100-Word Fiction: ‘The Red Dust’

The red dust came from desert skies
sanded the paper and screens of the press

caught in the eyes of conspiracy freaks
piled up the stress of Western dreams

grazed the feet of measured prose
stormed the sounds of drum and song

covered the rows of memorial crosses
and all their long-remembered losses

tickled the wings of the watching hawks
scratched the surveillance camera’s lens

scuffed the talk of the innocent doves
rendered pretend what might have prevailed

as it landed deep on these shores, here –
striking home to avenge what we began before
striving vainly to settle foreign scores

100-Word Fiction: ‘Red Thread’

Was there a time before the freedoms that still endure, before the storms that swept the sands, where what we watched unfold bore some resemblance to reality?

Once, I think, after the first of the degradations had been suffered, we still imagined the aimless orbit of missiles around the void of an ethical centre.

Not now. No signs refer to an external model any more. They stand for nothing but themselves and refer only to other signs.

The no-fly zones are full of jetplanes. Red tracer fire stitches the sky like thread in blue jeans. Meaning is out of sight.