fiction

Sanctus Martinus : a short fiction as prose (to be periodically continued)

(I.)

I dreamt of a road
sodden with the filth of war
the stench of shit and blood
with time’s foul run
and then the rains came
not as healing showers in April
but with the rage of a dark December
babies wailed for their mothers
and the mothers screamed
for their children lost along the way,
and implored fate for Mercy’s hand,
but her hands were shackled.

The dream : a short fiction as prose

the ancient ape dreamed
of a future in which
his children
and the children
of his brethren
laid waste to the forest
and poisoned the rivers
to dominate all,
not just the fierce creatures
who preyed upon his brothers
and sisters
but also the small
and seemingly harmless,
these future apes
were both familiar
and unfamilar to him
and his dream troubled him,
as earlier dreams he’d had
those that predicted safe caves
and water holes
and warned of the coming
of long toothed cats
and giant wolves
proved uncannily portentious.

So troubled was he
by the terror his new dream
instilled within his reason
that when he awoke
he sought to counsel
his brothers and sisters,
they knowing of his capacity
for seeing shelter
and food and safety
in dreams
looked at each other and smiled
large white sharp toothed grins
and en masse
smashed his head with rocks
and broken branches,
before deciding to leave
the forest behind
forever.

The Venusians According to George : a short fiction as prose

The old lord told his story
in smoke filled saloons
and private clubs
the world over,
regaling all who would listen
with tales of his
eccentric friend George,
with all candour
and not a jot of mendacity.

George it seemed
had visited kings and knaves
sinners and priests
believers and the incredulous
and one particular host
took him into
secret gardens
and it was here that
two angels descended
and touched his pious friend,
their fingertips
bringing even more light
to their already
brightened souls.

Secret Origin : a short fiction as prose.

driven by an insatiable desire
to fight evil and injustice
but sadly lacking both
the physical means
and intellectual capacity
he would wait for thunderstorms,
whereupon he would douse himself
in a cocktail
of household chemicals
(a recipe he closely guarded)
and stand silently,
nervously,
expectantly,
in the garden
hoping for the transformation
a direct lightning strike would bring.

The Red Postbox : a short fiction as prose

his tongue was dry
so he rolled it
around his mouth
finally able to moisten
the flap of the envelope
to fasten it down
he paused for a moment
apprehensive as to what
this small deed
would mean for him
and for a second
considered returning home,
yet as his pulse raced
and his mind travelled
the infinite futures
this simple action could bring
shuddering at some
yet delighting in others,
he allowed himself
a heartbeat smile
then let the letter slip
from his nervous fingers
and into the unknown.

Silver Nitrate : a short fiction as prose.

He dared not sleep
for when he closed his eyes
the dream found him again
looking through old things
in a far too small antique shoppe
where eyes like owls
watched his every move
and in doing so
guided his attention
to a stack of old photographs
from a century before
in which he himself featured
over and over again
suffering terrible deaths.

he’d rush outside each time
panic wet on his face
and everyone around him
would be carrying a camera.