sun | a little bird tweets

Nov 24 2013

New York

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.

Tagged Buildings, Concrete, Creative Writing, Crimson, Drains, Dreams, Flash, Flash fiction, Headlights, Heart, Hopes, Lexington Avenue, Limp, New York, New York Minute, Short Story, Silhouette, Steam, sun, Sunset, Taxi, Up to 100 Words, Vanish

Sep 27 2013

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Flash Fiction

Wiped Out

In the past few days, the sun has produced a landscape of burnt, unyielding trees, here on earth. There is no sign of life. No birdsong. No dragonfly drones. No vivid flowers. As evening haze begins to tangle around branches, Shelby’s vision begins to wane, and he stumbles to the ground. In the first minutes of his stillness, he begins to sweat furiously. He smears his bare arms with dry earth, to cool them, and to help protect them from burning. As he does, he notices his skin has become translucent, and his bones are making a callous attempt to perforate his skin. He knows it’s a sign that his body is succumbing to this earth. He stands up, and continues to tread the rough terrain, in his wild search for water.

Tagged Arms, Birdsong, Bones, Burnt, Creative Writing, Dead, Death, Dehydration, Dragonfly, Extinction, Fiction, Flower, Global Warming, Humanity, Life, Psychological-horror, Psychological-thriller, Skin, sun, Survival, Sweat, Terrain, Tree, Up to 130 Words, Water

Mar 03 2013

The Oasis

With time, she longs to wither away; like a flower that has succumbed to frost, in the onset of autumn. She seeks solace in quiet corners, in solitude, where four walls assist to extract the misery from her mind, the tears from her heart. She shifts her head to a dry, soothing part of the pillow and stares at the ceiling; her watery eyes flick to a spider that meanders purposefully, and she wonders where it is headed, she longs to follow it.

‘Please find me a new magical world, far from this coldness, this darkness.’ She whispers.

Her pleading words reverberate repeatedly off the walls, and lull her eyes to close, her thoughts to float aimlessly; and then her monochrome world begins to disintegrate.

‘Welcome to the enchanted land of Bali.’ A voice speaks.

She smiles at the hospitable words of the guru. The creases in his forehead express much wisdom; his aged hands would no doubt dramatize many a virtuous story from his past, she thought.

‘You are invited to absorb this beautiful paradise, where people come to heal. Take warmth from the dazzling sun; let it infiltrate your body and renew you. Let the wondrous tropical fish overwhelm you with their beauty, colour and movement. Fix your senses on the nearby orange gerberas and let their fragrance calm your spirit, awaken you. May all of the nature here hypnotize; fill you with joy and wonder. Remember, you can visit this Oasis at anytime. It’s your retreat.’

She absorbs every word the guru offers, and explores the lands in delight. She smiles at his hospitable words once more; before the Oasis slowly disappears from her.

She awakes. She is content. She is transformed. She looks up to the ceiling; the spider has gone. She thanks it for its inspiration. She thanks the guru for her journey. She thanks the world for offering its warmth, its gift. She thanks the world for her life.

Tagged 325 Words, Bali, Ceiling, Darkness, Flower, Frost, Guru, Heart, Misery, Nature, Oasis, Paradise, Pillow, Psychological-thriller, Renewal, Retreat, Solitude, Spider, sun, Tears, Time, Transformation, Tropical Fish, Wisdom

Jan 13 2013

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Flash Fiction

The Raven

That day had been notorious. I had strolled across the tribe-island where I had glimpsed a raven perched sternly upon a birch branch. I had gazed at it but had not met its eyes. My grandma had warned me over again as a young boy to never look, not even in a time of weak curiosity. I would question why and she would reply, ‘Danton, it will bring with you much danger and bad luck. The red gleam of light that comes from a ravens’ eyes will weaken the soul of any that look into them; just like the sun is danger to eyes on a searing day.’ I had gazed at the black plumage of the raven perched there as I recalled her words, and my feet had become unsteady with terror. It had begun to squawk, to make a racket with its heavy wings; then it had flown from the branch, over the bank towards me; the shadow of its span had buried me into darkness, and my legs had begun to crumble beneath me. Its sharp beak had struck my head many times. I had fallen to the ground in pain, in silence, frozen with fear. Then it stopped, and as I looked at it I had witnessed my own blood stains drenched in its feathers; red on black luminous plumage; so beautiful, so ugly. Then it had flown into the sunset horizon, leaving me marred with its violence. I was twelve years of age on that notorious day, and there has been no day pass since, when I haven’t looked a raven in its eyes.