Short Fiction

Rachel Stevenson; Play Dead

May 27, 2018 — 2 Comments
Play Dead

Everyone was in mourning. Everybody grieved for our golden boy, our North London lad who had made it big in Hollywoodland, starring in a franchise of action movies that the intelligentsia liked for their “psychological depth” and the plebs for their chases and crashes. But now he was dead, killed where he was born, in London town.

            Immediately, a shrine was set up at the side of the road where his car had smashed. There were round the clock grievers, like the paid mourners in Victorian times – the chain coffee shop next to the site had received good publicity for distributing free lattes. I was a bit concerned for their lungs given they were at the side of the North Circular in Hendon.

            I took a quick photo on my phone and uploaded it to twitter. Many other people were doing the same, the site had become a tourist attraction, like Jim Morrison’s grave: people wanted to witness the Steve Evans mourning experience – I was there. I was part of history. One girl was prostrate on the pavement, crying her eyes out. The Samaritans had set up a special number.

            I spent twenty minutes there and then, bored, decided to take the tube down to Tottenham Court Road and do some shopping. I popped into a café and ordered some lunch, but stopped chewing as a man walked into the caff. He had the hood of his top pulled down low and was wearing sunglasses on an overcast day. He had the definite look of someone trying to remain anonymous and failing. I walked over to the man’s table and without asking, sat down. He lowered his menu, looked at me, then raised it again.

            ‘Are you a professional Steve Evans lookalike?’ I said. ‘Is that why you’re trying to remain incognito?’

            ‘Look, man,’ the man said, ‘I’m just trying to get some food here.’ He sounded like an English person doing an American accent. ‘I’ll take a coffee, black, and lasagne,’ he said to the waiter, who was hovering nearby.

             ‘You are him, aren’t you? Steven Evans?’

            ‘He’s dead, man, don’t you read the news?’

            ‘You know, there are already conspiracy theories about your death. That it was the studio head that did it. After your last stretch in rehab, they said that you needed to quit Hollywood.’

            ‘Look, man,’ said the man again, ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

            The microwave in the back pinged and the waiter brought over a plate of lasagne. ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ he said.

            The man picked up his fork and started to eat his pasta. He chewed with an increasing look of horror and eventually spat it out into a serviette.

            ‘Not good?’ I said.

            ‘It tastes fucking appalling,’ he said, in a London accent.

            ‘Let’s see,’ I said. I used his fork to try some. It was fine.

            The waiter brought the coffee and the man tried it, spitting it out into his cup.

            ‘Everything tastes like dust,’ he said. He took off his sunglasses and looked at me. He had a mole on his cheekbone that I’d never noticed in the cinema. Perhaps they airbrushed it out. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’m not hungry or thirsty or tired or happy or anything. I’m just here.’

            ‘A crash like that must have affected you very badly.’

            ‘I remember the crash,’ he said. ‘It’s afterwards I don’t recall. I remember the lights and the fear and the krang of metal. But then, I was walking away. I don’t remember getting out of the car, but I was on the sidewalk and I was walking up the road. I went home and I passed out.’

            ‘Your body was identified by your mother,’ I said. ‘She couldn’t get it wrong, surely. Is the gossip true? Are you trying to leave Hollywood?’

            ‘I like Hollywood,’ he said, ‘I like being rich and having a big house. I came back here to see my mum. I was only in rehab because the studio made me. I threw up at a party – to them, that’s alcoholism. Puritan nation, you know?’

            He tried his coffee again, making a face.

            ‘What happened after you got home? Did you see yourself on the news?’

            ‘Not at first,’ he said. ‘I think I just slept for days. Then when I woke and checked my messages, well, there weren’t any. Nor emails. I tried to ring my agent, then my mum, but I couldn’t get my phone to work. But then I saw that I was dead on the news. I thought maybe it was a hoax by the studio to promote my new film. I saw a picture of myself that the paps took, covered in blood with a big wound through my chest. But that could have been faked. Couldn’t it?’

            Would they go so far as to kill a lookalike, I wondered.

            ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I do have a big gash on my chest that wasn’t there before. But how can I be alive if I’m dead, if I’m in the morgue?’

            ‘A case of mistaken identity?’ I mooted, ‘have you been to see your mum?’

            ‘It’d frighten the life out of her. She has a dodgy ticker.’

            I felt awful for him. I reached out and put my hand on his. It was stone cold and I pulled it straight back.

            ‘What’s wrong?’

            ‘You’re freezing.’

            ‘Well I’m dead, aren’t I. Corpses are cold.’

            ‘Show me your gash,’ I said, and then blushed.

