A big thank you to editor Manuela Timofte for publishing my latest dark Micro-Fiction, Between States.
Please do take a few minutes to have a look at all the wonderful poetry and prose on offer. Gobblers is a real gem of a site.
Read: HERE!
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
A very big thank you to all the good folks at House of Arcanum for including my flash fiction, CHERRY, in their very first issue.
Here’s to wishing them all the success in the world with their latest endeavour.
Read for free here: CHERRY
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
A big thank you to the editors of ScribesMICRO for including my Drabble, ‘The Swimmers’ in their latest issue: Issue 44.
Author’s note: Drabbles are a great way to hone your editing skills. Write a very short story and then dissect every word and abbreviation down to the requirement of ‘give or take’ a hundred words. A really straightforward way to become succinct. Give it a go.
As always, thank you for reading.
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Please find the link to my latest post, ‘She Wept’ for the fantastic Gobblers & Masticadores website.
As always, a big thank you to editor Manuela Timofte for publishing my work.
Here: She Wept
Do have a look at the rest of the site, as it is filled with wonderful poetry and prose.
Thank you for reading
Richard
A big thank you to editor, Manuela Timofte, for publishing my latest poetry post on the wonderful Gobblers and Masticadores site.
As always, I would encourage anybody who reads my work to take a long, quiet stroll through all the fantastic poetry and prose pieces on the site. It never disappoints.
Read Here: I IMAGINED HER ONCE
Thank you for reading
Richard
Forgive me if I write this note in blood, for I have no ink with which to stain these pages. Thus, I pour myself upon them for you. Everything is for you.
My arteries have an endless supply of the stuff, even if it is not always my own, rich and unctuous. I would prefer the midnight depths of black, but what choice do I have? This place is ill-lit and blood shines brighter.
People take notice when words stand out from the crumpled, milk-white pages of another ruined book. They eye them not with the same suspicion as leaking red, but as though written by a doctor, important and necessary etchings. I am not a doctor, though. Nor am I necessary. I have been told this my entire life.
It has taken so long to slice the required vein, to drain myself, that I have now lost the will to write. I could record my voice, shout even, but the written word is so much more preferable. Dickens’ and Shakespeare’s works would not carry the same kudos if unavailable to the masses. Damn this endless malaise!
Hours have slipped past. I have no words left to impart. Unless I have, and you read them already, here and now. But words must carry details, information, promises and rewards. These words carry only doom. I apologise for this. Doom is in my nature.
I close the book. Stitch up my wound. Mire in melancholy just a little longer. But time is something I have, and it avails an afterthought.
I reach up from the depths and twist a star; they never like this. The brilliant beam of molten silver this act avails makes it all worthwhile. I step out into this mercury spotlight and steal said luminance. Or displace it, I’m unsure which?
Only light reveals me, for I am the darkness it would otherwise banish. Light is always the key, not words, nor books, nor me. And I realise as I hum a tune to the other so high above that I don’t need to leave a note. I am not required to forewarn you. Eventually, we shall meet regardless, and you and I can share as many words as we want for as long as we want. Or not.
I bow to Eternity. I wave to Infinity. Neither wave back. I then depart stage down.
‘Death has left the building!’ I wish to scream.
Instead, I snigger at those pathetic fools I wished to please, to reassure, to inform. Death never leaves the building, you see. He, by which I mean me, just waits outside the door.
Now, I am home. I am bleeding freely, if inwards, not out. Perhaps I shall write about it. After all, I bleed only for you.
Thanks for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
The butterfly moon is not a moon per se, rather, a moment in time. A release of magic upon the sky. Those few minutes where a bejewelled night begs for more and those who watch her weep.
It begins with the moon.
She rises high, like a breaching whale who forgot to turn back at the waves. The gentle, titanium giantess flies, flies, sweeps into the sky to float as effortlessly as a child’s forgotten balloon. There she hangs. There she gathers the energies of the universe, brightens, lightens, burns milk-white. This is seen. She is always seen.
They appear as coloured raindrops falling up, not down. A few at first, the shoal gather pace. Vermillion and emerald, sapphire and citrine, wings flap and feelers feel. The moon gleams all the whiter.
They swim rather than fly. The moths and butterflies, for the two are inseparable on nights such as these, flitter and flap their way towards an obsidian sky the stars have vacated. They have bowed down to their celestial mistress, as have the spinning galaxies themselves. This night is aflame in the vivid colours of nature. Oh, what a joy for the milk-white queen.
The little ones circle her as a tide of fairy lights. They bob up and down as if blown by some unfelt solar wind around their cosmic Christmas tree. So pretty. So exquisite. The moon is, of course, the crowning jewel upon its topmost heights. This is what it has waited for, our moon. One moment in forever to truly enjoy the view.
She weeps silver tears at their passing. She fills the oceans, rivers, lakes, ponds, and the liquid souls of those who watch in awe through open curtains. Alas, it does not last, but the best things never do.
They do not fly down, but take one last farewell lap and head off into eternity. The moon waves each one goodbye.
As do we.
Never forget the little ones, they’re just as important as you or I.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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