tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67973996363930228792024-03-13T10:48:28.192+00:00Flash fiction, microfiction, 50-word stories and short love poems, flash fiction, microfiction, flash poetry, 50 word stories, poetry of love, by Lisa FalzonLisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-31369072430868772482014-07-21T08:47:00.002+01:002014-07-21T08:47:37.653+01:00Follow me thereSeeds from this old tree blew Westwards<br />
and I've taken root in TUMBLR grounds.<br />
<br />
Will you come Sit under my shade there too?<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://flashwounds.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">my new 50 word story blog</a>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-68337150303111365272013-10-07T12:26:00.004+01:002013-10-07T12:28:14.780+01:00September - 50 word story, flash fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wdzoMUJMdCA/UlKZwOI4DtI/AAAAAAAAAnM/1iioVpvMAOo/s1600/september.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wdzoMUJMdCA/UlKZwOI4DtI/AAAAAAAAAnM/1iioVpvMAOo/s1600/september.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">September, 50 word story</span></i><br />
<br />
Our dogs still leap inside that sunset field<br />
Where my soul seldom returns but for September -<br />
<br />
We walked silently through grass of Autumn gold.<br />
'It's cold,' you akwardly insisted,<br />
'Wear my coat'..<br />
<br />
Our dogs played and bounded past us, exuberant, grown bold.<br />
Necking as we ached to, but dared not.Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-85209948096800186222013-05-01T15:13:00.000+01:002013-05-12T18:37:05.863+01:00Sharpest Tool<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2bbmh02dZrE/UYElV2DzVsI/AAAAAAAAAlA/w9A5UNx3X18/s1600/yzjegz7o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="50 word poem" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2bbmh02dZrE/UYElV2DzVsI/AAAAAAAAAlA/w9A5UNx3X18/s1600/yzjegz7o.jpg" title="Sharpest Tool by Lisa Falzon" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I once spent my sharpest tool
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
on poetry.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Had since sworn off being a fool.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But love when you flew in,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
the disdained muse I'd jeopardised</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
returned -</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
my sharpest tool craves exercise.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Now if I could just forsee -<br />Whether you'll become a poem too,<br />
grown to embarass me?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>50 word story (or poem?)</i></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-56847929525052922772013-04-26T11:28:00.002+01:002013-05-01T19:49:31.158+01:00Rotten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pFmJSSkVk4Y/UXpWKYj9CNI/AAAAAAAAAic/MJ5V2uz1KYg/s1600/rotten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="short mean love poem" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pFmJSSkVk4Y/UXpWKYj9CNI/AAAAAAAAAic/MJ5V2uz1KYg/s1600/rotten.jpg" title="10 word story" /></a></div>
<br />
I'd let good, kind people die for rotten little you<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>10 word story. That comma is the akward everything about this I think. </i></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-72886844049279535682012-10-05T13:38:00.003+01:002013-05-01T19:29:03.388+01:00k e r o s e n e <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SrJX9CoeAHk/UG7UOAhZ_NI/AAAAAAAAAZE/PQL_D4yzdEI/s1600/KEROSENEmicrofic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="flash fiction in 50 words" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SrJX9CoeAHk/UG7UOAhZ_NI/AAAAAAAAAZE/PQL_D4yzdEI/s1600/KEROSENEmicrofic.jpg" title="Kerosene" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I smell kerosene my dear,<br />
Have you been burning bridges?<br />
Have you been digging ditches <br />
yanking hatchets, pulling rank?<br />
You've got scratches, burns and stitches<br />
but no enemies to thank <br />
for all these riches. <br />
Because bitcheen -<br />
you've quite outbitched the bitches<br />
And it's your once-friends<br />
