FreeFall: freeform fiction

Reblogging and posting wonderful writings and freeform works focused around prompts. Fiction here means prose, poetry and anything in between, so long as it is on topic. At least once a month, I’m going to stick up a prompt - usually a single word with or without a quote to colour it - to help dust off the creative cogs. You can respond to that, if it inspires you. If the current prompt doesn’t strike your fancy, you can check out older prompts under the 'prompts' tab Prompt-related things only please. For questions and submissions (for those without Tumblr accounts) email: [email protected]

[freefall-fiction]

Brotherhood

by Neal Dachstadter

Day of powder, day of dry Water frozen, Winter sky Barren forest, air of clear Rowdy Brothers, Grog and Beer

Sun of life and fight of good One with strife but wrought with should Struggle fraught with final gold Shrugging not the primal bold

indebted, Photo / D Garland 

[freefall-fiction]

Once in Bonny Scotland’s Fog

by Neal Dachstadter

Once in Bonny Scotland’s Fog, Rain was falling in a wood, Heat was fain to elsewhere thrive, Path of soaked and peat of slogged. Daunted not a lassie was, Daughter of a massive cause, Mate of those who brook the cold, Great applause, it shook of auld: Northern part and grace of snow Gladden, hearten face of beau. indebted, Photo / GA Byers

[freefall-fiction]

Parabolic

by Neal Dachstadter

The line of lights above a bar, A sine of sights, of things that are, The balance one ought mind and keep; A valence wrought for none, for cheap.

[freefall-fiction]

Eau Claire, Par Avion

by Neal Dachstadter

Sunpath burning blanc and gold, One with nacht and morn untold, Clear a trail for morrow wrought, Sorrow fail and follow not. 

[freefall-fiction]

Green and Brown

by Neal Dachstadter

Green and brown, and row and vine, Means the town be beau with wine, Rain and cloud and soak and fed? Sane, endowed with oaken red.

[freefall-fiction]

Femme du Monde

by Neal Dachstadter

Out of an eye colored aquamarine Out of a dark lovely face was she seen Indian, French, Ethiopian, Dutch A Kingdom of God upon Earth inasmuch

[freefall-fiction]

Iridescence

by Neal Dachstadter

The mallard’s iridescent green, Layered black and deft of sheen, The lofty spruce of dusty blue, Green beneath, of crafted hue.

[freefall-fiction]

Lesbe friends

by Fee Johnstone

I awoke in a crumple of itchy sheets and stale sweat in a bed I did not recognise; my face was gnarled with dehydration and confusion, while my breath suggested an errant feline had mistaken my mouth for a litter tray. Groggily, I sat up against the besmirched, padded headboard as the remnants of my serene dreams faded into the reality of my surroundings: forlorn furniture; torn netted-curtains; discarded cider cans and a carpet threadbare in places shoes could not possibly reach.

As I surveyed the carnage of the room presented before me, I swallowed back the stomach acid that was migrating north.  I shuddered and lit a cigarette but my inhalations felt obstructed. As panic began to ensnare me, I realised why: I was wearing a very small swimming costume. Oh.

So here I was festering in a bed that stunk of desperation, in an unfamiliar room, with an ill-fitting swimsuit wedged up my natal cleft and with no inkling as to how any of this came about.

I frantically checked underneath the bed looking for indications of life other than mine but there were none. Still perplexed, I whipped the duvet off and stared at my mottled, bristly legs – these were definitely not the limbs of someone who attires herself in a few finger-widths of fabric.

The chaos of the bathroom was similar to that of the bedroom but there was no evidence the shower had been used, possibly ever, so my breaststroke had not been practised here. I investigated the bin but detected nothing that would explain the events leading up to me being garbed in polka-dot beachwear from Mothercare.

What lay beyond the time-debased window provided no further clues: there were rows of graffitied tenements, a boarded up corner shop, a rabid-looking man wearing a slipper for a hat but no sign of any swimming (or paddling) pools.  I examined the sprawled contents of my wallet – my library card stared accusingly at me. And with that, the memories of the previous 24 hours percolated into my consciousness like the saline drip to which I yearned to be attached.

