Grievous Angel Poetry & Fiction

New Poetry for Halloween !

31/10/2014

As tonight is Halloween, we have a suitably spooky poem for you - Dark Can Be Light - by John W Sexton. John lives in the Republic of Ireland. His fifth poetry collection The Offspring of the Moon is published by Salmon Poetry. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.

Dark Can Be Light
by John W Sexton

The balloon seller passed her the balloon,
the one she had especially pointed to,
the one ecru as an eggshell.
MR MIZZERABELLY’S BALLOONS said the sign
on the balloon seller’s cart.
The balloon bobbed up and about as she walked home,
way, way ahead of her disinterested father.
The flowers in the gardens
leant back in their beds as she passed.
Sparrows sped from the shrubs and the eaves of houses,
racing madly ahead of her.
Cicadas fell from the trees.
The neatly trimmed lawn in the front
of her house gave an imperceptible tremor
as she skipped through the gate.
In the kitchen her mummy eyed the balloon
with an inexplicable disquiet.
Squeaky the cat slipped out through the cat-flap.
She marched up to her bedroom and tied the balloon
to the end of her bed.
The balloon bobbed sideways and upwards,
even though there was no draught from the door
and no window was open.
The ghost in the balloon just waited.
Sooner or later someone will always burst a balloon.

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New Flash Fiction: An Auspicious Introduction ¡

24/10/2014

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So I'm not quite sure what happened to Thursday (well actually I do know: it was lost in tech and comms problems hell here at the Grievous Angel office) but anyway one day late here is your latest dose of flash fiction. The piece is called An Auspicious Introduction and I must admit that I exchanged a number of emails with the author Ellie Snyder over whether we should use the word "Auspicious" or "Inauspicious" in case readers didn't realise the irony. In the event I've stuck with Ellie's original title and just added a sarc-mark (aka an upside-down exclamation mark) at the end.

About Ellie... after some prompting she replied "I'll say that I'm a student with a bit of a sci-fi obsession. I have only begun to try my own hand at writing short stories this past summer and am still finding my voice. This will be the first story I've sold, though another was accepted for publication on OMNI Reboot."

AN AUSPICIOUS INTRODUCTION ¡
by Ellie Snyder

When mankind landed for the first time on an intelligently inhabited planet other than Earth it decided to do so right in the middle of a city, despite all better judgment. This was undoubtedly the action of the captain of the particular ship doing the landing, a Wallace Suthers, for he was an arrogant sod who liked to make an entrance, especially an entrance that would immortalize his name forever.

The ship descended through an opaque layer of cloud in a blaze of glory, all flame and shining metal and roaring noise. It came to rest in the center of the city, a public square of course, decided on after a quick glance by Captain Suthers at photos taken by the discreet imaging probes. The vapor dissipated slowly from around the ship and Suthers stood at the joint from which the exit ramp lowered, preparing himself for his grand entrance as an actor prepares to enter the stage.

After deciding that enough time had passed for the inhabitants to be sufficiently dumbstruck by the awesome display of manpower and ready to be introduced to a perfect specimen of the race, he signaled his men to lower the ramp, and to make sure the fog machine was running, for dramatic effect of course. The ramp hit the ground and he waited just a moment longer, to make his appearance all the more affective, then strolled regally down the slope amidst roiling vapor. He smiled largely and raised his arms, as if welcoming the inhabitants, though the roles should more logically have been reversed. “Hello!” He boomed, “I am-“

And then a bullet, or the alien equivalent of one, entered his brain. It was very unfortunate but the residents of the first intelligently inhabited planet other than Earth that we decided to meet had no desire to meet us.

Or perhaps they simply had instinctively good taste.

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New Flash Fiction: A Wizard's Day Journal

17/10/2014

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It is not often we get to hear about the more humdrum day-to-day aspects of being a wizard, so we are very grateful to Siobhan Gallagher for providing these insights. Siobhan has stories in or forthcoming from COSMOS Online, AE - The Canadian Science Fiction Review, On Spec and Abyss & Apex.

A Wizard’s Day Journal
by Siobhan Gallagher

7:08 AM Started the day with a fresh cup of tea from newly acquired magic talking teapot.

7:22 AM Note to self: Make plans to sell talking teapot (sounds too much like mother).

7:25 AM Enchanted the broom to sweep off the porch.

7:32 AM Called Prince Furnip to inform him that the beautifying potion for his betrothed is ready.

8:40 AM Prince Furnip paid with a check.

8:59 AM Left to go cash Prince Furnip’s check in case it bounces. These royal types are a cheap lot.

9:32 AM Returned to find the broom sweeping the living room carpet. Stupid broom.

9:50 AM Found a spell that should turn the toad princess back into a human. Will try it now.

10:08 AM Apologize to the King and Queen for accidentally killing their toad daughter. Correction: Find an identical toad, and regrettably inform them that the spell was ineffective.

10:40 AM Paid a visit to Jenny the Jinn about some ingredients on back order, and impressed her with a few magic tricks—she really dug it.

11:05 AM Got a call from Jenny. Remember to bring flowers for date tomorrow evening.

11: 35 AM Time for midday cup of tea and conjure up some sandwiches to go with it.

12:02 PM Note to self: Do NOT to use that conjuring spell again. Wasted twenty minutes banishing the sand witches from kitchen. Tea has gone cold.

12:07 PM Had the broom sweep up the mess.

12:22 PM Came back to find the broom had made an even bigger mess.

12:37 PM Failed to disenchant broom.

1:40 PM Bought an axe from local warehouse.

2:40 PM Took an hour to simply chase down and chop the broom up. Tired afterwards.

2:50 PM Must look into using a weaker enchantment for the broom, one that does not duplicate upon broom’s death.