upon the other bank.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>artwork and <span style="font-size: x-small;">50 word <span style="font-size: x-small;">poem</span></span> copyright Lisa Falzon</i></span></div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-41700558503522126562012-05-23T21:23:00.002+01:002013-05-01T16:07:41.402+01:00Belling The Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3p0Nnwi5b2M/T71HNcdxO0I/AAAAAAAAAY4/iZUyyISUCjs/s1600/bellingthecat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="flash poetry" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3p0Nnwi5b2M/T71HNcdxO0I/AAAAAAAAAY4/iZUyyISUCjs/s1600/bellingthecat.jpg" title="belling the cat" /></a></div>
<br />
Ding-Ding!<br />
I've put a bell on you, you silly thing.<br />
<br />
My ears prick,<br />
eyes on the door<br />
as you creep up the corridor.<br />
<br />
Now I know to duck,<br />
feign sleep -<br />
so when you come to fuck things up with toothy lies -<br />
you'll find me in disguise<br />
and hidden deep<br />
<br />
<br />
50-word poem by Lisa FalzonLisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-20302746491166203972012-02-14T18:35:00.001+00:002013-05-01T15:45:45.363+01:00Another Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-diOl4KBvogI/TzqpNbU1oxI/AAAAAAAAAYs/DmAFMTFXQAw/s1600/anothersea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="flash fiction" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-diOl4KBvogI/TzqpNbU1oxI/AAAAAAAAAYs/DmAFMTFXQAw/s1600/anothersea.jpg" title="50 word story" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's another stubborn sea<br />
whose pull can sweep my legs from under me -<br />
Waves that steal me from the beach<br />
to drop me where my toes can't reach.<br />
<br />
But being kinder, older, fairer, bolder,<br />
this ocean spares her coldest shoulder.<br />
And lets her current <br />
take me<br />
where you aren't. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">One for Valentine's day, folks...<br />
<br />
50-word-poem and art Lisa Falzon 2012<br />
</span></i>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-57662034879415821662011-12-06T01:40:00.000+00:002013-05-01T16:11:40.679+01:00Doppler Effect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uy9p-5rtlAc/Tt1yXIQRFzI/AAAAAAAAAYk/_6t4UpBQyD4/s1600/DopplerSMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="50 word story Sci Fi" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uy9p-5rtlAc/Tt1yXIQRFzI/AAAAAAAAAYk/_6t4UpBQyD4/s1600/DopplerSMALL.jpg" title="The doppler effect" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2sxXjrkPGT4/Tt1x93BMVVI/AAAAAAAAAYc/nvMWKEhvy8E/s1600/DopplerSMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>
<br />
Your trajectory displays habitual signs -<br />
So dear I've come to know your spectral lines.<br />
<br />
I've learnt you move towards me when you're blue -<br />
with voice so sweet it barely seems like you.<br />
<br />
But then you quicken red and angry are <br />
and shoot past me, so deeply-voiced, my star.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i> 50 word poem Doppler Effect </i>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-14801250105622314252011-11-30T05:29:00.000+00:002013-04-26T10:57:09.463+01:00Fossil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j12qJLBhf7k/TtW-1TtBwNI/AAAAAAAAAYU/a92iy9pPd_4/s1600/fossil_SMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j12qJLBhf7k/TtW-1TtBwNI/AAAAAAAAAYU/a92iy9pPd_4/s1600/fossil_SMALL.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's transparently crystal clear -<br />You razed the early world my dear.<br />When earth belonged to lizard kings,<br />You crashed demolishing all things.<br /><br /><br />'Who grassed,<br />Who was your spy?'<br />you ask in fear, you gasp -<br />'Who spilled the secret of my past?<br /><br />and I reply -<br />It was a little insect dear,<br />trapped in the amber of your eye.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>breakin the mould somewhat... with ten more words than usual, i.e, here's a 60-word poem.</i><br />
<i>Art and writing own work. :)</i>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-9839276806186117442011-11-22T21:50:00.001+00:002013-04-26T11:00:21.440+01:00In Truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Dqbt1fl4Pc/TswMJ-hve_I/AAAAAAAAAYM/Vrb9Cs43V4A/s1600/intruthsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1Dqbt1fl4Pc/TswMJ-hve_I/AAAAAAAAAYM/Vrb9Cs43V4A/s1600/intruthsmall.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In truth, you drew too hard. And your arrow glanced past, went on. Igniting forests, tunnelling mountains, razing cities. Splitting hairs.
One year later and it's circled the world. It closes in on the place it first began.
Drop your bow, raise your arm. Don't look back, don't look ahead. Just look at me.
