"Omega Rising" #Fridayflash

The rain spit on steaming pavement in the blasting heat. The second sun hadn't risen just yet but Alpha Star did the warming, and the Omega prompted Citizens' Precautions.

Tesa stopped in the dusty street to raise her eyes to the red ball in the violet sky with one shielding hand. A quick bleat from a rickshaw driver behind her snapped her from her reverie. She hoisted the line of geese over a weary shoulder again. There was a tale, a fable of a place where clouds gathered and did more than trickle on the dead terrain. Streams of water flowed, and anyone could have water. Free water.

The geese would fetch at least one litera of water, which would get her a good price back on the street. Her lean frame strained under the weight of the dead birds, unplucked and hung by their necks on a rope. Since last spring when her son was born still and lifeless, she'd managed to drop the weight with a little help from the Slat. Slat was a slang term for some long technical term she no longer could remember. It did that to you, The Slat. Slat. She slithered a parched tongue over her lips in anticipation. Life was a fuzzy purple haze on slat. Branda was no problem on the slat. Killing birds wasn't hard on the slat. Branda should have had the boy, not her. A woman bearing a live child was becoming rare and stupid.

She hurried on, unmindful of the warning horns signaling Omega's ascension. Motion occurred at the edges of her vision. A woman fell to the ground behind her, pulling another man with her. Another victim of the The Ninety-Year Drought? Perhaps. Perhaps it was The Slat.

Tesa chewed her peeling lips and shoved through the crowd.

A tug snagged her attention. A small boy, fool that he was. Trying to steal her precious quarry. Geese were scarce these days. Tesa shuffled forward, planting a hand in the middle of the boy's forehead to push him away. The Slat. Had to get The Slat.


The day weighed down on the few ragged souls left pondering the dust at their feet as Omega came into play, far outshining its astral brother. The warning horn sounded again. A few hundred more steps. It could be done. The geese felt like five-hundred octa on her shoulder, and the rope ate through her ripped shirt.

“Lady, you better get out of the suns, Omega is out and you don't look so good.”

Tesa glared at the young man. What was he? Twenty? Less? She took a stifled breath.

“Mind your elders. Mind the sun. I've my suns-screen.”

The man curled his lip at her in distaste and presented her with both middle fingers. “Slathead.”

A woman behind the water counter eyed Tesa warily as the geese were weighed and the water was measured and poured. A half-galo! Tesa was beside herself. Surely she'd be in Slat-heava for the rest of the month, maybe more if she could tell Branda that she'd only gotten—

Omega bore down on her leathery skin and cracked the pavement. The newscast said something about this being the worst Omega day out of the usual four. She turned the corner, her eyes scanning the faceless structures for an open window. Terrible light seared down on her, burning her scalp and drying her tongue to the roof of her mouth. The water sloshed around in the container temptingly. Her throat cried out for it.

The Slat dealer was minding his kids in the breeze of an oscillating fan. Tesa held out the container of water and he frowned.

“You don't look so good Tesa, take the shit and get out of my housa. I don't need you passing out here again.”

Since he'd had his children, he wasn't no fun anymore, Tesa thought with a crooked smile. The Slat squished against her breast as she descended the stairs again.

“Drink Your Water!” Came the warning from rusted bullhorns posted at strategic points of the dirt-laden city, followed by the forecast for the remainder of the week. Dust mingled with the air, creating red torrents of steam, visible and above them all, their fearsome god-star, Omega.

Unable to wait until she'd gotten back to her housa,Tesa pulled out the Slat and unwrapped one to slip into her mouth. Instantly, green mint filled her senses and she closed her eyes. Blossoms and cloudbursts. The roaring of an eternal sea.

The ground rose up to meet her but she didn't see it, or the small brown boy still following her. He slipped the warm package from her twitching, gnarled hands and watched her give one more breath.

It'd only be a matter of time before the Shovela came.

"2 AM" #Fridayflash

It's two am and I'm missing you. I've reached out every third Sunday and shivered at the expanse of white cotton that's greeted my searching fingers.

The ground's thawed out a little. The frost cleared for a few days, long enough for the blossoms to return to crisp demeanor. It was blue and rose, this last sort of handkerchief left fluttering, attached to an effigy in the untouched corners of your continuous haunt.

There are no chains strong enough to bind you to that pale horse and so I've been lost in thought, drifting alongside that dark highway, stumbling toe-to-heel, shoes dangling from a casual hand, but it'd be warmer if yours was near.

Listen to the moon sing silver and the clouds tumble haphazardly as I dig deep trenches around you because I can't stand to look at your face one last time.

I have to fool myself into thinking I never found you at all.

Your eyes are nothing but dust, yet I feel them stab between my shoulder blades, as sure as the sweat that slides between my breasts as if it's July, and not January morning.

I dug nails into the engraved edges of your name. Gold ink spilled in a little folded paper, just enough to make the first letter stand out.

Your bulk and your breath are sorely needed.

