Bits and Pieces: (Flash Poetry, Fiction & Non-Fiction)

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Bits and Pieces, Art Credit: Chet Dembeck

Night Dream

Beyond the hope of a fallow despair you are resurrected from a forgotten prayer, a dream, and a moment of past life in an ocean of forgetfulness.

Your revival is my birth into a pedal of protection and warmth, blood red in plain sight.

A narrow figment that is a grain of a new reality I had never believed would come back to me; comfort me with your soft touch, bringing life once again to my lost worlds, my empty universes.

Let your potpourri of wild fragrances be the nuptials consumed for the race to my senses, tingling like shocks of sugar teasing the red tongue of my parched soulfulness.

Endeavor to make me think again, my frozen passion needs to be sparked from its long hibernation: cold winters in a steely vacuum have slowed my love reflexes.

Betrayals and lies have helped me to create the stone mask I wear to cover my tearful wounds.

A persistent dream that torments me as I awaken in the darkness of my room, the warmth of your once subtle placidness vanished into a cruel and tormenting memory that has permeated my spirit like a mystery that grows as its distance increases, a planted remnant that remains forever, even as I fade.

Some Other Thoughts

Sometimes I fall off asleep listening to a horrific tale about a women accidentally stepping into another dimension, or an explorer stumbling over a brood of giant spiders the size of dogs in a steamy uncharted jungle.

Then I am awakened by an alarm that also displays the latest sales I made on my Amazon.com store, only to be soothed by a light jazz ditty “Hippies on a Corner,” by pianist Joe Sample.

Next, I listen to the Wall Street station, while I read the major world papers and answer my emails all from my i-Pad, which I call my constant companion

A Little Flash Fiction

He had no control over the power. Sometimes it was there, sometimes it wasn’t. It came and went like the wind.

But if he ever needed the power he needed it now. Two of the 98 zero crew had spotted him in the unit and they were out for blood. He had no charge left in his fixer; he had used it an hour ago on a pealer, who thought he was its next meal.

The dirty dreadlocks of the two 98 zero stags were moving his way like the executioners they were. But before the first one could bring his razor stick to Vee’s  neck, he felt the power hit him like a slap of sand wind in the face.

“What up, 98 zero,” Vee sneered as he made the 6-foot 5 steroid-pumped street soldier cut his forefinger off without even realizing it wasn’t Vee’s throat.

“Shit,” man, what the fuck,” the second 98 zero uttered as he watched his bewildered partner mutilate himself.  But he didn’t have time to react when his buddy swung around quickly with his razor stick and slashed his throat convinced it was Vee’s head he had severed.

The Unspoken Truth of Guillotine Deaths (Non-Fiction)

Those who were eyewitnesses to the beheadings of the French Revolution and other pubic beheadings have whispered for years of the horror that some severed heads and bodies of those executed show signs of life minutes and sometimes up to an hour after the actual decapitation.

After the guillotining death of two victims of the French Revolution a curious professor took two severed heads to his laboratory. An hour had passed since the actual execution before the professor had a chance to properly examine them. So, you can imagine his surprise when he lit a lamp to shine light on the heads and the both heads shut their eyes because of the bright glare.

One of the heads had a protruding tongue, which recoiled into the victims mouth when the professor pricked it with a pin and it facial features contorted as though feeling the pain. When a notorious criminal was executed by beheading, his head was placed in a wagon. When the driver spoke the dead man’s name to his companion who was sitting in the back of the wagon with the head, its eyes turned toward the driver as if trying to see who was talking about him.

Mouthing Protests

Other obscure eyewitness accounts of French guillotining executions claim they often saw the heads of victim’s moving their lips in protest against such cruel treatment.

Me Driving for Uber

It’s hard for me to figure out where I should began, but I’ll start with three scientists I gave a ride to as passengers to a casino this weekend. Even though it was only one o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday, they were pretty much doused inside and outside with booze.

In fact, when they got into my car  the odor was so strong that I swooned as though I had taken a shot of booze, even though I’m a recovered alcoholic who hasn’t touched the stuff in more than 30 years. I guess they figured I was just an ordinary old guy trying to earn a few bucks on the weekend carrying people around from bar to bar, and for a few laughs the one in the front seat asked me if I was a religious man.  It seemed like he was trying to provoke me into a theological argument.

I looked at him and said no that I was not a religious man, but I’m not irreligious either. He looked at me smiling asking me if I was an agnostic then. I glanced at him for a second knowing that I was treading on dangerous ground, because religion was always a volatile subject. Still, I also knew that he probably had little regard for my intellect and was really just trying to have a few laughs to entertain his semi-drunk colleagues who had suddenly had fallen silent in the backseat of my car.

So, the non-debate began and ended at the casino’s front door.

 



Categories: Flash Fiction, Opinion

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