The Short Answer, Again

Turn The Page
By Bella Basura

Golden Vagueness - Bella Basura 2016

Golden Vagueness
Bella Basura 2016

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. for more details.

Bella’s Gallery.
 About Bella Basura
chronological archive

Short Tale Shrew

Last month the short fiction  magazine Short Tale Shrew awarded this flash fiction an Honourable Mention and published it on their website.

Film Night At The Rebirth Convention
by Bella Basura.

The Delegates gathered, waiting for the ‘Samsara in Cinema’ event.
Ouspensky sat broodingly alone, contemplating Ivan Osokin.
A few rows behind him The Gautama and The Christ boisterously contrasted resurrection and soul-migration.
In a hot-tub, left of the screen, naked therapists  breath-worked their birth-traumas.
Classically reincarnated deities – Mithras, Persephone, Taliesin, Vishnu, Baldur –  sat rapt as the houselights dimmed.
The crowded auditorium hushed as the diminutive figure of the Dalai Lama edged onto the stage. “My favourite film” He said simply.
And the screen sprang into life, illuminating the film’s title “Groundhog Day”.

Soul Migration

Soul Migration – A self-portrait

More Flash Fiction

About Bella Basura


The Short Answer – a collection short stories in 100 words


A Poet In The Book Closet

“Take it” said the beautiful woman with the cherubic smile, leaning across the bare wood table, holding out a black ballpoint pen.
I barely knew where to look.
The musty, book-lined library backroom gloom seemed too perfect, paranoia perfect.
“Take it” she said smiling with radiant beneficence.
“And this” she pushed a wiro-bound notebook towards me.
I hesitated. Panic words unleashed into my head.
I’m silently rapping on honeytrap words, glancing at her, but keeping calm.
“Take them” She urged “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us”
Her hand gesture drew in the whole room
“We’re all poets here”

More Flash Fiction – The Short Answer a collection of short stories in 100 words.

About Bella Basura

Bella Basura
chronological archive


From The Short Answer

Majhanashoppinglist - Bella Basura 2016

– Bella Basura 2016

The Tibetan Book of Home Economics

Thus, when I wander in Samsara in the realm of the wrathful food emporiums, the supermarkets of the bardo of eternal price confusion, may I not wander aimless to decide between one 200gm tube or two 100gm tubes of toothpaste. May Majhanashoppinglist and his consort Sensiblebugettingbhava go before me and carry me through the fearful towers of the checkouts. Thus, may I not be attracted by the bright flashing colours, shiny celophane, BOGOF and price slashing, but may the clear pure green light of the Exit shine before me and lead me to the eternal bliss of exiting the carpark.

Bella Basura
April 2016

Bella Basura’s  Collection of 100 word Flash Fictions – The Short Answer

Other images in my Gallery

100 word fiction

Skull Girl Grimace Photo by Bella Basura 2015

Skull Girl Grimace
Photo by Bella Basura 2015

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.

Flash Fiction Anthology
Image Gallery



The Short Answer

Further Flash Fiction by Bella Basura
from the proposed Anthology – The Short Answer – short stories of 100 words in length.

Auntie Shocked Sees The Light Photo by Bella Basura 2013 Still from "Abandoned Video" With Phil MFU

Auntie Shocked Sees The Light
Photo by Bella Basura 2013
Still from “Abandoned Video” With Phil MFU

Precog Moment

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.

More Flash Fiction
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About: Bella Basura

You're Funny, Skull Girl Bella Basura 2015

You’re Funny, Skull Girl
Bella Basura 2015

An occasional blog on the subject of Me Me Me,
and the fabulous things I do,
an archive of most of my writing, some of it dating back to 1994,
links to the complete text of my first unpublished novel
The slow-burning Grandmother Punk short story anthology
bearer of Granny Takes a trip
short listed for the Soundwork 2015 Monologue Award,
some stalled psychogeography
and my gallery …

And other stuff

Before the Millennium…

Year Zero

Year zero, like moment zero, output zero, countdown to nothing zero, arbitrary zero.

Horrendous in these moments, long hanging-on moments, sinking down inside, not thinking about nothing. There seems to be no output from imagination. I just can’t push out of this.

I switch the buttons
Adjust the eyepieces
Year double zero
Colours that fall between colours.
I fade out to let the flickering take over.
This is what they call Lifetools.

I am in North Beach, praying to Burroughs and Ginsberg.
A sign on the park says No Unaccompanied Adults.
No Loitering.
On the internet I run a search on my own name. Nothing comes up.

RTS, Trafalgar Square. It felt like we were dancing in the ruins of their culture.

Some months ago I was constantly channelling Burroughs; I needed some sleep, so I visualised a shelf, with a pen and notebook and candle. And I said write it down, stop bothering me, I’ll read it in the morning. I’ve not written a word since.

I’ve got a wooden dish of silver coins to pay the ferryman.
I been across the river Styx.
I looked into the mirror at the end of Hades Hall,
I read the hieroglyphs imprinted on your brow.
I’m just shaking, shaking,
Ripped bare, naked spiritually.

Year zero
And what have I got to show for it?
A handful of myths and a bucketful of morals and a trail of persecution and betrayal.
And in the Exploratorium a live locust is wired into a monitoring machine that records its electrical impulses when a child frightens it, endlessly. When one locust dies it’s discarded and replaced by another. The only legal locusts in California said the scientist.
So No, No,  I don’t see nothing to celebrate. Nothing to gain.

I tried Hinduism in the pall-light of an almost forgotten memory of a bar in San Francisco.
Maybe I read it in a book.
Where to cut out, where to cut in
Frozen stiff from the aridity on The Golden Bough.
Fire worship – an eternal wish.

And please send some of the remembering away.
Something sickening,
Some sickening memory
Where I am being loud and hopeless again.
Red and blue flashing lights
Herald a crystal skull
Clouds of verbiage
Flaming orange at 24Hz.

The sound of a pneumatic drill in the street.
I think it’s in my head.
My eyelids snap open.
And the sound stops.

I gaze out of the window, winter night falling always too early. Neon turns the colour of cars sickly in their own light-beams. (1999)