            He smiled and unzipped his hooded top, then undid the buttons on his shirt. The wound looked awful, as raw as a butcher’s window.

            ‘May I?’ I pressed my fingers against the scar, which was cold and hard. The waiter, lounging at the counter, regarded us with interest.

            ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go somewhere else.’

            He left some money on the table for his meal and we went out into the rain, walking up the main road to Warren Street tube. The leaves were mulchy under our feet, reminding me of the time I stood squishily on a dead rat whilst taking a short cut through the cemetery.

            ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

            ‘I’ve an apartment in Highgate,’ he said.

            ‘Shall we go there?’

            We had to wait five minutes for a High Barnet train, during which time he paced the platform like a polar bear.

            ‘I feel like I should be glad I’m alive,’ he said, ‘but I just feel…uneasy.’

            His flat was beautiful but sparse, no books in the bookshelf, no photos.

            ‘This isn’t my real home,’ he said, looking at me looking around. ‘My home in the hills is where I keep all my stuff. I used to stay at my mum’s, but my agent suggested property investment, what with the London market the way it is.’

            ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

            ‘A bit dizzy.’ He sat down on the white sofa, staring straight ahead at nothing. ‘You could ring my agent for me,’ he said, and he pressed some digits on his phone before handing it to me. ‘Go on.’

            ‘What’s his name?’ I whispered as the phone rang.

            ‘Her name’s Jennifer.’ A hoarse voice answered. ‘Yes, what is it?’

            ‘It’s Steve,’ I said, ‘I mean, I have Steve Evans here, to talk to you.’

            ‘What the hell is this?’ said the voice. ‘It’s 5 a.m. What kind of sick fuck prank calls people about their dead clients at five in the morning. Are you insane? How did you get hold of his phone you sick bastard, I’m going to – ‘

            I clicked off.  ‘She doesn’t believe it’s you.’

            ‘She’s a hard cow. We’ll try again later when she’s had her coffee.’

             ‘This is shit, isn’t it,’ he said suddenly, angrily. ‘I’m alive and dead. I’m a survivor of a fatal car crash, I’m Jimmy Dean, I’m Jimmy Dead. I don’t know. If I’m alive, I’ve cheated death, I should be happy, but what’s the point in being alive if I can’t contact anyone, I can’t be in films, I can’t have my life? I could go to the press – ta-da – scoop of the century, but what if there is a body in that morgue, what if they prove it’s me? What then? How could I get a job now, the story’d be more interesting than my role, I’d be forever the guy who came back from the dead. The first zombie filmstar. I’m a ghost, a phantom, a fucking nothing. My career’s done. I’d never be seen as a great actor. It’d be nice for my fans if I came back from the dead, wouldn’t it? But am I really here? You see me, don’t you? And the waiter, he saw me. What if I take a picture and upload it to twitter – a spectre selfie? Here, you do it.’

            I snapped him on my phone but when I tried to look at the picture, there was nothing there.         

           *

Biography

Rachel Stevenson grew up in Doncaster, South Yorkshire and now lives in London, UK. She has contributed to Smoke: A London Peculiar, Here Comes Everyone, A Cuppa And An Armchair book (Createspace Publishing, 2011), The Guardian travel section, Are You Sitting Comfortably podcast, and her work has been made into a short film for the Tate website, narrated by Christopher Eccleston. She completed an MA in Creative Writing (Middlesex University) in 2012, and was longlististed for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize 2015 and the Royal Academy/PinDrop Short Story Award in 2017.

Sheelagh Russell-Brown; A Room Full of Clocks: A Tale of Time Found

May 27, 2018 — Leave a comment
A Room Full of Clocks:  A Tale of Time Found

            He didn’t know how the name was born.  Neither, so they told him, did his parents.  He imagined it coming to them one hot and humid summer afternoon as they lay panting upon the sweat-soaked sheets of the bed on which they’d made him.  His mother’s rounded belly, full almost to bursting with the bones of him, maybe it was the catalyst.

            “Egbert!” his father exclaimed.  “Egbert Eddington!”

            It had a certain ring to it, perhaps they’d thought, a certain wry cleverness.  So he became “Egg,” just like that.  The wry cleverness, the whimsy, was all at his expense.  It held inside its fragile shell his life unlived as yet, only unhatched potential.

            He didn’t know where the ticking came from, the ticking inside the Russian clock shaped like an egg.  It was his first, standing on two thin golden columns, no thicker than a sparrow’s legs, its delicate blue and gold holding inside a rhythmic scratching like the sound of a tiny chick’s ineffectual escape.

            It was his first, and more would follow, until the din within the shop became an assault on all ears but his own. But still they came, the customers, those wanting an artifact of time, a way of touching minutes and days and years long past. 

