I’m getting sentimental over you under Paris skies under this blanket of blue where the blossom falls upon the sun valley moon
I’m gonna paper my walls with your love letters with my eyes bright open while the autumn leaves twist like butterflies over cherry wine singing to Sinatra
No matter which way the wind blows,
or how the snow lands on your lashes,
inside your stormy winter roads,
out here in the dust and frozen clay,
you are hell-bent on survival,
because the camera loves you.
I long to roll down the river called Prism Dreams; to feel the night sky percolate the open pores of my skin. But I heard that the riverboat overturned last winter; had kicked all of the stars out of kilter, had halted the flicker of dragonfly wings under a wearisome moon. I heard that life had become receptive to the fear that had flourished in the eyes of the submerged.
@alittlebirdtweets2016
The roses in the garden were wilting, as though they were nodding their approval of your ignorance towards me. So I tugged them from the earth, removed their mocking heads, and threw them into the sad September breeze. The stalks they cried. The thorns they hailed. And the embers of petals floated back to me, and melded to my sweating body like greedy leeches. The embers still remain there, burning into my soul, like a wild and sorry tattoo.
@alittlebirdtweets2015
A medley of Bach was the only thing that could silence her mind, in this racing city. She pressed the volume up on her Ipod. The iconic chords managed to dumb-out the sound of her heavy stilettos upon the pavement; a sound that seemed to mimic the screech of a pneumatic drill in concrete. She longed to hear the pigeons coo; but even they failed to take a breath amongst the madness. They bobbed past her feet aimlessly, in their search for mangled morsels. She watched one blink, and she winked right back.
@alittlebirdtweets2015
Hello Readers,
This month I was given the wonderful opportunity to write an exclusive flash fiction called ‘Rootless’, for Paula Lawes, who owns and runs an online magazine called ‘Tips for Growers’ at thedailygrow.com.
The theme of the magazine this month, and the theme with which I had to create a story, was ‘Love Yourself First’. This proved to be both exciting and challenging, and it certainly brought me out of my comfort zone of the thriller and horror genres, in which I write.
“Rootless leads us on a light and dark thematic journey. It highlights how, if we open our eyes and use our minds, we can transform ourselves and the world around us.”
To buy a copy of Paula’s 46 page magazine, please visit thedailygrow.com. The magazine not only contains my exclusive flash fiction ‘Rootless’, but it also contains some inspiring articles by guest bloggers, original photos and inspirational quotes.
Thank you!
©2014.alittlebirdtweets
An apricot sunrise seethed through the misty moors. She wandered grasslands; pulled lady’s smock by their roots, by the heaps. Her necklet loosened; it fell, unbeknownst to her.
In the sky, Parakeets danced; they sang an ancient proverb. Thou shalt not steal from nature in abundance; for nature shalt steal from thou.
Her heart repented.
©2014.alittlebirdtweets
(Piano Instrumental ‘Dream of Flying’ by Brian Crane plays)
I had watched her lips dance upon the rim of her teacup; her bitter breath had fused with steam, had formed fumes of rejection.
“Just leave it Frank!”
I had posed her a floret of my affection, worlds of pipe dreams; but to her it had meant disintegration in love.
(Piano Instrumental ‘Dream of Flying’ by Brian Crane fades to silence)
©2014.alittlebirdtweets
She handpicked the last rose of summer; watched the petals wilt into a ballet of depression. The ghost of his apology of deceit had bred in her mind for days. She knew that walking unafraid in a world devoid of him could never equal the burning desire of a restored heart. She crushed the rose in her hand. Someday she would visit his office and attempt to rekindle the love of her lover; a man whom she would always believe to be a raw diamond in the earth.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
Crimson rays from the setting sun had stirred life in to the lank, concrete buildings. The glower of taxi headlights had greeted me with their vitality; and had sculpted hopes and dreams inside my heart. I had watched a man limp up Lexington Avenue. He’d asked the world what their dreams were; or had been. I had tried to offer him an answer; but his silhouette had vanished within the towering steam that had emanated from the street’s drains. And, I had known then, that that flash had been my New York minute.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
Petals, a million shades of rose, lay frozen-in-time, upon the cemetery’s frost-laden grounds. Tomorrow, heartless feet will crush them; turn them into russet particles. Their dying breath will emit rancid vapours into the air, as they succumb to the earth. And, beyond the borders of the cemetery, people will look to the skies; sing the lyrics of summers’ song. Smiling faces, embracing sunlight; unaware that decay is a fraction away.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
Whenever there were grey curls in the skies, the lake would awaken. Sinister waves would ripple on its surface, and rekindle a whispered voice that spoke of a past happening. The voice would travel through trees and into nearby cottages, where it was eager to be heard. But, no one would listen. No one wanted to believe that it was the voice of the girl, who had drowned in the lake half a century ago.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
She narrates a passage from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; and her heart simmers as he watches her lips, with his ancient eyes.
‘A tragic story, my love,’ he says, brushing his fingers over the calligraphic text.
He bends to kiss her. She gasps, and feels blood trail down her neck. She watches it drip onto the page and expand like large ink spots.
‘You’re now immortal; and my death will shortly follow,’ he says.
He falls to the floor; and she watches his face turn pastel.
And on this day, every thousand years, she lights a candle in his memory.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
‘Whitechapel in winter does make me quiver.’ She said, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.
Fog curled lavishly around streetlamps; like smoke from coal-fires had done, in the Victorian era.
‘It’s been said that the ghost of Jack the Ripper prowls these streets.’ He teased.
‘Oh, stop it!’ She grinned, thrusting her elbow into his side.
They walked along cobbled Commercial Road; which was once a market where the rich and poor intermingled and traded.
‘Hey, what’s that?’ She shrieked, pointing ahead into a doorway.
Their mouths fell, as they watched the grim shadow of a knife magnify over them.
©2013.alittlebirdtweets
Analyse own life
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Shabnam
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