micro - Fiction

Trending Tweets     by Raquel D. BAILEY

@andrewsmith tweets: I just finished watching three silent films and they were great. I don't normally like silent films though... 
Thirty seconds elapse. Sandra wipes the tears of laughter from her face. 
@sandrabaines replies: @andrewsmith Well, I don't like silent films and I am sure of that because I've seen them all too!! 

  Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2019

The elephant shifted in the chair and put down his glass of ice tea. He put his two front feet over his eyes and I could see his chest heaving as he tried to hold back his tears.

                “He was such a good friend. He never harmed anything,” he said in a broken voice.

                “I found him in a clearing with half his face sawed off. Half his face gone” and at that he started to cry.

                I didn’t know what to say. There was really nothing I could say to comfort him.  What could I say?

                                                                                                                           by Jack Galmitz 

At the British Museum    by Bob Lucky

Standing with his wife before the Rosetta Stone, he realized he'd never decipher his heart. Some languages are better off dead and forgotten, he thought, and left without a word.

Soap Opera   by Bob Lucky

“I can't,” she said, her face flickering. “I'm so sorry.”
“Don't be. Not much to love, really.” His voice crackled.
“Come back,” I cried, beating the top of the television.

Compromise  by Bob Lucky
She said she faked it.
“That's okay,” he said. “You're good.”

from Country  by Shelby  Stephenson

Horton Barker did all he could to show the world his love of Child Ballads, though he never met the Harvard professor Francis Child:  I never heard Barker sing, even on record, though his name surfaces, like white caps among the waves of festivals at White Top Mountain, over round Marion, Virginia, 1933, or at the annual University of Chicago Folk Festival, 1961:  after losing his sight to an accident, Barker kept his spirit easing among music’s gardens − Horton Barker, Laurel Bloomery, Tennessee!  Nin and I have several skip-laurels out our bedroom window:  they wave in wind and dream; we thrash around up on our Delicate Balances.  In Laurel Bloomery, Tennessee, Horton Barker stands tall for fireflies:  they speckle dusk’s  chimney, that lofty yard-concerto of mine, flitting and blinking and stirring up trouble for our dog Cricket that tries to snap them in her yip:  she’s scratching the oriental rug under the chaise lounge:  could she be Clyde Beavers if she could write “I’d Rather Fight Than Switch”:  her tail wags to see Molly Bee, real name Molly Beachboard, Tennessee Ernie Ford Show, 1950’s:  Ole Ern, the Tennessee Pea Picker, went out to Hollywood, joining Cliffie Stone and his Orchestra: they made a gusher of a show, Molly Bee, pursing her lips, dancing and shouting on TV: Jimmy Dean, Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Jimmie Rogers (not the brakeman), Roy Rogers, Ed Sullivan, and my favorite of those years, Ernie Ford’s Nighttime Show:  after stints in Vegas, at the Thunderbird, Desert Inn, Flamingo, the Moulin Rouge in L.A., Harrah’s in Reno, the Shamrock, Houston, Crystal Bay Club, and Lake Tahoe, Bee toured Japan, before doing musical comedy in shows like “Paint Your Wagon”:  decades ago I lost her, writing then Country Song Roundup columnist, Bill Anderson − “What happened to Molly Bee?”  “Don’t know,” his reply. Along the way I saw her obit in the paper, saying she was a grandmother − fighting Addictions − turning blue, paying Celebration and Fame no mind.  Wonder scratches her head and loosens her arms instead of  ratcheting down or out or up the world’s whipping post, that snagging, ragged sensation coming on when you come into your favorite room, look for a chair and sit down and wait for poetry’s Clan of Beers to sound the B’s:  Robert “Fiddler” Beers, wife Evelyne Christine, daughter, Martha Christine:  they sang songs like “Sweet Little Jesus Boy,” playing folk festivals in the Midwest, mainly, though I can’t say how their songs swayed and rocked the Newport Festival, 1960’s:  anthologizing their names, I cite them Airy Angels.  A mockingbird just collided with an eastern kingbird:  the Old People said Bee-Martin:  Harry Belafonte, born 1927, a year before my brother Paul:  Belafonte’s an activist for human dignity, a pusher for civility, justice:  I can hear his calypso clearly: “Day-O” (Banana Boat Song), “Matilda,” and “Jamaica Farewell”:  the give and take of culture and music gather his life:  his mother, Jamaican, was so proud of him:  Carl Belew probably wrote “Lonely Street”:  I wonder,
 though, if Wynn Stewart might have and sold it to Belew for beer-money:  Belew wrote “Stop the World and Let Me Off” − and recorded it − but Johnny and Jack made the hit in ’58. Remember “Am I That Easy to Forget?”  Carl Belew!  I never heard him sing, but I’ve seen his name on lots of songs.  Bounty’s a basket-case or guitar-gig-bag of sorts − with no hasp to clasp.  The narrative goes forward:  spring springs, chickens cackle, bees bumble, most often where the lawnmower collects dust under the shelter and nightbirds drop droppings in troughs of stables where Black and Gray pawed and stomped, pushing their chests against barbed wire, their sanctuary now taken by Scag, Grumman, and the Equator.


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