            “Egbert Eddington, Timepieces,” the sign above the thick blue door cried out.  Pieces of time for sale or rent. 

            No windows giving a glimpse into the space, each corner filled with booms and chimes, with creaking doors opening onto cuckoo’s calls, a rotund man, a Humpty Dumpty man with sparrow’s legs, all dressed in blue and gold, set all the life inside to ticking.  He pulled up chains, wound little dials, set weights into position.  Each hour he checked that all were primed to tell their time.  He waited for the man, the woman, the child whose history was kept inside the ticking chambers. 

            Perhaps a tearful girl of nineteen or twenty might ask to see a watch like that her soldier lover had, returned to her when he did not.  He’d search inside the glass case, listening to the whispering that told him all the lovers’ tales, finding that one that suited.  She’d hold it, smiling, to her ear to hear once more her soldier’s soft endearments.

            Perhaps a mother, now middle-aged, came looking for the nursery clock, shaped like a bunny or a butterfly, that stood beside the nightlight by the crib of a now-grown son whose voice she seldom heard these days. 

            Or an old man, still dapper, a much-polished gold watch and chain hanging from his vest, would pay to spend some time beside a tall grandfather clock.

            “Just like the one that chimed the hours in the hallway outside the room where my own mother died the night that I was born.”

            He’d put his arms around the polished wooden case and croon the soothing words his mother whispered to him only in dreams. 

            For some he’d charge a weekly or a monthly price of admission to the time preserved inside, never more than they could afford.  For some he asked no price at all.  The men and women who had long abandoned present days to dwell forever in the past.  They slept in doorways or in underpasses beneath the rhythmic clatter of trains on tracks above them.  They brought their bags, their baskets, their cardboard mattresses with them, each choosing a piece of time whose bygone sounds would silence for a while the noises in their heads.

            And so years passed.  The room filled up with clocks, with watches, with sundials, and with hourglasses.  He heard each grain of sand falling through the narrow channel, and when all had settled in the depths, he still could hear hushed whispering—“Is it time yet?”  “And now how much longer?”  “Should we begin again?”

            No rays from windows fell on the sundials.  Yet through chinks in door and walls, a tiny beam would move to touch the stone, inconstant as the clouds that masked and then revealed the sun.  As the stone warmed, it gave off a subtle humming, and if he listened closely the voices spoke in unfamiliar words and cadences.

            But all this time he’d never found the clock that spoke to him alone.  He was a part of every other life, of every piece of time that came inside and then departed.  But no life was his own.  In the glass cases of clocks and watches, he saw reflected his egg-like body and felt as if inside a shell of rock-hard crystal.  He could see out, they could see in, neither touching the other.

            One day when all the clocks were clamouring for ears to hear them, a woman entered the empty shop.  Her face was veiled in gauzy black that streamed below a black velvet headpiece.  On each few inches of the veil a tiny spider was embroidered.  He could see from her hands and neck emerging from her black dress that despite the ancient clothing she was still young, perhaps no more than thirty.  She pulled behind her a wooden box on wheels, painted with nursery scenes like those he could remember in his own childhood home.

            He asked her business there.  She raised a hand and took out of the box a clock unlike any he’d ever seen before.  It seemed made by a madman, with bits of this and bits of that, of clocks and watches, sundials and hourglasses.  It was a giant egg with crystal shell and all the workings of life inside, open to view.  At first, its voice was rusty, as if from long disuse, but when she turned a wheel, pulled up a weight, and wound it up, it sang.

            It sang a song like the one the waves make breaking on the shore and running back out again.  It was the tune the moon croons to the stars as they cross paths in the dark skies above.  It pattered like the rain on roofs, lulling those inside to peaceful sleep.  It whispered like the wind in the bare branches of the elms, roared like the gales that bring them down.

            She left as quickly as she’d come, and left the clock behind.  Throughout the day and into the evening, it sang, it roared, it whispered.  But no one but himself seemed to hear its voice as the customers returned. 

            A man had found a clock upon the wall shaped like a little lapdog, with wagging tale to mark the seconds out.  He put his ear against its face and smiled a little, recalling his lost childhood playmate.  A child of nine or maybe ten, thin face ravaged by signs of long sickness, stood before a schoolhouse clock, stern ticking sounding out the passing hours while her classmates longed to be set free.  The voices of the schoolroom came to her, the teacher’s kind and loving hand upon her shoulder, and she not there to share it.

            But no one seemed to hear the clock the woman brought.  None remarked upon its presence on the counter.

            Throughout the day the strange clock sang, slowly and more slowly as the hours passed.  Into the evening it sang, until he turned a wheel, pulled up a weight, and wound it up again.

