Friday 55 Holiday Edition 2020

 

 

 Welcome all, to the final Flash Fiction prompt of 2020, a Holiday Edition of the Friday 55. This year has been a slog, and it's not over yet, but the time has come to acknowledge it will not last forever, and in fact is in its last throes of weirdness and upheaval as we speak. Whether your mood is celebratory, contemplative or still an utter roil of feelings, you're invited to write it all out here, in 55 words, no more no less, on any subject that strikes your fancy.

 

I will leave the page open for contributions til December 31st at midnight since this is a busy time for all, even in isolation. 

 

Post the link to your 55 in the comments below, and I will be by to mark the passing of this Hell Year with you.

Brighter Days Ahead.

 

 

~ *~

 

My 55, such as it is:

 

 

 

 

 

 Supplication To The Old Year

Jack Frost, Jack Frost

crack the wind

for what we've lost.

Kiss the tree,

break the wood.

Show us all that's gone for good.

 

Toss the cow over

the mad moon's head.

Put stars on her horns

in the land of the dead.

 

Numb my hand, burn my ear;

then keep your promise and disappear.

 

 

 

 

 

December 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Vintage Victorian Christmas Card, circa 1890  Fair Use

Illustration for The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam, © Edmond Dulac  Fair Use

Cow and Moon, © Alex Colville    via intyernet   Fair Use

 

 

Snow Blind

 

 

 

 "If it's peace you find in dying, when dying time is here,
just bundle up my coffin cause it's cold way down there,
I hear that's it's cold way down there, yeah, crazy cold way down there.."

~Laura Nyro, When I Die

 

 

Snow Blind

 

I sit remembering

when we were dragons,

our mating flight in October's

bloodbright sky, 

another country

that rush of scales and fire.

 

Or when you saw me first,

moth with green-eyed wings

on a factory rafter. You knew

 among the nymphs

I was a spriggan

twisted wry but quick and hot,

that on the mountain with the goats

I climbed the highest

to be alone, krampus-girl

too full to eat the darkness.

 

So come, wind of the north.

Blow this west-wind fever from me

with your ice-eyes and cheap bargains.

Mound the cold grey snow

upon this bed, shabby

goblin sheets to numb my sores,

 

rime my lids 

 snow blind, give me

shadow glow, hallucinations, lunatic

visions, his

living face candle-lit,

smiling

at me:

the glass dragon,

the dust-moth dry with

death's-head wings,

broken as easily 

as a candy heart.

 

 

December 2020

 

 

 

posted for Fireblossom

at The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spriggan: "a legendary creature from Cornish faery lore...said to be found at old ruins, cairns, and barrows guarding buried treasure. Although small, they were usually considered to be the ghosts of giants..notorious for their unpleasant dispositions...~wikipedia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: photo of Laura Nyro via internet   Fair Use

Moth Wing © Amelia Fletcher    Fair Use