This piece was written for the Six Sentence Challenge, with the prompt word of ‘charm’.

Freddie Stare was a fabulous finesser of foot-tapping fantasia, with his fascinating rhythms filling the gravity-free firmament after he found Fionnuala Fagan, the famed fox-trotter from Fenagh.

However, in recent times, he’d decided he could fare well without fair Fionnuala and was making a fine fettle of flying solo on his seemingly-feathered feet and was often to be seen playing footsies with a wide array of footloose floozies.

Not to be fobbed off, Fionnuala furiously fanned her desire for fatal revenge and fossicked through files on pharmacology, seeking to distill a phial of foul poison to fix Freddie’s fate, knowing full well he would return to the fold in the future.

She made up a tincture of fenugreek, fennel, feverfew, fo-ti root and food-poisoning salmonella  and disguised its fetid taste with fruit juice and fizzy Fanta.

Inevitably, Freddie became fatigued and grew too floppy for fandangos, fornications and frolics so he presented himself to Fionnuala, with fraudulent fork-tongued promises of faithfulness, in order to charm her into ministering to his frail and failing frame, for old friendship’s sake.

Fionnuala was not to be fooled by Freddie’s flattering fakery but feigned concern and bade him drink her felicitous tincture, which she said she’d named in his honour as Freddie’s Fantasia, and soon after Freddie fell flat on his face and Fionnuala fed him to the fiery furnace.

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This piece was written for the Carrot Ranch weekly challenge, with the prompt words of ‘carry on’.

Sounds carry on the wind,

carry in the wind,

sometimes are the wind,

deafening the soul.

Sand carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind,

stripping the paint.

Tears carry on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes are the wind,

spreading desert rain.

Hope carries on the wind,

in the wind,

and sometimes is the wind

of whispered prayers.

Tomorrow carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind

of soaring birds.

Writing carries on the wind,

in the wind

and sometimes is the wind

of Heaven, and sometimes just farting.

This piece was written for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘handle’.

Extracts from Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ in italics.

I’m on the pavement, thinking about the government, the secret government of alien reptile paedophiles that rules the world, except it’s not a secret any more because Q-anon told me on their secret internet, the one that’s not controlled by the secret government of alien reptile paedophiles that rules the world.

Look out, kid, it’s somethin’ you did (God knows when) but you’re doin’ it again, writing things people disagree with and getting deleted and becoming the worst sinner of all, a living old white man.

You don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows, especially when it blows out the candle of knowledge because some people prefer the black hole of ignorance (I’m looking at you, Karen).

Don’t follow leaders, watch the parkin’ meters because when the money runs out, they’ll tow you away to the nursing home of Hell.

Twenty years of schoolin’ and they put you on the day shift, making even more crap that they convince you that you need that ends up in landfill.

The well of science and rationality is running dry; the pump don’t work ’cause the vandals took the handle.

This piece was re-worked from an earlier version for the Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word ‘presence’.

Who knows how long this will last

but whatever each generation brings,

there will be totems of the past

fixed firmly insistent in each of our minds,

totems with faces carved in the hard woods

that only family trees produce

and set, sometimes poles apart, in the family grove.

Children growing themselves in new numbers each year,

all named and loved and parented in common for a day

with tear-filled eyes, chocolate-coated faces and grinning cheeks,

each hoisted to embrace and admiration,

all feats applauded and all false pride mocked.

Food, prepared as sanctioned by time,

in unspoken, ordained ritual by the women,

the bearers of all sustaining life

while men, surrounded by seemingly unobservant boys,

use beer to shorten stretching distances,

quietly competing every hurdle

until a child clings to a leg

and wins.

Lives past, sitting patiently in reserved and sacred chairs,

coming back to life in anecdotes of bastardry and joy,

as toddlers and crawlers, excited and bewildered,

sit knee-deep in wrapping paper,

while babes at breast, absorb every nuance

through the pores of their clan skin

and the memories encoded in their mother’s milk.

The married-ins and new lovers,

belonging in their separateness to this caravan,

as hopeful as those that followed a certain star,

come bearing gifts,

as the matriarch,

with skills both ancient and subtle,

draws to her these strands unknitted,

so they ever unravel

and pull the fabric apart.

These are our totems,

their presence taking firmer shape with each year,

and living beyond presents shared,

ensuring that in all our futures

we will have at least one day

not alone.