Worthing Flash

Home from work, Richard Greely found a formal, hand addressed letter along with the usual junk mail. It looked like a wedding invitation. You know the kind—expensive stationary, square envelope, probably a letterpress card in its own jacket inside. Finding no return address on flipping it, he sniffed it, and for a moment thought he caught a hint of sandalwood. Wishful thinking, who would ever send me a perfumed letter? Examining the fine penmanship, he noticed that the exquisite stamp had no postmark, nor any defining nominal characteristics, just a single, beautifully rendered, red rose. Strangely entranced, he ran his thumb over the extravagant stationery, relishing the texture of the linen threads. He let his imagination run free with his yearning for companionship—as long as he might—by carefully slipping a butter knife under the flap and ever so slowly parting the seam. It was a far cry better than his usual Friday evenings with nowhere to go. Inside, in its own blan...

Twas the night before Christmas and all hushed was the sound, Save the hooves of the reindeer pounding the ground In anticipation, for soon they would fly, In mystic formation through blackened night sky But something was different, something awry The sleigh still was empty though near time to fly, So Dasher, Dancer, and Comet now mused, And stood they confounded, befuddled, confused Yet Inside the house with elves by his chair Santa scanned lists of who, what and where, We must make delivery we must get it right, To circle the world, in only one night So Santa sat there in the dead of that night His warm face aglow all bathed in the light Of tiny bright candles, and each one a spot, Of ten billion atoms of colourful dots Now what shall I bring them to lighten their days To brighten their Christmas to strengthen their ways, And what did they ask for, in what will they thrill, I must get it right for their stockings to fi...

by Margaret I Holmes The sky flames above me orange, red, black. Angry colours reflected in the darkening sea. The heavens blaze, burn. But I feel cold, shudderingly, numbingly cold. Isolated in a bubble of ice, I dig my toes into the ridges in the sand just to feel – something, anything. The ridges replicate ripples of the tide that has left them behind, just as I have been left behind. Cold and alone I stand on the abandoned shore. Abandoned      I stare out to sea wondering how it would feel to walk out into that grey, rolling mass of water and have it close above my head blocking out the pain and grief that now engulfs me. Ending the desolation that threatens to overwhelm me? My muscles tense ready but I cannot take the first step towards the oblivion that I crave. Is this cowardice, scruples or acknowledging the responsibilities that I must confront?                 Dimly I become a...

by Rajan V Kokkuri I lived in a small village by the name of Attoor in Kerala State of Southern India. We had a very big ancestral house over there. This house was more than one hundred years old. My hanging coat was moving slightly and I guessed mother might have just got up bed and went to the staircase to go downstairs of my house. I could see the entrance of our very old ancestral house through my window. I heard the loud noise of the door opening in the entrance small house called ‘ padipura ’. I could hear the footsteps of my grand uncle who used to wear sandals made out of wood. As soon as hearing the sound of his steps everyone sitting in the front side of the house rushed inside the house with slight fear. ‘ Vesu’ I heard the loud angry voice of uncle. I could sense there was something wrong. ‘Call everyone.’ I went to the other side of the house near our kitchen well. From there I could see whatever happened in the front portion of the house through the gap in th...

My son-in-law walks out soon after the baby is born. That's the whole story in ten words. It has a beginning and middle. Nobody knows how it will end. The narrative lacks elegance, though I am grateful his mother bought baby shoes for the older child soon after it happened. There wasn't much money left in the pot after he left. There is controlled cliché in this story. There is conflict. We await resolution. I could show rather than tell who did what, paint a picture of recrimination in dialogue and verse, study the Rashomon effect through contradictory points of view. I could mix short sentences with long. But it's a lifetime of uncertainty for small voices caught in the shrapnel of cross words and anger. I could arrange the lines as a sonnet with derivative rhyme; add the rhythm of a broken heart. I could tell you the story in villanelle or pantun. In haiku or tanka. I could appeal to your senses, so you too can taste the bitterness of tears, and smel...