‘The Return’ (micro-fiction in progress)

I’ve recently decided to dabble in micro-fiction to prepare for an ‘Experiments in Fiction’ 10 week placement for the MA in Creative Writing I am currently studying.

This is the first draft of a micro-fiction piece I have been recently attempting to write, entitled ‘The Return’:

Alone in the dying heat we lie on the hood of the car that is not truly ours. I stare above at hushed stars, beyond remembering how they used to show me the visions of our future and I feel her next to me. She reaches for my hands, her back arching as, bit by bit, she steals a deep breath from the darkness, and my fingers acquiesce. She stares forward at everything I am, her impossibly teal irises animate with the radiance of a dreamer reborn, and I feel her gaze siphon the soul from inside of me. We bathe in the brook; our souls unbodied, our clothes undressed and tonight we return to ourselves.

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Y Cymoedd

Following on from the same thematic elements of the last entry, this piece Y Cymoedd (or, The Valleys) is a reaction to the incorrect realities that have been edited into one hour slots for the post-watershed ‘entertainment’ hounds.

 

Y Cymoedd

Wolves in sheep’s clothing pull the wool over our eyes,

an engineered existence, verity excised.

These are the tales from the closed mines told by closed minds.

 Just because I’ve got my tits out

does he think he’s getting some?

Nye’s legacy cauterized as television is Tredegarized.

.

Inspired immorality, idols left rotting.

Our forefather’s fights; fought fiercly but forgotten.

Faceless axemen greelight the world’s ammunition.

Fucking guns? The only shooting I want to do

is my load on her tits.

Furore catalysed as we are sensationalized.

.

Heritage coughs bile in our failure to expose

the low-cut top revolution, wits decompose into

Putresecent princesses, repugnant rogues in vogue.

 I was staring at his balls

and thinking fuck, they’re massive.

The sad clock frowns from her tower as we are ostricized.

This is Our Truth

This was the first in a series of poems that I submitted from a collection that I am currently building, tentatively entitled From the Closed Mines, By Closed Minds, in which I am endeavouring to portray the depth and (sometimes) harsh reality of Valleys life.

This is Our Truth

So far as I am concerned we are lower than vermin.

Everything is changing everywhere, expanse into nothing.

They built a bypass to forget about us.

What was once a childhood haunt is a kaleidescope of broken and burnt wood,

an unmended meld of wasted livelihood and forgotten men.

A reminder of who we were.

What we were.

.

This town is concentrated with frozen memories and false ideals.

The hills close us in but I long to escape.

Loose lips spill utterances of Paki shop poofters, Chinkys and Japs;

the nameless hands.

Reminders of who we are.

What we are.