And for fuck's sake, catch it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>50-word story by Lisa Falzon </i></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-32444677464827376662011-11-02T12:02:00.000+00:002013-05-01T15:46:59.448+01:00Selkie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sY5jNdXUxFw/TrEw_PQn07I/AAAAAAAAAYE/fEVyNSKQ2yk/s1600/selkie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="flash fiction about the sea and selkies" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sY5jNdXUxFw/TrEw_PQn07I/AAAAAAAAAYE/fEVyNSKQ2yk/s1600/selkie.jpg" title="Selkie" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> I caught the scent of fish and realised she'd managed to find her coat. So imagine my shock when I found her not gone but sitting in the armchair, staring ahead, stroking the coat in her lap.<br />I just wanted you to know, she whispered, That I would've stayed anyway.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>50-word story by Lisa Falzon</i></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-92026025270012041662011-08-05T16:44:00.001+01:002013-04-26T11:01:17.286+01:00A thousand whirling dervishes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/1000whirling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aQcJ4dK3K4k/Tqv-KnQsqpI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Kiz1iS9y6GM/s1600/1000whirling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aQcJ4dK3K4k/Tqv-KnQsqpI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Kiz1iS9y6GM/s640/1000whirling.jpg" width="498" /></a></div>
<br />
Last night my wandering hand had chance to linger<br />on the thin skin that connects your thumb and forefinger.<br /><br />And this small touch <br />moved me so much,<br />that in the temples of my heart, where I'd kept the incense burning,<br />a thousand whirling dervishes cocked their heads and began turning.<br />
<br />
<br />
50-word poem by Lisa Falzon<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image source found on the CC on FLICKR, original <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/elainnedickinson">here</a></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-84201483990927470282011-05-23T20:12:00.002+01:002013-04-26T11:02:58.692+01:00Lightly Polluted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YrlsJURivkM/Tqv-s7kDbTI/AAAAAAAAAQE/XJ-tojQQqlk/s1600/lightlypolluted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="387" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YrlsJURivkM/Tqv-s7kDbTI/AAAAAAAAAQE/XJ-tojQQqlk/s400/lightlypolluted.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
He noticed, on leaving her<br />
new house, that one couldn't see the stars as clearly<br />
from this place.<br />
<br />
Light Pollution.<br />
Terraced houses watched her now, not trees.<br />
<br />
He glanced back.<br />
<br />She looked diminished, almost ordinary in her new doorway.<br />
<br />
Perhaps this was the perfect place for falling out of love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">50-word story and photo by Lisa Falzon</span></i>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-64312348270448592792011-05-08T16:14:00.003+01:002013-04-26T11:06:03.538+01:00Pickled<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KI7liAEsgb8/Tqv_G_mOtUI/AAAAAAAAAQM/pLDOka-0aGQ/s1600/pickled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KI7liAEsgb8/Tqv_G_mOtUI/AAAAAAAAAQM/pLDOka-0aGQ/s1600/pickled.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
You may well ignore those promises, steeped as you then were in wine when you made them. <br />
<br />
But bitch I happen to have pickled your words.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I fish them out, these orphan sentences preserved in brine. They sting like tears, but at least you can never eat them now. </div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>50-word-story by me</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Was challenged to write a love-story with the word 'bitch' in it, after I notice how often I use words of endearment in my microfiction. When you consider how every word counts (literally) strong words of love or hate, even just one of them, can change the flavour of these small stories entirely. It's like adding a strong handful of spice to a small pot of brew.</i></span></div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-29509156823017854552011-03-20T00:31:00.004+00:002013-04-28T12:09:34.234+01:00Doppler Effect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k2Awline3XU/Tqv_WT270JI/AAAAAAAAAQU/AgkgLCkJxmM/s1600/dopplereffect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k2Awline3XU/Tqv_WT270JI/AAAAAAAAAQU/AgkgLCkJxmM/s1600/dopplereffect.jpg" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/dopplereffect.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<br />
Doppler Effect<br /><br />Your trajectory displays habitual signs -<br />
So dear, I've come to know your spectral lines.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've learnt you move towards me when you're blue -<br />
with voice so sweet it barely seems like you.<br />
<br />
<br />
But then you quicken red and angry are<br />
and shoot past me, so deeply-voiced, my star.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/dopplereffect.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/dopplereffect.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/dopplereffect.jpg"><br />
</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>'Doppler Effect', 50-word flash poem written March 2011 by Lisa Falzon.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>stock photo, own artwork.</i></span><br />
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-64168336986327145952011-03-07T23:51:00.003+00:002013-04-26T11:15:36.966+01:00his prayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-siMVsspp-I8/TqwAJ7WcBfI/AAAAAAAAAQc/4js-8wNNZfs/s1600/decay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="633" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-siMVsspp-I8/TqwAJ7WcBfI/AAAAAAAAAQc/4js-8wNNZfs/s640/decay.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
He prayed that her bright curls would tarnish,<br />that her lips would lose their varnish,<br />that the iron in her eyes would rust and seal them shut<br /><br /><br />Yet in his gut <br />he knew that long before, he'd flake from lust<br />and turn to dust -<br />exponentially, as his desire <br />grew.<br /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">50 word poem, photo and artwork by Lisa Falzon</span></i></div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-32504480658083423362011-03-07T22:16:00.003+00:002013-04-26T11:56:28.534+01:00Deference<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jlxm4iU8ccE/TqwAUTMmCUI/AAAAAAAAAQk/fToiUNyA3Zc/s1600/deference.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jlxm4iU8ccE/TqwAUTMmCUI/AAAAAAAAAQk/fToiUNyA3Zc/s640/deference.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Through the dark tunnels of her labyrinth<br />
