The Runt by Mark Tulin

Also appears in Virtual Library.

When I was a selfish little runt,

it was all about me.

It didn’t matter who I insulted,

what person I bothered.

Because I denied the fact

that I could make people cry.

I denied that I could do

an innocent person harm.

Now looking back,

those hurtful memories

return to me

like a smack in the face,

a boot in the ass.

It is my turn to feel the pain

from a selfish little runt

whose words burn in time.

©️mft

Flash Fiction Link: Imported from Spain

When Miles arrived at work, the office staff greeted him with funny looks, some were either giggling or bent over in laughter. He checked the fly of his pants, rubbed his mouth thinking that a part of the donut was stuck to his beard.

Excerpt from Imported from Spain on Friday Flash Fiction (Longer Stories).

Poem: Composition Book

My mother threw out my poetry
when I was fifteen,
just like that,
no apologies
given.

She made sure
that the trash truck
ground-up all my emotions
in all those lined pages
of a marble composition notebook.

She wanted to prevent me
from writing down
all my romantic notions
and teenage secrets.

She believed nothing good
could come of telling the truth,
and that expressing pain
and vulnerability
were dangerous.

It’s better to contain
misery and disdain
in private, she said.
Then you won’t get hurt.

That was when I lived at home,
now I don’t have to suppress
what I feel anymore
or be so overly protected.

I’m free to fill up as many
marble bound notebooks
with poems of blood and tears
without being taken
from a mother in fear.

©️mft