"Weak Hands" #Fridayflash

Sinew and bone will not show through gentle kid-gloves, nor will they express the sensibility of a brethren savior; the one that gripped tight enough to cling desperately to a shimmering thread of meaning something.

White knuckles clasped over a sweat-smeared steering wheel, clad in worn leather. To brush away the slick and bitter ice that has formed around the corners of life. To punch a proof of existence into surreality. To point out the mistakes borne by a misspoken word.

Weak hands can't hold on to what was not meant to be.

To embrace the child that never was.

To caress a cheek or a cup of coffee—low, fresh, and steaming between the fingers.

The bird.

A thumbs-up.

Certain polite applause to display approval of a despondent recital.

Pallid palms-up alongside the white stripe of a faded love.

Inspired by Chevelle's song,"Panic-Prone"

"Ablaze" #Fridayflash

Daniel met me for lunch, after we were assigned desks. His eyebrow shot up as he scanned the titles of my CDs. I plugged in my little stereo under my desk, stood, and dusted off my hands.

'What kind of music do you like?” He said, “I'm trying to get into this younger generation of music.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, “You can't be a day over twenty-five.”

He chuckled gently. “Thank you for that,” he said and thumbed through the selection of music.

“Well if you're not twenty-five and happy with the compliment, I'd have to guess that you're older.”

“A bit yes,” he said and laughed again.

“Aussie or English?” I asked, curious.

“I'm more than peckish. You can ask me over sandwiches.”

There were others in the cafeteria, but no males aside from the two teen boys from Orientation. Daniel sat in his seat, radiating sunshine, and the women were drawn by it. I rolled my eyes and took a gaping bite out of my roast beef sandwich.

“Daniel, our team is having a meeting at ten,” one plump woman said as she waddled by. I watched her undress him with her piggish eyes. I sighed through my nose and she jerked her hawkish nose at me, narrowing her gaze to pinpoint lasers.

“You're not on our team,” she growled and stalked off.

“That's right Claire, I was going to tell you, I was picked for the other Admin team.”

“Customer?” I mumbled around a full mouth. He nodded and laughed again. He laughed a lot.

“Ah,” I said with a shrug, “I think I'll prefer Client Admin anyway.”

He nodded quickly and folded his used plastic wrap into a square, to deposit it in the recycling bin. I watched this with interest. A man with manners. No wonder the women loved him.

I came to call his team of overly round, ugly, lonely women, his hens.

“Does that make me the cock?” he asked one afternoon as we stood outside the back doors. I smoked, he didn't. He stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched the teen boys walk around the narrow edge of the fountain, holding their arms out for balance.

“I remember being that young,” he said, and I studied him to determine just what was wrong with him. He had wild chestnut hair, those ice-blue eyes. Big hands. My artist's eye appreciated their astounding grace. His fingers were slender and exquisite, like a concert pianist's.

“So how old are you anyway?” I asked. It was abrupt of me but he merely shrugged.

“I'll be thirty-two in August,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “And you?”

I snorted. “Just turned twenty-three. Looks like neither of us is exactly our age huh?”

We shared gentle laughter. I opened my purse and pulled out a square sleeve.

“Here, before I forget,” I said. I had to smuggle the damned thing out of the house to avoid Ed's questions. He always assumed that I was seeing someone, on top of his other nonsense.

“What's this?' Daniel asked, taking it from me and turning it over.

“You asked about recent music.”

“I asked you what you liked.”

“You asked both,” I said, scowling in exasperation. “I made you a disc.”

His eyebrows pulled together and he looked from the envelope to me. His face erupted in a brilliant smile. I was tempted to look away, it was that grateful.

“Yeah, you're welcome. But if you're wanting the kids' stuff, best to ask Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” I said jerking my head in the fountain's direction. One of the teens almost fell in, but got his pants leg wet. I could hear him cursing from where I stood.

“No, I believe I'll stick with your material first,” he said and shook his head at the explicit language filtering over to us through waves of evening breeze. The sun set in that moment, setting the sky ablaze in a kaleidescope of vibrant hues.

We stood there, marveling at the display in our own separate way, Daniel rubbing his chin, me just standing there slack-jawed. My boyfriend and I never did anything remotely as compatible. I smiled, in spite of myself. It was a small comfort, and I realized that Daniel and I had potential to be good friends.

Featured poem, "For M"

I might continue this trend, of featuring brilliance as time allows. This poem is not by me, but I am so very proud of her I must share it. - CC

by Christina Vincent

You leave me at a loss for words, which,

for me,

is bad business. You see,

words are all I know. Words

are how I know you. Still,

the memory of fire and solid darkness

leaves me shaking. Shivering.

So cold. You burn

so very cold.

Glowing as gold in a vault underground,

buried deep,

deep below

our feet, where

the sun cannot shine, and

the wind cannot

touch. Movement,

still and resonating. Your movement is

sound,

the toll of a bell to call the gods, the

thrum of a dying heart as it bleeds

onto the parched grave dust beneath.

What sorts of trees grow in

blood-soaked graveyard soil? What sort of

fruit would those trees bear?