            It sang until the glass upon its face grew dusty, and he grew dusty with the days and years that passed.  A room full of clocks with this, his prize, that spoke and sang to him alone.  Although at first it soothed him to sleep with the voice of his mother, long forgotten, he now remained awake lest some sound slip by unheard.  Its voice became the only voice he noticed until at last, though they still came, the other listeners paid less and less, and he lived on, not caring much to press them for their fees.  Some even took away with them their timepieces and did not return.

            He sat upon a chair, his spindly legs thrust out in front of him, above the unswept floor, his ear against the crystal egg, and smiled with love on those who entered.  He’d long gone deaf, but still he heard the songs for him alone and trusted that the others heard their own as well.  Some brought him food from time to time, and sat with him to while away the hours, nodding in rhythm with the beating of their hearts.  None knew what songs he heard, but still he smiled.

            He smiled at songs his mother sang, at songs his father had sung to her, even the teasing songs they’d made at school to mock his name and body.  He marked out time in swinging of his legs, now fast, now slow, and then more and more slowly till the crystal face of his strange clock cracked into a thousand stars.             

                 And so he did not notice when living had become the past tense of life in a room full of clocks.           

*

Biography

After having taught at an international high school in the Czech Republic for seven years, Sheelagh Russell-Brown is now a lecturer in English literature and a writing tutor at Saint Mary’s University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.  Her research interests are in nineteenth- and twentieth-century British and European literature, the portrayal of the Roma in art and literature, and the foregrounding of marginalized female roles in neo-Victorian literature.  She has been published in The Fem e-magazine, in Abridged poetry and art magazine, and in Tales from the Forest e-magazine, and will have a short story published by TSS in November of this year.  She has also won second prize in the first Irish Imbas Celtic Mythology Short Story Contest, and was shortlisted for the second Irish Imbas contest, as well as for the 2016 Fish Publishing Short Memoir Competition.  She is a contributor to Backstory e-magazine, to Understorey e-magazine, and to Historical Honey.

Marc Nash; Tense

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Tense

A moment in time

A moment of your time

A monument to time

Deep monumental time

A modicum of momentum through time

Occupied in time

A preoccupation with time (≈)

i-

i have/am/will

moved/moving/move through time

Forever and never (≠)

i say “i”

Yet what that will be/is/was hard to determine

Since what construed/construes/will construe “i” (∂)

I found myself shuttled/shuttling/will be shuttled from the chemical growbag of my mother’s womb

A precipitant precipitate, abreactive reagency, postpartum postulate (Ø)

Capillaries, thew and membrane all constructed/constructs/ will be constructed from words in the dictionary

Aught but a cluster of sensory excitations

Relayed/relaying/will be relayed to a central processing cortex

Which clutched/clutches/will clutch at them interpretatively,

Glossed and glommed/glossing and glomming/ will gloss and glom impressions

And imagined/imagine/will imagine them as singularly connected/connecting/will connect («)

Ergo clumped/clumping/will clump them together as a self-reflexive unity

Of self

Ergo ego

That imagined/imagines/will imagine it can act through time

And changed/change/will change events

As if time proceeded/proceeds/will proceed along regular intervals

As if the “i” existed/exists/will exist sequentially along an unbroken continuum

Until death and cessation (Ω)

The nagging uncertainty that ate/eats/will eat at the core of this i of me

Saw/sees/will see the me reached/reaching/will reach for a pen

And wrote/writes/will write a parallel sequence with will abridge/abridging/abridged continuum

Yet that i is avowedly fictional unlike the indeterminate state of the prior/current/subsequent me

Which itself was/is/will be, of course, a fiction

Set/setting/will set up a parallax ‘me’ reflective and reflexive of the i that already was/is/will be pushed out there as having represented/representing/ will represent me

Stood/standing/will stand for me stood/standing/will stand the test of time

Friction upon fiction

A fictional i viewed/viewing/will view a second fictional i at one stage removed/remove/will remove

No three-hundred and sixty degree vision was/is/will be possible

Because of single point perspective

Subjective perception subjected/subjecting/will subject itself to reflexive scrutiny

Even though neither being existed/exists/will exist (∓)

The second Being being the mark the first being had left/leaves/will leave on the earth

Even though all human marks were/are/will be buried beneath soil or were/are/will be digitised somewhere in the ether

A data set generated by another data set

Both became/become/will become an evanescent smudge, proof positive that time did/does/will progress in a forward direction

As the waves of the sea will wash/washing/washed over the beach and obliterates/ will obliterate/obliterated any impressions cast there

Entropy

A moment in time

A moment of your time

A monument to time

Deep monumental time

A modicum of momentum through time

Occupied in time

A preoccupation with time (∞)

*

Biography

Marc Nash has published 5 collections of flash fiction and his fifth novel will be published by Dead Ink Books in Autumn 2017. He collaborates with video makers to turn some of his flash into digital story telling. He lives & works in London.  

