Weird Scenes Inside the GoldMine. Bella Basura 2019.
New Bella Basura YouTube video
Words, images and voice – Bella Basura
Original voice recordist – Bob Kemp, with Maxine Mackenzie
I have recently started posting on Instagram. #bellabasura
I am re-photographing the whole of the Skull Collection for this first project.
Over time I will be gradually updating the photographs in the Skull Collection archive on this site.
Turn The Page
By Bella Basura
Unspeakable beauty, like the floating harmonic deep in keening tinnitus. Words break free, and my sentence struggles away from me, my grasp slipping a grip, like a hand slipping a glove. She tears from my skin and flies. Ricocheting my awareness of “I” into a bounding and rebounding silence. A silent creeping vibration, like the tap-tap tapping of a solitary black widow on her dew-luminous web, alone at night. A fly has slipped it’s shackles and fled. A silent creeping vibration of voidness, null, empty and zero.
The one that got away.
More Flash Fiction – The Short Answer a collection of short stories in 100 words.
Soon to be available in chapbook print version.
email:firstname.lastname@example.org for more details.
By Bella Basura
I passively follow Qwerta to the beach, golden sand tumbles onward in rolling dunes, down to the sea. Momentarily I glimpse a vista of the deep oceanic horizon, blue with distance, then we dip down into a hollow, a machete is thrust into the sand.
Qwerta grasps the machete, but it stays fast, Excalibur in stone. She tugs, tugs, her maximised stealth leeching into the landscape. Sudden Manga wingedsnakebat creatures attack her kneecaps. She soaks the sand, beating out her life in numerical units. FAIL in red. Disappeared.
I pick up the machete and mouse-click back to the encampment.
Further Flash Fiction by Bella Basura
from the proposed Anthology – The Short Answer – short stories of 100 words in length.
Shaking firm hands with poker-faced thank-you-for-your-time, I close the door behind me.
Standing waiting for the lift down, I depressingly relive the interview.
I see myself lurching, a raddled old maid in rouge and blotchy mascara, wearing a charity-shop power-suit, manoeuvring square shoulder pads into a diminishing round hole. I trail mendacity and inappropriate extended metaphors across the interview room carpet. Bluff and fluff falling away. The interviewers look at me, disappointed in their expectations, they recoil, their faces cave in and close.
Instantly, I know it’s over, even before I mention my criminal record and false identities on Facebook.
Living at Death’s Door
By Bella Basura
At first the landlord didn’t tell us about the murder,
we found out after the lease was signed,
we’d already moved in.
In the end, I read it in the local newspaper,
she’d lived in the flat across the landing,
her husband stabbed her in a frenzy,
she escaped him but died in the stairwell.
I carried the constant knowledge that the woman had bled out on my doorstep.
The morning of the murder, he told me later,
the landlord had hidden in the bathroom.
The woman had died screaming and banging on a door nobody dared answer for fear.
Small Dancing Skeleton
Earlier this week I spent the day with Gary, an old friend and travelling companion.
He gave me what he described as “A dancing skeleton“, a 9cm plastic jointed marionette that was part of a Day of The Dead hoard we’d collected while in Mexico City and Oaxaca State in October and November 1993.
Gary recalled the guy who sold it to us making a line of the little fellas leap and dance, but…more…