Flash Fiction and Poetry

No more monsters under the bed No more force-feeding broccoli at dinner No more lingering suspicions of why he worked late No more fresh flowers from the supermarket, no more pizza and movie nights No more hidden boxes of cookies or promises of ice

She looks in the mirror She doesn’t like what she sees Pretending to be strong and powerful She is often weak in the knees Old age's shadow threatens, There is no experience to lack As she turns around There’s a long road at her back. The road isn’t

The knife itself is thin and sharp, Falsely delicate, bright and beautifully vicious. It’s wielder’s music the softest harp, His song not the slightest bit suspicious.   When stabbed I feel nothing until after the knife has been removed, And all I see is a pool

Zero Eight, Seventeen. Etched on his heart. He had to be there, by the walls overlooking the Bastions. He had to see her. A date set in fire and stone, so many years ago. He couldn’t miss it. Wouldn’t miss