Brian Dunster; The Tangram Enigma

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
The Tangram Enigma 

(Part 2)

            “Make sure you tighten those pipes firmly together.  You don’t want the steam to blow in your face again, do you?”

            Master Morfran immediately took me under his wing when I arrived to work in the underground chambers below the Ministry of Stuff and Things.  He’s a surly fellow but he does know the ins and outs of the job.  He’s proud of his maintenance skills and likes to brag about how he alone saved the Governingmen from collapse by fixing the heating and returning hot water to the sauna.

            “That was one heck of a day.  They were this close to abandoning Plana Petram.”

            Master Morfran has been working in the chambers since he was my age.  He was too young to remember the destruction of the round world and he doesn’t like to talk about it.  He thinks it’s all a load of hot steam.

            “What does it matter?  Who cares if there was once a round world?  We’re here now.  And we all have to make the best of what we got.”

            Master Morfran doesn’t believe in chasing things that aren’t real.  That is why he has never left the chambers his entire life.  But the long exposure to the cramped, hot passageways have not been kind to his face or body.  His skin has wrinkled like a prune and hangs from his bones. And his posture is bent and broken causing him to look smaller than he actually is.  Due to his condition he has learned to move in a unique way, hobbling from side to side to propel himself forward.

            “Hope is a lost practice best forgotten.  Focus on what is in front of you.  Get the job done.”

            Despite our philosophical differences, Master Morfran has been kind to me for the past several full moons.  He has shown me the art of discipline and patience. He is proud to call me his apprentice.  I respect the man and I have gained much wisdom from his teachings.  I would not have made it this far without him.  The brutal conditions under the Ministry of Stuff and Things are much more harsh than I would have imagined.

            “Don’t get all soppy on me, lad.  Now, pick up the wrench and tighten that bolt.  After we’re done you can sneak off to see your girly for ten minutes.”

           

            Natsuki sits at a solitary desk inside a great hall, directly in front of the elevator that leads to the top floor where the Governingmen reside.  She is secretary to President Comfort and the others and is their only staff member.   While sneaking about the ground floor of the building she caught me but said nothing of the incident to her superiors.  Every night after I braved another scouting mission, I’d always end up teetering at the door on the far side of the hall and admiring her.  At first she was nervous.  I could understand why.  Here’s some guy who shouldn’t be here, staring at girl like a painting with moving eyes.

            “We don’t have long.  I have to type up some reports before midnight for President Comfort.  Maybe tomorrow night we can talk?”

            One night as I approached her door she stood waiting for me.  She smiled and held out her hand.  I didn’t know what to think.  Master Morfran told me from the very beginning that I should trust no one in this world but myself.  That others would betray me and want to hurt me for their own gain.  I thought those were some very wise words at the time.  But at that particular moment I chose to ignore them.  I took  Natsuki’s hand.  Her skin was soft and clean.  Compared to mine her hand seemed like it was crafted from the Goods themselves.  Her eyes glowed bright blue and her crooked smile greeted me with a warmth that is hard to describe.  I chose to trust her in that very moment and from every moment since then.

            “I have some curious information I want discuss with you.  I think it might help with what you’re looking for.  But you better hurry back to the chambers for now.  Security will be making their rounds.”

            Natsuki was fascinated by the elder stories I told.  She could hardly begin to imagine a complete world where one could walk its circumference.  Our land mass, our Plana Petram, is engulfed in a dome and travel beyond it is impossible.  In fact, you’re forbidden to reach within a mile of the dome itself.  Patrols guard it constantly and are ordered to shoot on site.  But sometimes Natsuki and I would sneak away and get as close to the forbidden zone as possible and stare into the vast expanse.  In her eyes I could see all the chunks of rock and debris, floating out in space, come together and connect like a jigsaw puzzle.  Her whole life she had worked for the Governingmen and forced to do their bidding.  While society festered and rotted, she watched as President Comfort and his cronies relished in others suffering. Yet there was nothing she could do.

            “I want to help you find the Tangram Enigma.  I want the world that once was to come together and be whole again.  I want the Governingmen to fall off their high tower and plummet into the graves we’ve dug for them below.”

            I was too afraid to ask for her help.  I knew it was dangerous for her and if she were exposed it could lead to unspeakable things.  Despite the consequences and reality of being murdered or worse, she pressed on in helping me discover the secrets the Governingmen were hiding. 