I trudge, draggind my<br />
sack over the flagstones.<br />
<br />
Then I reach her.<br />
<br />She's on her throne, leering, bloated as a leech.<br />
<br />
Kneeling, I offer the sack where<br />
I've laid the very last shreds of<br />
my dignity,<br />
<br />
'My lady,' I whisper<br />
breathlessly,<br />
'Your dinner.'<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/deference.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/deference.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/deference.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/deference.jpg"><br />
</a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>writing and photo/artwork by Lisa Falzon.</i></span></div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-51324330604906453202011-01-26T15:37:00.002+00:002013-04-28T12:10:57.242+01:00Mr. Gale's Tale<div style="text-align: center;">
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<u>Mr. Gale's Tale</u><br /> </div>
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She used to love chasing storms. But that was before she'd been to hospital.<br />Now she leaned her head against the fogged-up window of my jeep in her haze of meds. So I asked Dorothy,<br />"Shall we go?"<br />And she just wrote a sad sideways 'No' on the car window.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;">50-word story, photograph by Lisa Falzon<br />
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Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-17676875678557506462011-01-21T18:17:00.003+00:002013-04-28T12:28:42.526+01:00Predator's Prayer, to Prey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Run gazelle, run<br />for it's no fun<br />to feast <br />on boar or<br />sluggish wildebeest<br />when I can have my long-limbed nimble one.<br /><br />Leap gazelle, leap<br />Oh, my claws will rip you deep<br />yet I won't weep, though you'll then rot -<br />for long after<br />hyena laughter,<br />your memory will keep.<br /><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>50-word poem, artwork etc. by Lisa Falzon</i></span></div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-26154349130090327242011-01-14T00:55:00.001+00:002013-05-01T20:06:44.332+01:00Love like a forest fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9qFI9HUQAZw/TqwBtzfpigI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/55gXQ6nt2jc/s1600/lovelikeaforestfire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="50 word story" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9qFI9HUQAZw/TqwBtzfpigI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/55gXQ6nt2jc/s1600/lovelikeaforestfire.jpg" title="love like a forest fire" /></a></div>
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I sit high up a tree. Below, branches crackle and woodland<br />
creatures crash frantically through the flames.<br />
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Love like a forest fire.<br />
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I clutch my tinderbox quite calmly<br />
though the flames have reached my tree's<br />
roots.<br />
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Because once you'd said you'd leap<br />
through fire for me<br />
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So, little grasshopper. I'm waiting.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>writing and art by Lisa Falzon 2011</i></span><br />
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<br />Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-42493761076938803732011-01-06T18:47:00.003+00:002013-04-28T12:15:14.635+01:00spill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Since the spill she'd had a relapse. The morning it happened, she'd walked in through the double-doors like a somnabulist, carrying the blackened body of a gull. She hugged it, rocking on her haunches, spilling tears while he helplessly watched her, stroking her neck where her gills used to be.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>microfiction by Lisa Falzon</i></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-82480588643012833602011-01-01T21:27:00.004+00:002013-04-28T12:16:20.324+01:00Robin's song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Little Robin,<br />I've such a home in my heart for you! <br />Made of veins which you could pick at when it suits you best.<br />In the dusk-light of my insides, it is cosy in my chest.<br /><br />They tell me it's a tumour but I say no - that's robin's nest.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>www.microfiction.blogspot.com copyright Lisa Falzon 50-word-poem</i></span> </div>
Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-2611925636670786252010-12-29T02:08:00.002+00:002013-04-28T12:23:48.113+01:00Scavenger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Spotting blood spatters on the snow,<br />
I thought of you.<br /><br />Looked up and saw you<br />
hunched in the<br />
branches, clutching carrion.<br />
Licking your lips.<br />
Watching me.<br />
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Judging me a tad too green.<br />
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I heard you had n apetite. Surely you have room for one more carcass?<br />I'm hoping to die soon.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">50-word-story, photo/art/text own.</span></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-4094542612859272482010-12-29T00:36:00.002+00:002011-10-29T15:02:41.205+01:00One of those days..<a href="http://www.lisa-falzon.com/50/inconvenience.jpg"></a><br />
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50 word story/art, own.Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797399636393022879.post-45310547247650083302010-12-28T18:00:00.006+00:002013-04-28T12:29:46.453+01:00Believer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">They tell me you don't exist. All they see is this cold blue sea. But I know better because, see, I've met you before. So I sit waiting on the freezing sand. Like a fool, perhaps. I wait for you to emerge, trailing kelp and oyster pearls. My favourite monster.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">50-word-story, photo/art/text own.</span></span>Lisa Falzonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02006948646900698049noreply@blogger.com2