In our third hour,
Father left us
to the nurses
while Mother slept.
At home, he played
his guitar,
then fixed it
to the stairwell –
wood on wood,
lacquer on varnish,
screwed in
tight.
Now Mother aligns
the tuning pegs,
wipes away dust,
but every string
is brittle and
slack.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse.
“It’s been on my mind forever and if I don’t ask I’ll explode please don’t crush me though let me down gently and we’ll pretend it never happened here goes will you go on a date with me okay forget I spoke there’s no need to say n—”
“Yes.”
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. Find him on Twitter or his blog.
Contrary Carl is the world’s most annoying housemate.
He opens the closets,
stands in the sitting room,
works in the playroom,
plays in the workshop,
parks on the driveway,
wears shorts in the pantry,
and keeps his mistress in the master bedroom.
So I locked him in the living room.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction, and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
The lonely widower broke into abandoned houses. Careful overnight work pulled lines of wallpaper down whole. Safely home, he hung them up and rested his forehead against them—breathing memories of crayon scribbles, the height charts of those who’d grown, and frames of lost portraits burned by the fading sun.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Married to her prince at last, Cinderella was presented with a glass crown, in honour of her famous slipper. A week later, after the courtiers had laughed merrily at gifts of a glass throne, a glass dining table, and a matching set of glass cutlery, Cinders bought herself a sledgehammer.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem. See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
We heard the fire engine arrive just as my kids finished their BBQ food and grabbed their dessert.
“It’s the house across the street!” yelled my neighbour.
We all rushed from the garden to stare in shock. The firemen didn’t look impressed. Maybe marshmallows on sticks were a bad idea.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
After her mother’s untimely cremation, the witch pulled down their gingerbread house. In its place she built a new home, using slices of turnip for the roof tiles, runner beans for floorboards, and stems of cauliflower for the walls. No child, she was sure, would ever again bother their family.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Grandpa put his old couch on the driveway and added a huge sign, propped up on the faded paisley cushions:
Free! Please take!
Two days later, the couch hadn’t moved and the forecast threatened rain. Grandpa changed the sign:
Couch: $100
In less than an hour, the couch had vanished.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
A merman wearing a seaweed waistcoat burst from the water and landed in our gondola, showering us with spray.
“Marry him, you idiot!” he yelled, then dived back into the canal.
Drenched and bewildered, Mary nodded weakly as I got down on one knee for the second time that day.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction, and the occasional poem. Find him on twitter at @mumbletoes.
Being a toll troll was taxing, in all senses of the word. Many refused to pay the copper penny he demanded for essential bridge maintenance. Eventually he decided to start threatening people with a club.
Now, three billy goats were approaching.
This time he was determined to get his due.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.