            I didn’t know if there were seven other Plana Petram’s.  The Tangram Enigma could have been just a fairytale.  Everything I was told came from questionable sources.  But there were enough consistencies in how each elder told their story that some truth had to exist. 

 

            “How was your date, lad?  Remember what I told you, trust no one.  Especially a young lass with her own office.”

            I found it hard to concentrate on work.  Natsuki possibly has evidence that would prove some or all of my theory.  Master Morfran noticed and I’ve never seen him so inquisitive.  He wiggled a mallet in front of my face and grilled me.  He wanted to know what my intentions with Natsuki were and what I was planning on doing if we’re found together.  I’ve never seen him so worried.  His concern frightened me to my core. 

            Natsuki and I fell in love with this wonderful idea of a round world and playing revolutionaries.  But had we considered what the ramifications of our actions would be?  If exposed, the people would declare all-out war.  The Governingmen would have no choice but to defend themselves and use whatever means necessary.  Our way of life would cease to be.  

            “Nothing in life is worth risking peace.  Even if peace is slowly sapping away people’s lives, it’s much better than the alternative.”

            For a man whose spends his time in the dark fixing pipes, he’s very convincing.  But he wasn’t entirely wrong.  People have shown up dead from just uttering the Tangram Enigma.  If I were to expose it, those deaths are on me. 

            “Be comfortable with what you are.  Don’t reach for something out of your range.”

 

            Natsuki waited for me at the entrance to the great hall.  She saw me sneaking about the corridor and ushered me over.  Before I even opened my mouth she grasped my hand and dragged me to her desk.  A glint of excitement in her eyes.  An inflected tone in her voice.

            “While sorting through all President Comforts memos and correspondences to the other Governingmen I came across this.”   

            Natsuki handed me a piece of paper with the initials TTE inscribed at the top.  It was then followed by a desire to immediately discuss preparations for departure of PP and disposal of the excess waste.

            “I have other curious correspondences that relate in similar ways.”

            TTE – The Tangram Enigma.  PP – Plana Pentram.  Are the Governingmen planning on ditching our world to occupy another?  Had they discovered the whereabouts of the other land masses?  My mind raced with so many questions but provided few answers.  It was a start, though.  Natsuki has given us the first solid evidence that proves we are living a lie.

            “What do we do now?  How does this help us?”

            “It doesn’t help you.  It helped me.”

            The voice was deep and calm but sent shivers down our spines.  We turned to find a colossal man standing before us with several armed men, who looked harmless next to him.  I had seen his face many times plastered about Plana Petram but those posters did nothing to prepare me for the sheer magnitude of his presence.  President Comfort made the great hall seem small.  We wanted to run but the doors were already sealed shut.

            “There’s nowhere to go I’m afraid.  Only one way out for you both.”

            “We know about the Tangram Enigma.  We know what you’re planning.”

            Natsuki stood before the giant and held firm.

            “So?  There’s not much you can do about it now, Natsuki.  And to think, I was considering bringing you along.”

            Men with guns surrounded us from all sides.  By the Goods above we have no way out.  And to think we were only just beginning to discover the truth.  Master Morfran was right.  Hope is a lost practice best forgotten.

            “I tried to warn you, lad.”

            Hobbling from behind President Comfort he stops short of me.  Master Morfran cracks his back as he looks up and meets my eyes.  I can read his face; he’s disappointed. 

            “What did I tell you from the beginning?  Never trust anyone.  They’ll only hurt you for their own gain.”

            I couldn’t argue with him.  He had told me that from the start.  I should have expected this.

            “Mr. Morfran was kind enough to warn me of your goings on.  I was amused by your enthusiasm.  You might say I admired it.  But unfortunately we can’t have disorder.  And it is here where we end this little adventure.”

            “I’m sorry, lad.  I can’t have things being disrupted.  I’m too old for it.  Peace comes at a cost. No hard feelings.”

            “Yes, no hard feelings.”

            Presdient Comfort took his gargantuan hand and threw Master Morfran into me.  I managed to catch him in my arms before toppling to the floor.

            “Are you mad?  That could’ve hurt me!”

            “Quiet, you old pipe-cleaner.  By the grace of the Goods you’re lucky I didn’t squash you with my bare hands.  Now die with the ones you betrayed like a good sewer rat.”

            President Comfort returned to the elevator.  As the doors closed his mouth grew wider.  It was hard to tell but it looked like a smile.

