100-Word Fiction: ‘The Gyre’

I looked at the silver mud along the banks of the river. A month ago it was filled with birds. You could see them scurrying even at night. Now they have gone. The seasons are changing and the mud is becoming bare. The gulls’ heads are taking on their summer colour. It’s as if the dunlins never happened. But they will be back. All of life succumbs to the gyre. Once we accept it, we can begin to make predictions, begin to understand the pleasures and the horrors that are as yet out of sight.

The guns were silenced yesterday.

100-Word Fiction: ‘If Just Once Those Birds’

If just once those birds
That scatter snow from the tall tree –
Its branches shaken from white to green
By whirled circles on the wing –
Would cross to us and feed

If just once those birds
Would cease from flailing
And flashing their colours
To the phosphorescent sky
And be still

If just once those birds,
As the yellow lamps
Light to stain the day,
Would linger and tread
Our path

If once those birds
Would trust
Our nails and wood
And feeding cage

If those birds
Suffered the troubles
We went to

If those birds
Saw humans
In snow

100-Word Fiction: ‘The View From Here’

He was looking over the treetops, across the plains. The view from the roof was incredible. It was evening and everywhere was bathed with a brownish hue. He wanted to stay up there for ever. Let it rain; he didn’t care. The kids were asleep in the corner, covered by a blanket of plastic sheeting. Somewhere down in the brown was the rest of his family. When he last saw his uncle a week ago, the old man was clinging to a post as the torrents tried to drag him under. Now the birds were singing again. God was everywhere.