“An alien?”

“That’s right.”

“But you’re an insect!”

“Yeah, here on your planet we are.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed. And we’re closer than you think.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Ha! I mean our flying saucers can be very small at times. Obviously.”

But how come you speak English?”

“I don’t. My language is called Zdunztadi. Just seems to sound exactly like English.”

“Well good job you guys aren’t like, you know, giant size, eh!”

“Ah, well, I was coming to that. Fortunately, by tapping into electricity running through electrical wires we are able to revert to our natural size.”

“But you eat leaves, right?”

“Right. Among other things.”

For Friday Fictioneers, steered by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields — photo prompt by Miles Rost


patchwork of greens
sudden explosions and napalm
craters of brown

The United States unleashed a secret carpet bombing campaign on this country for nearly a decade, dropping 260 million cluster bombs — the most heavily bombed country in history, with more than 2.5 million tons of munitions during 580,000 bombing missions — equal to a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day, for 9 years — more than all bombing by all belligerents in World War II, or 210 million more bombs than were dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1998 and 2006 combined.

Of 75 million bombs…


I hesitate to use the word difficulties. Let’s just say intricacies. Most people simply have no idea, you see, of the intricacies involved in being a serial killer. The intricacies of committing atrocities! Ha! Yes, one does need a sense of humour in this endeavour.

This time, I am arriving by ship. Unfortunately for those well-meaning FBI guys this means I am on no plane list. Tut tut. Missed me again.

What my dear? I am so sorry dear readers, I forgot to introduce my next cadaver. Indeed: not even off the boat yet. My my, what haste, I hear you say! So be it. I do love that sound…

For Friday Fictioneers, presented in style by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Photo by Na’ama Yehuda


“I am a country girl,” she said, and she lived on the second largest island of Estonia. She reminded me of a woman I knew, who came from a country a few steps south. But her eyes were greener than the Caribbean.

The second largest island in Estonia is called Hiiumaa, and is a beacon of golden lights from it’s carefully placed lighthouses, and her blue eyes sparkled as she drew back her bright blond hair.

Still I remembered the love of my life in earlier times, even as the girl from Hiiumaa lit up her face with another smile. Just as well the national flower of Estonia is the deep blue cornflower, found scattered among the meadows that breach the forests up against the many beaches of Hiiumaa island.

And still I dreamt of Carribean green.

flowers—
not all scented
with memories


Those flurry of giggles often break out after a few moments of surpressed silence: mouths covered by hands, the wives, girlfriends and passerbys politely glance as we line up; the runners, and I.

The giggles are only the briefest of flurries, though, as this is eastern Europe, where nudity is celebrated as virtuous and natural. This, after all, is the true home of the monokini and briefest of male speedo briefs. Both are a layer more than most wore along the northern sea beaches of the ex-state of East Germany, where nudity was seen as a political statement of freedom…


A troiku about love, spring and the nature of things:

she sits nude
carressed by fallen blossoms
ripe cherry a soft dream

she sits nude
fingers brushing full nipples
her legs sliding open

carressed by fallen blossoms
desire strong under sturdy bough
her hand drifting downwards

ripe cherry a soft dream
her tender touch on moistened flower
parted lips tasting sunlight


In a garden tamed by years of cropping and tweaking, roses stand out. But it is on the roadside that the rose is at it’s most powerful, singular, evocative and capable of taking you, alone, just by it’s presence, down another path: memory lane.

One is walking, until the scent is caught, briefly, quickly, delicately. Then the scent becomes dream, nostalgia and the rose appears, fragile like cherry blossoms, with paper-thin petals.

One warm summer I walked the Yorkshire Moors, in Brönte country, when even on sunny days the windswept atmosphere remains moody. …


I was in on the street in Bristol, England, and bumped into Chris Bonington. For some, maybe many, that sentence means little.

For me, it meant my childhood flittered through my eyes. Chris Bonington was a hero of my school years — as were his team members, those who survived, and their books were where I lived most of my years as a boy, then teenager.

I followed Bonington’s mountain climbing expeditions, usually to the Himalayas, and often to Mt Everest, or Qomolangma , with an avidity and passion I no longer have in me.

I used to compare his…


What is thought?

Is it more important to only listen than to question?

To ask why is to search for rationale, but is to not ask to show empathy? Language can only exist when it is imparted, and yet at that very moment it is no longer the domain of the imparter, but of the interpreter.

Therefore the one who receives is also the one who conceives.

Feelings should be separate from emotion.

There is something lost in all language between two persons. Without trust, purpose, significance, sincerity, any questions for understanding is meaningless.


A Siberian Rhapsody

she said “goood!’’ as if it had
three ‘o’s in

and said “oh!’’ when
ice fell down her neck
and melted within

under a fir tree she waited
“I vant to see the vorld vis you”
she said, snowflakes on red lips

and she sighed and I replied
‘’you are a vonderful voman’’

entwined she tasted of wine
fresh from the vine

and I lost my accent in hers
melting in memory of a
varm kisssss vis five ‘sssss’s

forestbather

—a view from a peak is earned by a climb, a night in the desert gives the best sleep, and stories are found deep in forests 🌲 ainstarlingsson@protonmail.ch

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