            The armed men took aim and cocked their weapons.  I held Natsuki’s hand and drew her close to me.  I was shaking but she remained strong.  Master Morfran muttered under his breath then let out a burst of curse words towards the guards.  I never seen him so animated before.  He turned to us and pulled out several nuts and bolts from his jacket.  A sinister grin formed on his crumbled mouth.

            Just then the floor shook and the marble exploded, giving birth to a cloud of steam.  Several more explosions burst through the floor and filled the great hall in mist.  Screams of men echoed throughout.  The blasts must have gotten them and now the hot steam is melting their flesh.             

            Master Morfran hobbled his way through the misty hall as we followed him.  The steam was quite dense but he waltzed through as if it were a clear day.  The screams eventually died out as we reached the doors.  An explosion had conveniently ble them open and we managed to get through. 

            We made our way out of the Ministry of Stuff and Things and took shelter in a nearby bush.  It provided much needed cover as we catched our breath.  I wanted to punch Master Morfran very much but I could see what little difference that would make to our situation.  We were fugitives from the Governingmen and they would stop at nothing to hunt us down.

            “What do we do now?”

            Natsuki wasn’t concerned about our well being but rather what we plan on doing about President Comfort and the Governingmen.  If not for her I would have certainly given up and scurried into the deepest hole I could find. Which, ironically, is exactly what we did.

*

Biography

Brian has an itch… A mighty big itch. But it is no ordinary itch, oh no. It’s an itch for storytelling. Brian creates for a living. He can not see himself doing anything else. He has spent the last ten years building a portfolio of work, producing short films, music videos, and short stories. Brian studied film and television in IADT Dun Laoghaire and since graduating in 2011 has been evolving and honing his skills ever since.  He has won awards for his work, winning Best Student Film at the Kerry Film Festival ion 2011, and has showcased several other projects in numerous festivals across Ireland, including the Jameson International Film Festival and Cork Fastnet Film Festival, to name but a few. Keep up to date on his Facebook page – https://www.facebook.com/dunsterpictures and check out some of his work on Vimeo – https://vimeo.com/briandunster

Sheelagh Russell-Brown; Lilacs: The Word Collector’s Tale

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Lilacs:  The Word Collector’s Tale

            The Scent of Lilacs on the Wind.  Cat and Mouse at Play.  Newly birthed titles, still fresh, inscribed in crimson ink on the ivory pages of the book where she kept such things.  Frost Feathering the Window.  How Large the Sky.

            How small the room she sat in and traced the shapes in crimson ink of all the words she heard.  The world turned dark outside the room, and still she sat and wrote the colours of the universe inside her.  She did not hear the rain, tiny fingers tickling the windows like the ivory keys of a piano, ivory like the paper, nor the mice inside the baseboards as they scratched out their grey yet eager lives.  She’d sat inside this room for months, for years, while seasons turned and passed again.  She did not see the frost flowers on the windows, the scrawny cat who prowled the room, the lilac bush whose purple buds sent out their heady welcome, whose branches tapped at the window, joining the rain in a neglected symphony.  She sat and wrote.

            She wrote, but only titles left their mark, like carvings on a tiny piece of ivory that hinted of things unsaid.  The world’s ephmera condensed into a half a dozen words or so.  She adorned the few words with curlicues and figures.  As if a mediaeval monk within his cell, she reimagined them as fish and fowl, as funny folk engaged in tasks unknown to her in life.  Atop each page a set of words.  Below, blank space still waiting for its story.

            She lived her life within the walls of wood and bricks and paper.  She lived, but did not see, or hear, or smell, or touch, or taste all that it offered.  She saw, but only in the few words she wrote, the street, the people walking on its stones, the trees.  She saw the lilac bush, the frost tracing its tales upon the window, the snow upon the roofs.  She saw but did not see their truth.  She heard the wind scattering the lilac petals that fell to earth, the cries of children playing in the park.  She heard.  The hearing did not touch her life.  She smelled the lilac petals as they fell, as they were crushed by tramping feet, as they were washed by rain.  The Scent of Lilacs on the Wind she wrote.  The petals stirred no memories for her.  Nor did they stir desire.

            She sat inside, collected words, shards of a life that glued together might spell, might speak some meaning if only words would come.

            How Large the Sky she wrote in crimson ink.  How cold her heart.  Her room was small.  How vast the field of white upon the pages.

            One day in spring she woke, ate her small meal, took out the book to write down there the titles that had come to her in sleep.  But as she turned to a new page, The Scent of Lilacs on the Wind had no blank space below it.  Instead, in crimson ink, a half-familiar hand spoke out its story.  She turned the page, and there was more, another page came after that.  She dropped her pen upon the desk and read.

