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Let the good things roll in! by Les Stephenson

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*Column Editor - Les Stephenson*
 

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Let the good things roll in!

 

 

Our adorable Chief Editor, Lea Schizas, has asked for poetry and flash fiction to be submitted to my column. I’ve received none!

 

Assuming that readers of The Muse Marquee may be unsure what poetry or flash fiction looks like, I’ve decided to include examples of each in this month’s edition. 

 

This is a poem:

 

Lament for a Poet

 

The poet forlorn was a sorry figure
Abandoned by those he had known.
They jeered at his speech and cursed:
What good are your words in the field?
Can we hitch them to the plough?
Do they trap us meat or catch a fish?
They do not fight or stop the marauder

Who comes at night to steal and kill!

 


A fine gift he had, although it hid,
And most unfair that torrent of abuse.
His ego deflated and confidence gone,
He abandoned his pen and lost his way.
Unrecognised and unused, his words

He cursed and let them wither,
Sadly veiled, rejected and despised,

Until death arrived by his own hand.

 


But, precious words lived after he left,
Found within the memory of another:
A phrase had painted a waterfall;

A clause became a forest glade;
Sentences soared over rolling hills;
With a glowing verse to catch the sun.
Rainbows shone in images of delight
Unjustly forbidden during his earthly life.

 

 

Les Stephenson  2004

 

However, poems can vary in length, style, and so many other ways. See Hetty Nassau-Austen’s “The Rudiments of Poetry” in the November 2005 edition.

 

 

This is flash fiction:

 

A Question of Choice

 

“Ask her. Remind her the festival’s next week. They all give in.”

 

Toulo nodded at the wisdom of Poro’s words.

 

He approached Bouka as she worked in the village garden.

 

“Bouka, you know I love you. Let’s do it now.”

 

“No Toulo, we’re too young. I want to wait.”

 

“Wait? You’re thirteen, the same age as me. The festival’s soon.”

 

She acquiesced, and he led her down the garden path.

 

Festival day arrived. All morning people celebrated with song and dance. Games were played and feasts devoured.

 

At mid-afternoon, King Hau’Ofa IV appeared on the cliff above the shoreline. Merriment ceased. The tribe’s shaman approached him leading an unattractive, dumpy girl who looked about eleven years old.

 

“That child seems too young for the ceremony!”

 

“No, Great King, she’s reached puberty, but is small for her age. I could find no other suitable maiden.”

 

“Why do the sacrificial virgins look younger and less attractive each year?” asked the king.      

 

Les Stephenson 2006

 

However, flash fiction can vary in length, genre, and so many other ways.  See my column entitled “Flash Fiction” in the February 2006 edition.

 

 

This is a promise:

 

Send in your submissions of poetry and flash fiction – they will be considered for publication in The Muse Marquee. We exist to help and inspire aspiring authors.

 

Now I’ll wait with for your submissions. Let the good things roll in.

 

Les Stephenson  2006