June 2011 - FLASH PARTY
The Destiny of Weeds by Ron Koppelberger.   Bothering the ambition of speckled flowers, blossoms in sweet fragrant answer to the spring and desires of an adorned bride, the ragweed sprouted and sang the song of an unwonted bloom, in tiny eyed dander and a poor mans rose, in the spaces between trees. Shrub and open fields of play lay the dreams and destiny of weeds, the innate consciousness of a haven inhabited by the unruly and the sturdy, the weed being tougher and more abundant in its propagating birth, in its unabashed growth. The destiny of a weed in favored places and desolate untrod ground, to live ugly or perhaps beautifully by the promise of an appreciative glance and a day borne only for weeds and the castaway wonder of what’s understood by few but the love of a peasant admiring the wishes of a dandelion.  FP

Wandering Mind, Yearning Heart by Dominic Knight.  Nothing in the pages made sense. Every turn of the sketch book continued to puzzle him. The faces were familiar, but he couldn’t put names to them. He could guess and call these strangers whatever he wanted, but that’s all they were; strangers. Two months in this hospital and he’d filled up four books with the same people. Each book now spread across the table before him.

Flipping the page of one, he watched the people change. Expressions of the same person filled one page before shifting to someone new. The facial features were similar, which lead him to believe they were all related. But kin to whom, he wasn’t sure. His next book had three children, happy, carefree and grinning up at him. However the final two books were his biggest mystery. A woman stared up at him with penetrating eyes despite her smile.

Tentative, his finger traced the pencil, leaving a small smudge. No one could tell him who these people were; they were as clueless as he. Sighing, he closed the other books and continued to stare at her. Flipping a few pages, he stopped again, staring at another joyful expression gracing her delicate features. Still nothing signaled he knew her name. Inhaling deeply, he tried to calm his pounding heart; some part of him remembered her, yearned and loved her.

He just wished the rest of him would catch up with his heart. FP

Blue Moon by Samantha Memi.     He said,

—Look into my eyes and see a vision of the night.

I looked and saw muggers, drunks, street cats and homeless children.  There was no moon, no hope, no love, nowhere to go. I shuddered back and looked at his mouth, full sensuous lips, he smiled and a glint of white shone through the saliva where his lips had parted.

—Don't you like my night?

—Not really, I dissented.

—Try my day, and he opened his shirt to reveal, inside his chest, a beach with palm trees, sun, rolling waves, bathers and a wide blue horizon.

—Come inside and feel my warmth, and I went and never returned.

  I live here now, I've got used to his beating heart and his indigestion. Of course it wasn't summer for long, winter set in, the sea froze, the beach turned to grit that bit into my skin, and then the inevitable sneezes. In my sleep I have nightmares of drunks and muggers, but I can't say I regret my actions. I have never seen any point in regretting. My dad always said: it you don't like it change it, if you can't change it put up with it, but don't moan.

Todd and I don't go out much anymore, and friends have largely stopped visiting.  We watch TV, eat, sleep, sometimes we argue, but not too often; I'm too cuddled inside him to disagree with him now.  FP

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