Friday, December 25, 2020

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



Saturday, December 19, 2020

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,

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

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