimming to the top of the ocean’s surface, the frothing waves matching
the tone of the flowers.
Two young boys stood, arms crossed, shoulders hunched,
loitering outside what was usually a post-40 dominated neighbourhood. Their
slumping bodies moved secretly, exchanging glances and hushed but cool tones as
they slipped joints between their fingers and sipped in the smoke, clouds
enveloping their faces.
One blasted reggae out of a boombox larger than him, and slid next to me, an intruder. The roses quivered under the weight of the music, and closed up for protection. I tip-toed over them but was grabbed by the waist of the second boy and saw the sun vanish to the other side of the world. He looked into my eyes and told me he saw the milkyway. I told him he must have seen the chocolate. He laughed, and didn’t stop.
One of the roses coiled itself around my foot, brown turning pink, and threw me all the way back home. As I was being thrown, all I heard was his laughter echo around me.
He twisted fate between his fingers
Jacob Atkins sat amongst the wading sea of children at Gateway Primary. Assembly was a dull dreary ritual that the school conducted to deliver important messages to the children, and make them sing songs about being a good person and other such rubbish. Today, however, was slightly different. The messages had been gathered throughout the year and saved for this particular assembly on the last day of school (hopefully ever, he thought). Jacob never much cared for primary-school level education. But could he truly be blamed? The teachers were dull and uninspiring. The curriculum was basic knowledge, all leading up to one exam which he passed easily yesterday.
I only ever write about magic in poetry,
on the page is where it can find a home.
Because the magical, mysterious happenings of the
They are filled with endless realities, not infinite, possibilities are cut
like the end of a black cat's tail.
But my tale, did begin with some magic --
a miracle child, born when no one quite expected it,
living on a tank of hopes and beliefs which my father
went round the hospital, collecting in a jar.
The teddy bear next to me sang me a lullably of two withes:
Jaadu and Junoon*
together, they soared through the night sky,
sprinkling madness into the dreams of adults and children everywhere.
And last night, I had a dream that I was Harry Potter.
I was dueling Draco Malfoy; we had to beat the record of 172
hits made at a target by Lucius Malfoy.
Draco ended up falling off the stage.
I made 870 hits.
But then the teddy bear woke me up,
Jaadu is a Hindi word meaning magic.
Junoon is an Urdu wor meaning madness.
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky! Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.
This week I decided to take inspiration from other prompts, and head over to BookFox for 50 Flash Fiction Prompts. It’s great if you’re stuck for ideas, since they’re categorised by genre which makes it so helpful! I went for this prompt this time, under Microprompts:
Write about the dramatic moment a butterfly emerges from its cocoon.