Including Friday Flash 55, Three Word Wednesday, Three Word Thursday and
Totally Optional Prompts. Have you had a go yet?
POLLY TICKS
Harry Patch died at the weekend. Many outside the UK will not know
him, and in many ways he had an unremarkable life as a plumber. But
he died at the weekend at the age of 111, just days after the death
of the world’s oldest man, Henry Allingham who died at 113. But their
deaths are a turning point in history, for these two heroes were the
last living Brits who fought in World War One. From last weekend
onwards, the experience has gone from living memory in the UK. So it
is now up to us to remember, and never go there again.
Eye On the World
Writers’ Tips
The ‘Y’ Files
WORLD NEWS: Should we
talk to Taliban for political solution
to Afghanistan? There is no solution. We’re
just keeping those camps shut. Admit it.
HEALTH NEWS: Health service being swamped by fear of swine
flu as worried well worry. There’s a fine line between information
& sensationalism.
BRIT NEWS: Hike in Council Tax expected to pay for local services.
No need. Just sack all the pointless extra management &
PC posts.
BRIT NEWS: Esther Rantzen to run as Independent
MP but one doesn’t make a revolution. Let’s
have some real MPs leave their parties
and be honest.
FLASH 55 – HE BITES
With Quilly’s Words
Fiction: He knew what to do. Some thought
his performance was sevidical, giving morsicant,
whilst the reality was more veteratorian. True,
those bites hit home in ways they could not
imagine. Chomp, chomp, chomp they went,
feeding on our psyche. And with each bite a
chunk of freedom went. Beware the allure of
the political soundbite.
Without
Fiction: He knew what to do. Some thought his
performance was cruel, giving the sensation of
repeated biting, whilst the reality was more subtle.
True, those bites hit home in ways they could not
imagine. Chomp, chomp, chomp they went, feeding
on our psyche. And with each bite a chunk of
freedom went. Beware the allure of the political
soundbite.
DON’T YOU REALISE?
Fiction: Thornhill didn’t mean to patronize him but he had little choice.
He was here in the darkness and the intruder had intruded once too
often. But now he had his attention. He’d said it over and over again:
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ But the intruder wouldn’t have it. He’d been
coming here for so long that it certainly felt right to him. But Thornhill
persevered and eventually he could sense the intruder weakening.
And when he finally got him to look down at the gaping hole in his
chest the realization was palpable. So that was it then. He WAS
dead. And Thornhill had carried out another successful exorcism.
MIDNIGHT
The hour strikes, the hands are both raised,
The clock is still, all else is crazed,
For this is midnight, of time and soul,
Goosebumps raised, the air is cold
Witches chant and bats fly above,
No time now for peace or a dove,
For spirits are out, walking the Earth,
A supernatural veil of sorrow and dearth
Into this brew your thoughts do stray,
Mixed in a cauldron for ghosties to waylay,
And haunt you with memories of what you’ve done,
Hope you did good, or now you’re so glum
As minutes tick by, light follows dark,
Goodness returning, angels hark,
As long as you’re not lost in those thoughts unpure
Carried away on death’s eternal tour
© Anthony North, July 2009
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