She carries
ten limestones
to the ocean,
each wrapped
in vine leaves,
and throws one
every minute,
counting the
seconds
between.
Today
it takes
seven
before he
crawls
from the water –
slimy,
salty,
steaming
in the sun.
His arms
are green
with algae
but all she needs
is his kiss.
Mark Farley writes novels, flash fiction and the occasional poem.
Our once-glorious team faded into obscurity. The fans faded too – dwindling from solid, to transparent, to mere shadows in the air. Now, sitting alone in the stands, I couldn’t see them at all.
“Why’s he still here?” whispered a nearby voice.
“Perhaps he’s not as devoted,” came the muttered reply.
Mark Farley is writing the autobiography of a tree dragon named Crimble.
Mum came to stay the day after her funeral. She was waving from the doorstep when I returned with the groceries. I carried her suitcase into the hall then set a place for her at the dining table, beside the ghost of my father.
Neither of them enjoyed the meal.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse. His story Knight of the Rocks has been published by Old Words Home.
Hunt them in dark castles or the bedrooms of virgins.
Dispatch with a blunt instrument. Avoid the heart.
Hang the meat high.
Allow to drain for three days. Do not let it near sunlight.
Salt well.
Slice with a silver carving knife. Serve immediately.
Burn the clothes.
Keep the fangs.
Mark Farley is currently enjoying trying to write a 50-word bio but suspects he may miscalculate. He loves writing short stories and has been lucky enough to see his work appear in several flash fiction magazines. He blogs his creative writing at mumbletoes.blogspot.com and often wishes he was better at poetry.
I try to be patient but it’s tough. He often forgets who I am.
And he’s acting more peculiar than ever. Last week he made a caterpillar walk on the rim of his teacup. Said it’d go on for years if you just set it straight once in a while.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Only 7,000 to go; please wish him luck! See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
Jack glanced around the office. As usual, everyone – including the cute girl from finance – was ignoring him.
Photocopiers hummed, water coolers bubbled. Jack took a deep breath and typed:
Mum, I’m sorry, I can’t cope any more. Goodbye forever.
Then he hit ‘send’ and walked away from his boss’s keyboard.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com) is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
The day after my exam results, Dad took me to the beach. He showed me how even the flattest, smoothest stone – skimmed over a perfectly calm sea – could stumble and trip beneath a sudden wave. And how any rock, pitched directly into the ocean, could make rainbows in the spray.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com) is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
The raindrops on the window look like tears.
Ava says, “Daddy, the house is crying.”
“It’s not, dear,” I promise, gathering the last of our bags from the room where her mother fought so hard.
But as the removal van pulls away, I look back and wonder if she’s right.
Mark Farley (mumbletoes.blogspot.com) is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
“Ready?” I ask my brother.
Uncomfortable in his tail suit, he fiddles with his collar.
He took me fishing, once. The fish ignored his line but leapt into the air for a fly. They jumped thoughtlessly into a strange world, confident of falling back safe to where they could breathe.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!