A pomegranate, so

thick and juicy red, the seeds to settle

in the pit of one’s stomach to anchor

to Persephone, and you can

never go back again. A muse,

a demon, a lover sweet and deadly, a monster

of such exquisite beauty, wrapped in

shimmering gilded robes of poetry and caresses.

One bite, one slit, one

cut

and everything is blackness. Everything is stars,

and everything sinks into arms

like stone.

A precious, feral gift. A dreaming

of a time not of this world

spoken in a language long dead

with tongues that know dialects

we’ve never heard.

We used to throw ourselves on slabs of rock and beg

for a taste of your voice, for your sweetened

devil’s breath in our ear

with whispers,

soft whispers

that tempt madness from dark corners.

A precious thing

as thick as blood

and slick as ice

that burns and bites like hellfire swathed

in empty darkness where nightmares whisper.

A muse.

Vampire.

Demon.

Incubus.

Fuel another fevered dream

and let these tiny shivering hands

offer up another piece

of that twisted silver dreamscape

that holds stories together.

"Tidal" #Fridayflash

The war is over, yet there's an explosion in my head. It’s a deep resonance among the chop-chop-chop of helicopter blades, and shouts of the profane and the dead. I move a muscle—I’m toast. I must stay alive. I will lie here forever if that is what it takes to survive.

Low bended grasses and broken reeds anticipate the crash and clamor of the next land-mine. I crawl on a belly full of MRE and rough-roasted coffee, M16A2 my shield and savior. The war is through, and I want to sound-off the cadence of a lonely soldier, but my mouth has lost all flavor.

I stare through the patterned walls over to the Other Side, where gruesome guard dogs snap frothing jaws and wag ragged tails. A place where sinking ships form a trail of strewn carcasses, like crustacean skeletons at low tide. There’s a rule to not skip, just patter over the xylophone bones as fast as I can before the bottom falls through and the pit gapes wide.

There’s a slow beeping in my ear, and somewhere next to my arm, a cool wire constantly feeding me the ocean.

I stand blanched on the severed shore and shake my head in slow motion at a memory. A spark of reasoning, wedged somewhere between my first kiss in the park and the last cigarette before my flight.

I let go my tidal breath and manage a weak smile as the wave inside washes darker than night.

Inspired by Chevelle's song, "Bend the Bracket."

Photo credit: RAYWAL65 from morguefile.com

"Black" #Fridayflash

He’s a black man. Not dark as in brown-skinned, but black-souled. I can always tell just how they’ll taste with one little peek. Green makes for a crisp experience. Red makes me seethe with unexplained fury. Blue makes me smile and think of Sarah. The colors mean many things, and not many are pure black. When they are, my instructions from high up are damned clear: No redemption. No recycling. No anything. Just poof.

Black souls aren’t good for a fucking thing aside from deletion.

I follow him out the back screen door of the café, a paper folded under his arm, a To-Go cup full of Margaret’s Joe. Black coffee.

I slip my sleeve back from my watch. Five minutes and completely on schedule.

It’ll be a damned good favor to the world to take this one out. Cleaning up, balancing things out, but I tell you, when it’s an innocent…it chokes me up still.

My fault really; I got a little bit of heart left. It’s supposed to not be there anymore but sometimes, I can hear it beating. Maybe one or two thumps. Maybe ten. My guts tighten when I have to cut that thread on a kid. Or a sweet old lady. Death isn’t supposed to care about these things, but I do.

The dark man skirts around my car without as much as a glance. I smirk. The evil ones never can see very well. My car is special. She killed me a long time ago. I can’t explain how or why in five minutes.

Well four.

The dark man pauses at the corner to light a cigarette. I want one as well. I can smell his smoke and his coffee and I miss life. It pisses me off. I want to take him early.

A bus passes by, just like the script. The dark man crosses the street, and I follow. I glance back at the car. Her headlights are dim but getting brighter. An orange jack-o-lantern gaze. She’s alive but doesn’t breathe. I stopped asking why and just take the when.

Three minutes. He’s boring me. I wish I’d catch him doing one last wicked thing, so it wouldn’t feel like wasting time.

He strolls into the alley. He’ll probably start seeing me here in a few. People always react uniquely because I look different to each one. He stops midway and leans back against the brick. Convinced he’s still alone, he lets out a rapid-fire raunchy fart. I laugh, and then he looks right at me.

A spot spreads on the front of his grey slacks and a trickle of his urine pools beneath him. I reach for him, wrinkling my nose. He no longer smells like good coffee and cigarettes. He smells like the dying. His heart struggles against tightened arteries. A vein pulses in his forehead and his eyes bulge.

The black form inside him comes loose and wisps around his body sliding down the wall, the coffee overturned in urine, the cigarette extinguished.

Yellow and brown. I stare at the colors and miss his getaway.

The misty shape whirls, unaffected by the alley-breeze like me. He’s in my reach, but my hand closes around nothing.

A couple strolls by the alley’s exit. The girl is pregnant. The dark form flows seamlessly into her distended belly.

A pigeon is startled from sleep by my howl.