Skip to main content

Lie over this Earth

"Lie over this Earth" is a micro-fiction in the form of a prose poem, written by Scottish author Russell Cavanagh.

Slapped senseless day one then swaddled in sleep, do you know who, what, why, when or where you dream?

    Come many, come many, come many, come one to a realm that sits beyond hell unseen, where snakes shake hands dipped in pockets of poison.

    And under the milk sky a brass band play tacit, and even a poet forgets to write.

    To understand how truth sits above our received wisdom, see the prince of the power of the air spin his lie over this earth.

    He knows your days here number no more than a breath.




CC BY-ND 4.0 Russell Cavanagh

 

2 Corinthians 4:4 (KJV)

4 In whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine unto them. 


Labels:

Popular posts from this blog

Arbiter of taste

Tim "The longer I'm in this game the more I realize that quantity ≠ quality," moaned Sue, combing her close-clipped nails through short gelled hair, taking care neither to stain her Dior neckerchief nor smear her Holland Cooper tweed jacket.      "Doesn't it depend on context though, on what your criteria are, or do you just mean poor writing skills?" said Tim, eir sperm-donating partner.      "It's a bunch of stuff," said Sue, "such as reliance on tedious tropes, purple prose, not checking spelling or grammar, being utterly unaware of filters and redundancies ... and all the bloody rest."      "Talking about a specific project?"      "These people seem to think it's OK to type whatever comes into their heads then send it in as if it's worthy of serious consideration," she complained. "It wears me down."      "But surely the work of a commissioning editor fundamental...
READ THE WHOLE STORY »

Audio reading of my story "Obituary"

Read along while you listen to Canadian story-reader Heather Sherman's treatment of my slice-of-life flash-fiction  Obituary : 😎 The original story, as written: Doob was a soak who drank alone at his regular barstool in his local, where today the dark interior contrasted with a warm sunlit afternoon outside. He had extended his lunchtime drinking, skipped returning to work, had told his employer he would be out of the office to follow up an unspecified list of potential new prospects.      Donald O'Brien hated his job, hated his life.      Looking straight ahead he saw himself nursing his whisky and beer in the mirror sat behind the optics. This ritual he would repeat until, probably some time mid-evening, he would stagger back to the empty home he no longer shared with his wife.      Now well into his early thirties, Doob's hair had thinned and jowls were becoming noticeably pronounced. The creased suit he wore was just as sha...
READ THE WHOLE STORY »

Oh my ...

The barmaid stole a glance at my wedding ring as I picked up the two pints then gave me an enigmatic smile. She was a looker for sure, no pun intended.      "It was Alice suggested the Canny Man," I told my friend Jimmy as we turned to look for a free table. "She's got her sister and some friends coming round for a girlie night in and wanted me out of the house."      Jimmy laughed. "Of all the people, Ross," he said, "I never reckoned you to be one for getting hitched and settling down."      "No, me neither," I said, fingering the shiny silver band gracing my third finger, still light-headed after the recent event.      "Alice is a nice lady, you're a lucky man," he said. I believed him.      We went on to discuss other topics, such as the state of the world, updates on what mutual friends were up to, memories from our time together at college, the usual. Beer and conversation both...
READ THE WHOLE STORY »