Flash Fiction: Ritual

Today it’s #FridayFlash time, and here is a 120-word piece, entitled Ritual:

Andy wakes up, a quick dash to the bathroom, toothbrush, cold water on his face, then back. Wardrobe opens, slick suit out and on. Business swoosh though bedroom. Therefore, inappropriate.

Margaret flips the eggs, flops them in the plate. Juice in the glass, ice cubes rattle. Soft sounds and smells of the kitchen. Totally suitable.

Suddenly, the building is rocked by the shock of the waterjets attacking it. No, no waterjets, they are waves. The word is tsunami, the cause is earthquake deep in the ocean, far off shore. So many small items crashed, floating, broken, floating through kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms. Floating. People scream, float, fight the stream, float, get lost.

Sounds, smells, movements – all in strict observance of their ritual.


It is not unusual for people for get smudged while running away from their own day. Here is my Smudged poem.
28 to Create, Day 23 – Smudges

Image by Noise-Less
Image by Noise-Less

left on my cheek
or on my left arm
that brushed against the dusty wall
when I hurried round the corner
to run away

Smudges woke me
tingling on my forehead
making me aware
and uncomfortable,
feeling dirty
and stale
for the dust
I brushed off that corner.

The corner that helped me
hide from embarrassment.

© 2014, soulmary
Note: Featured image by Noise-Less at DeviantArt

Grass, so purple and tall…

September Heights #16 – Grass 

A purple meadow still

with wishes; loud with laughter;

past and present dream. 


Lie down and let the

grass so tall cover your sky

Heart goes with the breeze.

© 2012 soulmary

just saying

I will not write anymore.


PS. Because it is completely pointless and does not bring me the satisfaction it used to.

Satin Saturdays, BANG-BANG!

Shooting Saturday

Sitting there in the sun, she felt her mind was void. At last! Spring has come, and the chestnuts along the boulevard had bloomed white and tippy like candles. Tiny white and yellow daisy-likes spotted the green wetness of the grass. The weather was still cool with spring freshness and tender with sunlight.

She looked at the large thermometer on top of the adjacent building. She had to wait till the clock gave way to the temperature. 23. Closing her eyes, she remembered the nights she had stared at the same bleak building top and seen the devastating -9 glowing nefarious red.

She had always wanted to spend time like this. So, whenever she managed, that was bliss.

“Oh, good life, ha?” screeched an unpleasant voice near her. “How are you doing, baby? Hardly working or working hard? Which one is it this time?”

She looked up at the newcomer and forced a wry smile.

“You know I don’t like you when you smile like that.”

She dared say nothing. This conversation used to have its unfolding. “Like what?”, she would ask. “Like you are mocking me.” he would say with a fierce grin. He hit her several times as an ending of this very conversation. One of the times she spent a week in hospital and a month not able to work properly. Of course, he made her. Only, it hurt too much. That was how this conversation was never led again.

“Are you visually-impaired or what?” he said maliciously.

“Why?” her voice trembled at the vision of the coming tornado.

“Can’t you see the gentleman over there?” he pushed her hard in the gentleman’s direction.

“You said I could be off today. It’s Saturday.” she mumbled unconfidently.

“I said, did I?” he screeched again. “Well, you’d better focus on what I do, than on what I say. For I say a lot of things, you know.”

She didn’t move.

 “Com’on”, he urged her.

Sitting there in the sun, she felt her mind go blank. “BANG!” the shot echoed across the sleepy afternoon neighbourhood.

She could go back to her satin dreams again.


© 2012 Mariya Koleva

peace in my heart

am writing of the peace in my heart

that has not come yet;

am writing

believing that

I only haven’t seen it come

for it is there –

a permanent resident


© 2012 Mariya Koleva