David Brierley

 

 

 

Twelve views of Manchester

Sunrise across New Islington, from the side of Rochdale Canal.
Fallow Café at Landcross, the morning after a snowfall.
A rainstorm beneath the Beetham tower.
Sketch of a Mitsui shop on the walls of Affleck’s Palace,
the little wave to a friend on Oxford Road,
A cautious chord on a piano, in the Sackville Street Foyer,
A party, broken up by police, off a street from Claremont Road.
Picnic under the oak trees in Heaton Park, as it starts to rain,
Finding a seat somewhere in Kro Bar, opposite the University,
The neon glow of that red PALACE sign, obscured by a fog,
Manchester Cathedral – of St. Mary, St. Denys, St. George,
The sun setting on John Ryland’s, a taxi splashing rainwater on the street.

 

 

 

 

David Brierley is an English Literature and Creative Writing student at the University of Manchester, though he is originally from Gloucestershire. This is his first published work.

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Geoff Mills for National Flash Fiction Day!

 

 

Manners

Gladys Walker ascended to heaven in her eight-first year to find the place not at all to her satisfaction. Glancing critically over the field of serrated clouds upon which a manna market had been erected, she collared the next person who jostled past her.

‘Einstein?’ she barked.

‘That is I,’ he replied candidly, for in heaven no untruths may be told.

‘This is not what I had in mind when I pictured eternity. Is this all there is?’

‘All there is? What more could you wish for? Any flavour you care to imagine and it may be found here!’ He swept his hand across the teeming plain and gazed in wonder.

‘And beyond the market?’

Einstein’s eyebrows rose up like a pair of ambushed seagulls. ‘Madam, once you’ve tasted our manna, the question of beyond ceases to exist.’

‘Yes well! I’d like to have a word with God all the same. If you could point me in the right direction!’

‘Not possible I’m afraid. He’s indisposed. Indefinitely.’

‘How so?’

‘Depression or some such. He just doesn’t believe in himself anymore.’

‘Well then, Jesus?’

‘Blackholing in Andromeda I believe.’

‘St. Peter?’

‘Otherwise engaged. Problem at the entrance. Went to ask about letting some thieves in, came back to find the gate missing.’

‘Outrageous. This is not the heaven I imagined!’

‘Ah! Heaven, madam, is a problematic concept. By what standard do you take measure? It’s rather a question of relativity.’

And with that, Einstein disappeared greedily into the munching masses.

 

 

Geoff Mills is a Midlands based writer and teacher. He is currently in the final year of his PhD in creative writing at Birmingham University and teaches on the script writing module at Worcester University. www.geoff-mills.com  #geoffmills7

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Hideko Sueoka

 

 

 

Cherry Blossoms

Today dark blue is my facial colour.
So can you see ashy-indigo confetti?

A cherry addict admires pale pink
fluttering down in lambent sunlight.

But through the flyaway organza of misty breath,
my skin hides another complexion

that lurks on the counterfeit surface
in spring frolics. After catharsis of my mind,

unknown beauty you can find in me
bright blue – like cranesbill,  grape hyacinth, catmint.

 

 

 

 

Hideko Sueoka has been working as a translator, living in Tokyo, and was the winner of 2013 Troubadour International Poetry Competition. A recent poem was published on the online journal Stravaig issue 4: http://www.geopoetics.org.uk/online-journal/stravaig-issue-4/

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Kenneth Pobo

 

 

 

Red Carnations

Your dad died three years ago.
You were 61.  Today
your brother left red carnations,
his favorite, by his name.

Beside your dad’s place,
a stranger’s sinking grave,
the name angled like
a board game played
on a tipped table.  Deer

watch us, often eat the flowers.
We don’t scare them.
They sneak back
after we drive away.

In the morning,
work.  The slow moving forward,
step by step, to death.

 

 

 

Kenneth Pobo had a book out in 2015 called Bend of Quiet from Blue Light Press.  His work has appeared in: Orbis, The Fiddlehead, Indiana Review, Amsterdam Review, and elsewhere

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Miriam Sulhunt

 

 

 

Shamrock

I’m holding the damp spray close.
The leaves are tender.
They reek of innocence.
Once, you bunched a sprig
on my lapel – an elf-lock
green as nature
in perpetual Spring.
I was an ungreened girl.
You were my ruin.

 

 

 

Miriam Sulhunt lives in Edinburgh where she writes poetry and short fiction. Her  poems have been published in Poetry Scotland, Lighten-Up-Online and in various anthologies.

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