3:15 PM Locked both brooms away for the time being.

3:18 PM Need to buy more pain ointment for bumps on noggin.

3:22 PM Decided to relax to tapes of ocean sounds while in the lounger.

3:48 PM There’s a mewing sound coming from the attic (probably thatbitchwitch neighbor’s cat again). Going to check it out.

4:01 PM Yep, it’s the cat. Shooed cat out but found some odd markings.

4:49 PM After examining the markings, determined it’s some sort of language done entirely through brush (broom?) strokes.

5:10 PM Well I’ll be damned! This brushstroke language came from the enchanted brooms. Seems they’re plotting against me...

5:20 PM Went back downstairs, and found the brooms escaped and were sweeping amuck. The revolution has begun!

5:22 PM Will get rid of the brooms once and for all with a fireball spell.

5:30 PM Called the local fire department.

5:42 PM Called the insurance company and explained that it was bad electrical wiring.

6:18 PM Booked a room at a motel for the night.

7:02 PM Picked up a newspaper and skimmed job listings. Mail room clerk doesn’t sound so bad.

7:10 PM Mother was right all along. Should’ve gone into chiropractics instead of wizardry.

7:48 PM Bought a gallon of beer-flavored ice cream and cried self to sleep.

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New Flash Fiction: George's Pillow

12/10/2014

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Time for more flash fiction, this time from Tennessee-based Gregory Marlow with an unsettling tale about what our bed pillows can get up to while we are asleep! Gregory's short fiction has been published or is forthcoming inThe Mockingbird 2002, Every Day Fiction, Suddenly Lost in Words, Kzine, One Forty Fiction, Robot and Raygun and Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine.

George’s Pillow
by Gregory Marlow

George Ogle was going bald. His wife noticed it first and said gently that he might be getting a little thinner on top. George dismissed her with a condescending grunt. But as the months went by, the fact became increasingly undeniable.

Of course, this is common for middle aged men, but George’s hair loss was not due to stress or excessive testosterone. George was going bald because his pillow hated him.

Early in the pillow’s tenure on George’s bed, it determined that George was an ass. He often spoke briskly to his wife, insulting her and dismissing her opinions. She was a seemingly sweet and lovely woman, and George did not give her the respect she deserved. On top of that, George drooled in his sleep and was very harsh with his ceremonial fluffing of the pillow every night. The pillow decided that George was undeserving of the lush hair that clung to his scalp, and it slowly began plucking them at night as he slept.

At first the pillow was cautious, only extracting one or two hairs a night. But as the weeks went on and George’s asinine tendencies continued, the pillow became more brazen, plucking sometimes as many as twenty hairs a night. It was careful to choose hairs randomly while still clustering in the general male pattern baldness.

The pillow smiled inwardly as George eyeballed his thinning top in the mirror at night. “It must be the stress of the Wilson account,” he said.

“Honey, it is alright. A lot of men thin a little as they age. I think you look handsome,” his wife said.

“Oh, what would you know about stress? All you do is play solitaire all day at work,” he snapped at her. That night the pillow ripped a bold yet satisfying thirty-two hairs from George’s dome.

Over the weeks, the hair loss began to affect George’s daily demeanor. He became increasingly angry and snapped at people without provocation. He was passed over more than once for promotions, and his temper with his wife became even shorter. The pillow also noticed that George was sleeping fitfully, often stirring when the pillow would yank hairs from his head. Instead, the pillow would cling to the hairs so they would detach when George rolled over in his sleep.

Perhaps it was the lack of rest or maybe just fate that caused George to leave the coffee maker on one cold Wednesday morning as he left for work. Of course, George would later blame this on his wife, but the result was the same: a phone call informing him that his house had burned to the ground.

The pillow never woke up.

“I believe my hair is coming back,” George told his wife two months later as they were getting ready for bed in the spare bathroom of his sister’s house. “Maybe now I can go out and get a woman who doesn’t nag me all the time.”

The pillow George’s balding sister lent him overheard the comment.

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New Poetry: inside the room

5/10/2014

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Time for more poetry, this time from Catherine Edmunds who describes herself as "a story-teller who cut-cut-cuts the words until she is left with poems; distillations of story compacted into reflective shapes." We love the punning contemporary cultural references in this piece - it reminds us of John Lennon's In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works. You can follow Catherine on Twitter at @cathyedmunds

inside the room
by Catherine Edmunds

the thirteen stood inside the room
hats knitted together, beards intertwined
and the one they call Lego Yellow
tore open his chest and gave thanks, and brake it,
and gave it unto them, saying – nothing.

he wavered, as one on the edge stole away,
threads unravelling
hands clasped across his baldness in shame

the remaining twelve stood motionless, profiles stern
beards carved in stone, checking their hats again and again
for a sign to set upon the one
to tear him apart, brick by brick
with a click-clickety-click, splatter-crash, tumble-down,
all fall down, all fall down-down, deeper and down

but the blasphemer lay on his bed and wept
saying: ‘Where is Barbie, where’s Melton Mowbray,
where’s Mortimer’s pies? Nay, which is more and most of all, where is the London Planetarium?
They are entombed in the urns and sepulchres of mortality.
And yet let the name and dignity of Lego stand
so long as it pleaseth God.’

and thus was he forgiven, all the while acknowledging
the King James Bible and Sir Ranulph Crewe,
Donovan and the Quo, lest he be accused of Plagiarism
a Sin for which there may be no Remission.

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New Poetry for Halloween !

New Flash Fiction: An Auspicious Introduction ¡

New Flash Fiction: A Wizard's Day Journal

New Flash Fiction: George's Pillow

New Poetry: inside the room

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