I was 17 and had recently realised I was a lesbian but, in an era pre mobile phones and the internet, I had no idea where to meet other gay people.  The only gay people of whom I had knowledge were a couple of mulleted-tennis players, Freddy Mercury and in all likelihood, my netball teacher, whose contribution to femininity amounted only wearing a bra (on most occasions). So I had gone to the library and found a book of gay classifieds.  There had been only one listing for my hometown and that was under the heading of ‘Guest House’.  I had no idea what a gay guest house was but I was going to find out.  I’d crammed some clothes into a bag, invented an excuse about staying at a friend’s to my parents, and went to the address I’d noted down.  My hands had trembled with an excitement I usually reserve for Drew Barrymore as I’d knocked on the door.  A disappointingly ordinary man who was very surprised to see me allowed me to book a room with barely any conversation passing between us.

He’d shown me to my room that had been decorated in all shades of vomit and still I was none the wiser as to what constituted a gay hotel but I was sure I would leave here a changed person, with the harem of new gay friends that I wanted so badly.  I’d unpacked my scant belongings, realising in my frantic haste that I had just thrown in whatever came to hand: cans of cider, three socks and a tracksuit top but no clean underwear or pyjamas. And a swimsuit. Ah yes!  Now I remembered – that god awful pastel pink swimsuit my aunt had bought me – when I was 10. That was probably the last time my legs had been witnessed by eyes other than those of my cuddly toys.

After casting the offending article aside, I’d cracked open my first can of confidence. When I was four cans bolder, I’d peered into the dank hallway and whispered, ‘Hello?’ in case a new friend lurked in the shadows, too timid to make themselves known. But, the retorting meow had sent me back from whence I came, post-haste.

I still knew not what I awaited, but the anticipation of the unknown pervaded my viscera, generating a grumble in my bowels on more than one occasion.  Another can of cider had allowed me to ignore this (and the wiry hairs with whom I was sharing a pillow) and although my stomach and my breath told me I was hungry, I’d dared not leave – what if gay people frequented gay hotels after dark and I was off assuaging my aching abdomen?

The hours had trickled by as steadily as the cider had trickled in and the last memory I could elicit was defiantly resolving to wear my water-resistant leotard as pyjamas. The ensuing struggle to contort myself into the unforgiving lycra had incurred a bruised collarbone, a collision with the rusty lamp and a loss of modesty.

I cringed as I scanned my memory for any indication that I’d had company and prayed I did not.  No matter how desperately I had craved that companionship when I arrived, now I was grateful for the solitude.

There was plenty of time to make gay friends, in more appropriate environments, and when my thighs were not ablaze with chafe.

And besides, I wasn’t entirely alone – around 10,000 bedbugs were attempting to occupy my orifices. Thankfully they were no match for spandex; apparently compressing my bulk into Barbie’s swimsuit had been a smart move after all.

[freefall-fiction]

Reflections

by Maxine Rose Munro

As I gaze upon this used cotton bud I wonder if there is a poem in it. One that finds poignancy in the mundane and filthy. Or perhaps I could write of how my aging face in the glass reminds me of youth gone past. Or then again I could write of the terrors of traumatic childhood. The bully and the lost sheep. Or the spider that made me weep with the beauty of its web as It tore apart a fly. But these things do not move me I’m not sure that they move anybody.

[freefall-fiction]

Glasgow in the Rain

by James Paton

An incessant hum, a downbeat groove.

The pitter-patter splashes of a brush against a hi-hat.

Black patches stretch out across insipid grey walls as though arms fumbling for a thick, surly sky that smothers out the sun, and filters away the last flickering traces of daylight from the world. Clouds mesh together above lumbering figures, all hunched over and bitter, treading thunderous footsteps along busy, cramped streets, as cars, buses and trucks screech heavenwards, violent and confused. 

Tall buildings fashion vain attempts to caress the infinite swathe of grey above, each illuminated like a doll house and filled with the anguish of lost youth, the pressures of a rat race already run and lost. A paper trail towards a destiny unwanted, an early demise, an unfulfilled promise. All victims of laughing chance, a fairy tale dark and forgotten, the twisted tale of capitalism’s lasting failure.

Two men-one blue, one green-stand staring, vacant and bemused, hatred burning in their hearts and on their tongues, a vitriolic spat with no end in sight. Bitterness entrenched in the black and white annals of history, yet not buried in the past, its enduring legacy encroaching upon the present, confusing, destructive and unjustified.

Fingers licked and candles extinguished, a swirl of smoke and then gone.

A buzzing, a ping, and then light.

The darkness yields but does not dissipate.

