Flash Fiction No. 80

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Fallen Dreamers

A myriad of words, tangled together like cotton. This was his poetry. The pages curled, feathering his nest.

I stepped across the white papers, bare feet rustling the remnants of his cut off wings.

Blood on my lips. His blood. I’d never tasted an angel before, but he certainly wasn’t an angel. Not now. Dark hair curved over my shoulder, slinking against naked flesh, as I cast him a gentle backwards glance.

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#Nightgale Flash Fiction 4 of 4

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“But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retarts: Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,”
– Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)

Writing is Immortality

The cursor on the screen still blinked, the story now finally inked. Centuries later, she’d put pen down to paper, her guilt now finally in print.

The agent on the phone, to the writer unknown, outlined a few edits to the tale, but all were spoken to no avail. The writer was adamant that not a detail lay dormant of the truth she had harboured too long.

If only she hadn’t done that which was wrong.
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#Nightgale Flash Fiction 2 of 4

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“Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?… No voice from sublimer world hath ever, To sage or poet these responses given – Therefore the name of God and ghosts and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour”
– Shelley (Hymn To Intellectual Beauty)

Immortality Comes To You, You Do Not Go To Immortality

Her lips like rosebuds slumbered dead, and yet they whispered all filled with dread a bleating warning to his ear, a phantom rumour filled with fear. “I ask you not to take from her the crimson nectar that you prefer–”
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#Nightgale Flash Fiction 1 of 4

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“That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim”
– Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)

Through Hemlock

The forest clamoured with ghostly light, filtered through the broken boughs and slinking in the phantom fog, whereupon he supped the bittersweet taste of darkened memory. White flowers clustered close to his dream dazed head, poisoned stars in his forest bed.

Barefoot in mirthful mind she danced, a figment of his stupor advanced.
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