Flash in the Pan

A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights


by Kate Willens

My son whistles when what goes on inside him moves faster than what happens outside and so the body throws out exclamations of frustration designed as flutey tones. Tones the world is full of. For all silence is marked and broken by human exclamation. Marks to say "happy," "bold," "now," "go," "I've done it!" But to say the opposite— to plume the interior is there a sign? And so he throws out one: "Hurry, world! I invite you in! Dust me off! Mind me now!" or "If I am not fast enough to meet what is coming from the outside, I throw a rhythmic pattern of sounds as if to say, ‘I know I lag behind, but I'm coming.'" Perhaps each star is a punctuation marking the empty void. Darts flung to decorate the night, and the whistling my son does is the same. Only in this world we can't move fast enough to see the sounds we make.

Kate Willens, Sebastopol, California

Fifth Flash

Hold by Barbara Spicer
Smell Of Rubber by Tony Johnson
The Sins Of The Father by Glenn Mccrea
Drawn To The Light by Suzanne R. Thurman
Le Pilier (the Pier) by Julian Lindemuth
River by Leslie Curchack
Party Time by Viola Hargadine
Rules by Terry Law
New Moon by Diane Larae Bodach
We Don't Talk About It by Amy Zimmer
Hearing Colors by Armand Gelpi

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