Walls of glass mirror the soft focus footage of a city in motion back upon itself, a feedback loop that sends the din flying upwards unbounded, yet never does it go too far, never does it need to be pulled back in. Life swells and flourishes under lamp light, under colours vivid and powerful. Garish neon fluorescence, a beacon to the young still trying to discover who they are and what they can do, a signal to the night that it will not win.

Puddles form streams, rivers and seas across tarmac expanses as murky as the night, continents are carved out in busy city streets, peoples become divided, yet they are not lost forever. Obstacles are only such when you allow them to endure, for every problem there is a solution, and for every Glaswegian, a friend.

Downtrodden, stepped on and overlooked, doomed to see the grave as hurriedly as their legs may whisk them there, yet they meet it with a smile born from a life well lived, and full of love. A pat on the back, a handshake, acknowledgement. Yet you turn your heads and walk on by, never once witnessing the quandary of ignominious poverty, but perhaps most of all, and it is worse for you, you shall never know of the kinship of community, the gloriousness of a friend. Glasgow’s spirit sent soaring and carefree, a city brought together as one, with universal hope for a better tomorrow and a day spent basking under a glorious sun.

The light that burns twice as bright, it has been said, will burn half as long.

Yet when life is as dark and impenetrable as night, Glasgow can be a beacon of hope.

[freefall-fiction]

326 - 397 Great Western Road

by Ken Morlich

—#1 Shopsmart —#2 a boarded up shop with ‘yams’ on corrugated shutters —#3 Solly’s African Village —#4 Western Barbers —#5 E Joy internet cafe —#6 Rococo. Right wheel—down the kerb—fuck! have you not got a better street to be driving along~go fuck yourself— right wheel—#7 (well strictly #7 should be renumbered from the other end but that can fucking get to fuck) Timorous Beasties. Into the alley—met by a prodigious cock and balls on the genteel sandstone preceded by initials~WEG. WEG? WEG. Reverse out of alley. Better get myself a fucking caravan because joy of joys, —#12 (or possibly #15 depending on alignment with Lucky Cat Tatoo) is the fucking caravan shop, specialists in accessories and equipment. I clear my throat. A hey. With you presently. A hey. {taking a stroll round the fucking racks} Do the racks not get you sair eyes? Just attending to this gentleman if you would care to wait. Like a bristling sea porcupine fucking coming at you with spiny bristles a-fucking-kimbo chief. Well now I… And right on the end of it (right on the end of it mind) is a fucking 16 amp 3 way adaptor~blue shiny plastic socket flanges with a mattgrey body and more than any other fucking thing like a mutant alien assprobe that this sea fucker is holding out holding out driving the thing out of its displayrack coat of seaporcupine barbs to reach the unsuspecting shopper and probe him right from the ass internally to the middle of next fucking tuesday and does the rack not get you sair about the eyes like it does the fucking rest of us?Not that I’ve noticed Sir. Now if you would give a moment to finish attending… I’ve had it. I’ve fucking had it and I’m no as much as wanting a half dozen of plastic tipped groundsheet pegs I’m off aboutturnleft past  —#7 Timorous Beasties where I might get a wee cheeky roll of beepaper for my fucking featurewall { Intermission in soothing taupe Ah may I sample of this your paper book? And of the carpet trim might I… For sooths and inundations ranking agley. Awry they’ll tells you sometimes but that’s a missquotationmiss quotation miss how nice to see you.Wait~no need to make the call to the fucking polis I’m on my way to —#3 Solly’s African Village Good day to you madam } and over to —#3 Solly’s African Village where I’ll stop in for a set of Afrofuckinghairextensions and a fucking deepfrozen catfish. Why travel? {_____} I said why travel? {_____} Fuck ye’s. {aboutturnleft~beyond  —#7 Timorous Beasties —down the kerb—fuck the~miss the bus~fuckafuckingmoped—up the kerb} No catfish? No any catfish? Nile perch? Nile perch. Why fucking travel.

[freefall-fiction]

Big Country, Stuart Adamson

by Neal Dachstadter

A band’s modest boast: drawing wishing from life, From the Scot-land, and ghost of the sea-strand in Fife, Bridge pipe and guitar till they reel a taut bite, Edge revealed, at his death: songs we ought to write.

– from Edge’s Eulogy to Stuart Adamson

Say not, “Stuart died in vain.” True, all too soon, As a man with a brain and heart waxing full noon, But confess, in his pain, Stuart wished mid his tune, And then weary with wishing, he “fained to lie doon”*

Stuart Adamson 1958-2001

*from Lord Randall, “preferred to sleep”