MORE PRIZES!

November 12, 2010

Okay folks – just the weekend left to write your flash fiction for my blog comp (full details here). Awesome books as prizes… BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!

 

Amber, winner of the second writing challenge and owner of WebLiterate.com has donated $25 as an additional prize for FIRST PLACE.

WebLiterate.com is a great website that offers tips and shares experiences of writing both fiction and fact. Amber is a freelance content writer, article marketer and web developer. Check her out!

Money and Books – is there anything else?

(okay… sex, wine and food too)

 

LASTLY GUYS

I haven’t had too many entries this time – maybe because of NaNoWriMo – so it is a great opportunity to pick up a fantastic book!

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Just days to go for the new blog comp “Book Love”

November 8, 2010

Just 7 days until the latest blog comp closes!

Get your flash fictions in to win awesome prizes:

 

Marianne de Pierres’ Glitter Rose

Angela Slatter’s Sourdough and Other Stories

Shaun Tan’s The Arrival

 

Your stories don’t have to be long, but they do have to be about books! Have some fun, try something new! Winning entries will go up on the blog.

 

Full details here.


Requiem

November 4, 2010

For Matthew

(to see his prompt, click here)


 

The darkened man on hell’s stage, poetry dripping

Like curses from his mouth, the stream drying into muddy streets so that

the fish can’t swim,

so that

buried prayers of ancient madmen push up through the red coal sand

so that

his greasy rain draws evil up to the Earth above.

 

She loved him once, his lyrical Sunday school perversions stinking in the backseat, the blasphemy sweet like his tongue on her nipple.

 

The boy that he was is just a shadow now, a rainbow spectre of happy days, a polaroid overexposed, the flames licking at the edges so that it curls and bubbles.

 

The hoofs on the roof of his house clip clop in the memory of his infant ear, the beat beat beat through the roof and down the stairs, past the door where his mother,

his human mother, dreams fitful syrupy dreams of sharp angled (angelic) liaisons in a field of ash.

 

The girl,

that girl who loves him,

calls aloud every night to her demon god, wishing him to her on the silver-backed clouds so that she is awoken with sulphuric kisses flitting to her nostrils, the heat prickling the paint from her walls.

 

She calls but he isn’t coming.

 

His pale face mumbling dance calls (curses, rages) at his father, the deadened nerve endings of the world screaming for him as he raises his hands in defiance then chops them down, slicing the humid air into pieces that grow into an island belt of a potent archipelago, the lands filling with the souls of the winged, the wounded.

 

The prayer continues unabated, unsated, until he raises his arms, the claws now pushing up from under his fingernails so that they curl like ornate daggers into his palm, drawing blood. As the music stops and dies

 

the world

 

(and the girl)

dies too.