Very Short Stories and Poetry

As well as novel writing, I have become a big fan of very short stories and poetry. I find that the discipline of writing something every day, no matter how short, how quickly imagined, keeps the brain active and creative. Using the prompts provided by #VSS365 (big shout out to those guys and the amazing bunch of creatives that follow them), I have been posting my work on X and Instagram for around three years. Laterally, I've also started posting some of my stuff on Bluesky.

I don't like to think too much about what I post, preferring to look at the word and take any inspiration that comes to me. It is perhaps a reflection on my subconscious that much of my work revolves around themes of time, loss, frustration and injustice - sometimes anger. Some link directly to my own life experiences - the deaths of my dad and my wife's grandpa in particular - while others reflect a more general sense that the world is not as it should be. There are a few glimmers of hope and cheer, though usually laced with a little bitterness. It is the way I am, I guess.

I've curated a few of my favourites below - some slightly changed (hopefully improved) since the original post. I hope you like them.

For Dad

First up, a short poem I wrote for my old dad who died in 2023. His death was quite sudden, and a huge shock to his family who loved him so much. I had tried to write about Dad for months but my attempts usually came out bitter, angry and hurt. Sometimes, my words turned on myself. I don't suppose they were easy reads for the poor people of Twitter. Several months on and this one came out softer, more reconciled with the idea of his passing. The clouds reference was due to the fact Dad was a weather man early in his career and he took that love of the weather through his life. My brother and I still reminisce about how he got us through our geography exams with the way he explained the weather.

For Papa

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I wrote this short poem in response to the prompt "maw". Continuing on the morbid theme of death, it is a tribute to my wife's dear grandpa Ernest, who I had just found out had passed away at the age of 102. He was a wonderful old gentleman. A veteran of World War II, devoted husband, dad and Nottingham Forrest fan. The buttermints are a reference to a joke we shared in the family in his later years that he would go through packets and packets of the things every week - and that they were the things keeping him alive! I was on a bus to Birmingham when I heard, feeling terrible that I couldn't be with my wife to comfort her, and this was the only think to do to make things any better. I texted it to my wife and said maybe it would be too soon to show her dad. She decided he would want to see it and so he did. He loved it, though it made hime cry.

For E

I am not really one for rhyming poetry - can't seem to make them sound right. This one is cheesy AF (as the kids say!) but, hey, isn't that exactly what love poetry is meant to be? I've been with my wife for the best part of 27 years and we are still going strong. We've been through everything together and I genuinely cannot think of facing life without her by my side to share everything with. This is definitely the first poem I ever wrote "for" someone. It is a strange experience - putting yourself out there to someone you care about - someone you know would never want to hurt your feelings by telling you your words are rubbish. But it made her smile and that is the most important thing.

Under wapping wall

This piece was inspired by a night out with my very best friend at a pub on the Wapping Wall in London. He told me the story of the execution dock where pirates were hung by nooses for 3 tides to make sure they were dead. The dancing is based on the fact that, in going this way, the bodies of these poor wretches would spasm and jerk as if they were dancing as they expired. Gruesome, but true. The last line is my attempt at satire.

Tick Tock

This is an observation based on a feeling really. Written while on a cold drizzly train station platform on the way to work. I think we can all relate to the feeling of anomie that it tries to inspire, reflected in the muffled sounds we hear when cut off from the world by headphones. And the sense of time passing as we try to get somewhere for a particular time.

It Wiznae Me

Finally, a bit of imagination from the word "chore". I like to hear the voices I use when I write anything and I can clearly visualise the character that is saying the words in this poem. I enjoyed using the prompt in an unusual way (chore=stole) alongside the other uses of the scots vernacular I grew up with. I hope you like it.

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