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Rupert and his friends were having a lovely evening at the Literature and Lyrics Bar.
Rupert stood up. “I’ll get a round in. It’s my turn and…”
“Round in. It’s your turn and you want…” sang Jen.
“Turn and you want to be fair…” sang Albert.
“Your turn and… no… sorry, that’s wrong. You want to be fair and… Sorry, sorry,” said Sylvia.
Everyone ground to a halt and Sylvia groaned. “I always muck rounds up.”
Albert gave her a hug and Rupert grinned. “Cheer up, Sylv. What’re you having?”
“Oh, something long and cool,” she said blushing.
“Kerouac’s On the Road?”
“Perfect,” she smiled.
Rupert turned to Albert. “What about you?”
“A limerick, please,” said Albert.
“And for you, Jen?” Rupert looked at her inquiringly.
“Oh… a poem.”
“Anything in particular?”
“No,” said Jen. “Anything will be fine.”
But as Rupert headed towards the bar, she called after him: “Don’t get me anything with ‘love’ in it!”
Rupert glanced back at her and rolled his eyes.
He was soon back with their orders.
“On the Road for Sylvia…” He put it down in front of her and turned to Albert.
“The barmaid with the hair loose in wisps,
Who gets shy whenever she lisps,
Said with a cough
That the limerickth are off.
So I got you some pickled onion crisps.”
“That’s fine,” said Albert. He opened the bag and started tucking in.
“What about me!” said Jen.
“Ah,” said Rupert. “I’ve ordered you a made from scratch sestina, but the barmaid’s still working on it. She’s all at sixes.”
“And sevens..?” said Jen.
“No, just sixes.” Rupert took a seat with his own order.
“What’s that?” asked Sylvia.
“It’s an SCFrankles story,” he said.
“On the rocks?”
“That is their usual state, yes,” said Rupert.
Rupert stood up. “I’ll get a round in. It’s my turn and…”
“Round in. It’s your turn and you want…” sang Jen.
“Turn and you want to be fair…” sang Albert.
“Your turn and… no… sorry, that’s wrong. You want to be fair and… Sorry, sorry,” said Sylvia.
Everyone ground to a halt and Sylvia groaned. “I always muck rounds up.”
Albert gave her a hug and Rupert grinned. “Cheer up, Sylv. What’re you having?”
“Oh, something long and cool,” she said blushing.
“Kerouac’s On the Road?”
“Perfect,” she smiled.
Rupert turned to Albert. “What about you?”
“A limerick, please,” said Albert.
“And for you, Jen?” Rupert looked at her inquiringly.
“Oh… a poem.”
“Anything in particular?”
“No,” said Jen. “Anything will be fine.”
But as Rupert headed towards the bar, she called after him: “Don’t get me anything with ‘love’ in it!”
Rupert glanced back at her and rolled his eyes.
He was soon back with their orders.
“On the Road for Sylvia…” He put it down in front of her and turned to Albert.
“The barmaid with the hair loose in wisps,
Who gets shy whenever she lisps,
Said with a cough
That the limerickth are off.
So I got you some pickled onion crisps.”
“That’s fine,” said Albert. He opened the bag and started tucking in.
“What about me!” said Jen.
“Ah,” said Rupert. “I’ve ordered you a made from scratch sestina, but the barmaid’s still working on it. She’s all at sixes.”
“And sevens..?” said Jen.
“No, just sixes.” Rupert took a seat with his own order.
“What’s that?” asked Sylvia.
“It’s an SCFrankles story,” he said.
“On the rocks?”
“That is their usual state, yes,” said Rupert.
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
Escaping with style
There were no blaring sirens or flashing lights as I dashed down the corridors, but there might as well have been. Data streaming across one side of my goggles told me that I had successfully triggered the alarm when I took the hard drive stack. I knew I had four and a half minutes until the security forces arrived. When I reached the security door I was already sending signals to my devices connected into the system. A crude video relay looped images of the empty corridor into the security camera feeds. The data mining box cut the stream of keyword-laden signals with which it had been scattering the building system’s attention. Grinning at my own ingenuity, I hit the unlock button. How many other thieves would have got in by manipulating the mood of a building’s computer systems? But then, how many other thieves understood the emergent emotional states of high end electronics? This was why I'd been hired. The door failed to hiss open. Frowning, I slapped the button again. Still
Literature
cladach eachtrach
Our shadows were children
the horizon a nightlight,
my skin Vodka white
in the womb
of the Atlantic,
bioluminescence
like sparks
conducting electricity
strip wire symphony,
naked limbs paired and
easily divided
in the remainder
wading
between constants;
prenatal combination,
the tide rolling in contractions,
and like ships to harbor
it bore us to shore.
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297 words.
Written for Flash Fiction Month 2014: Day 21.
(I wouldn't normally put myself in a story but on this occasion it seemed impolite to do it to any other writer ^^)
Written for Flash Fiction Month 2014: Day 21.
(I wouldn't normally put myself in a story but on this occasion it seemed impolite to do it to any other writer ^^)
© 2014 - 2024 SCFrankles
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Wish I knew you for real. Your words never fail to bring a smile to my face.