Mark a Murphy and Noral Hollin Murphy-Two Flash Fiction Works

Today I am honored to share with my readers two fascinating flash fiction works. One by Mark A. Murphy and one by his wife Nora Hollin Murphy.

I hope to be able to do a Q and A session with Mark Murphy later in the year.

Broth of these stories are protected under international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without the permission of the authors.

Mark A. Murphy

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Mark A. Murphy was born in 1969. He studied philosophy (BA) and poetry (MA) at University. His first full length collection, Night-watch Man & Muse will be published by Salmon Poetry in early 2012. Mark’s poems have been published by Poetry New Zealand, Poetry Scotland, The Warwick Review(UK), Istanbul Literature Review (Turkey), The Paris Atlantic Journal (France), The American Dissident (US), The Tampa Review (US), Left Curve (US) and The Stinging Fly (Ireland). He lives in Huddersfield in the UK.

In His Time Of Dying

by Mark A Murphy

Penniless as always and now intoxicated, his body a dull ache in someone else’s headache, drunk with pain and worry and regret, drunk with love and even drunk with lust, the injured man considered his position.  The oval of faces that loomed above him looked ugly and remote like unwanted guests at a birthday party. Clumsily, they pressed forward into an ever tighter ball that blotted out the sky.

‘All that humanity,' he thought, 'and yet no cement for the human bond.’   

Curious at the sight of the crooked man, they crowded closer to pinpoint the spot. Unable to move he imagined himself a  latter day saint or saviour among men. No one would deny him that now. He wondered what was certain. Was it certain that his wife had left only two nights before, or was he the one who’d been asked to leave and in a blind rage done the leaving? The semantics weighed on his mind.

'To depart. To disappear. To quit.'

So much tautology. He couldn’t make up his mind. Was it certain that he was bleeding, or even injured at all, or was it just the sensation of rain soaking his clothes?

‘At last’ he thought, ‘this is the recognition I deserve.’

How purposeful it all seemed, as if that moment in the rain was meant to happen, the whole wretched world watched and cared what happened to him now. And with that he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

Nora Hollin Murphy



Nora Hollin Murphy is a poet and song-writer currently residing in Austin, TX. US

Textile Mill Tower Clock

It has stopped: 5:31 to be exact. It stopped long ago before all that now crawl, walk, fly or moan were ever to hear the last bell of her hours. One minute past her final chime, the minutes fell still in the now timeless town as a man in worn trousers walked past. Looking up at the frozen white face, he pulled out his pocket-watch, looked up again and turned back his time with a simple anti-clockwise twist of his finger and thumb before casually carrying on. Babies were to be born that day and  nestlings to fall. Windows, hearts and solemn vows  were  to break at 5:31 that day as on all days.

As her time held immovable, all her other hours and minutes slowly became but pleasant decorations, the visual symbol of a beginning winding toward another beginning. She herself was mute, her clever gears having forever ceased their regime of catching and releasing seconds, although an audible record keeping of seconds continued in the rhythmic foot-falls of lovers secretly sheltering in the thorny moonlit brambles that wildly fortressed her brick tower.

The man died after living beneath just one more grey and starless sky. The clock dutifully recorded the hour of his demise: 5:31 - though his watch, hidden on his person like a small meaningless heart encased in gold recorded it to be 8 o' clock upon the ledgers of irrelevance, whilst eternity, exempt from time and choice, continued lumbering onwards.

End

My thanks to Mark and Hollis Murphy for letting me share these works with my readers.

Mel u