            “The scent of lilacs on the wind entered her dreams.  She stood upon a bare hilltop and raised her arms to the lowering sky.  Her bare feet gripped the cold green grass.  Her gauzy gown blew in the breeze as if, once cloth was filled with air, she could take flight.”

            She read these words and quickly closed the book.  She opened it again.  The words still spoke.

            A mirror stood upon its legs in a long-forgotten corner of the room.  It had been years and many springs since she had looked into its world.  She held the book up to the mirror and saw inside the glass no words except those seven of the title.  She also saw she had no face, no features, was just a shadow on the glass.

            She walked toward the window and held the book into the light.  The words appeared again.  And in the glass she saw reflected a still young face, a puzzled face, her eyes seeking beyond the glass for answers and for stories.

            Again she sat and read a tale of a young girl who fled the world of sorrows and of shadows for a universe of words.  She read of blood that flowed like crimson ink through youthful veins and stirred the passions of the heart to flower like the lilacs gathered in jars upon each empty surface.  The scent of lilacs filled the room as she read on.

            She read on, and the world grew dark outside.  There was no light inside, but still she read, crimson words glowing.  A whole life was held inside them and it spoke.  A simple meal appeared beside a book. She ate and read until she heard the sad yet soothing call of a mourning dove amidst the lilac branches speaking to its mate.  She smiled a little then to see it there upon the pages.

            The door stood open.

*

Biography

After having taught at an international high school in the Czech Republic for seven years, Sheelagh Russell-Brown is now a lecturer in English literature and a writing tutor at Saint Mary’s University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.  Her research interests are in nineteenth- and twentieth-century British and European literature, the portrayal of the Roma in art and literature, and the foregrounding of marginalized female roles in neo-Victorian literature.  She has been published in The Fem e-magazine, in Abridged poetry and art magazine, and in Tales from the Forest e-magazine, and will have a short story published by TSS in November of this year.  She has also won second prize in the first Irish Imbas Celtic Mythology Short Story Contest, and was shortlisted for the second Irish Imbas contest, as well as for the 2016 Fish Publishing Short Memoir Competition.  She is a contributor to Backstory e-magazine, to Understorey e-magazine, and to Historical Honey.

Colin Watts; The Weight of Dunlins

February 25, 2018 — 1 Comment
The Weight of Dunlins                                                      

I was on North Uist, walking the machair, that thin strip of fertile land between beach and peat bog that graces a few of our remote north-western shores. I didn’t really know why I was there. Just to get away, I suppose, though I wasn’t sure what I was getting away from.

On the ferry over, a local man had told me how the sea ground down shells over centuries to form the beach. How westerly winds spread sand over the peat. How calcium in the sand reacted with acid in the bog to form the machair: Gaelic for “the fertile land behind the dunes”. ‘Treat it gently,’ he’d said, ‘it’s a precious gift.’

It was one of those days when late summer meets early autumn; one side of you warmed by the sun, the other chilled by the air. A tang of salt; a breath of peat. The wild flowers were looking tired, ready to lie down for the winter. Though it was mid-afternoon, the light was still so sharp you could have cut yourself on it.

I tried spinning round to mix up the sun and the chill, but felt dizzy and had to sit down. That’s when I saw her, walking along the strand. She wore sandals and a long dress of dark blue cotton. Her hair was that red that so many highland women are blessed with.

‘I saw you spinning,’ she said, as she approached.

I got up, apologised and explained.

‘You should turn more slowly,’ she said, ‘then you wouldn’t get dizzy.’ She had freckles and high cheekbones and her hair glowed like old rust. It moved in waves, though there was scarcely a breeze.

‘Were you looking for something?’ I asked.

‘The wow factor,’ she said.

‘Wow!’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Every day I look for something that makes me go wow! at its beauty or strangeness.’

‘Doesn’t that defeat the object?’ I asked. ‘Looking for it.’

‘No,’ she said; ‘it’s about keeping yourself open, going to new places, meeting new people. You were nearly my wow for today.’

I felt myself blushing.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘have I embarrassed you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why only nearly?’

‘Because I didn’t go wow! I have to go wow! for it to work. I only went weird!’

‘Thanks very much!’

‘I meant the situation. You look nice though, quite cuddly – for a Sassenach. And you blush easily. We’ll have tea later. Four o’clock at the museum cafe. See if you can have a wow in the meantime and I’ll try too. Don’t try too hard; just let it happen.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘We could exchange wows I said,’ blushing again.

‘Ha ha,’ she said, and strode off.

Wow I thought, but it didn’t appear out loud, so I guessed it didn’t count. By then it was after three, so I set about doing whatever it was I had to do to get a wow. I turned round slowly with my eyes shut, counting to five, then set off in the direction I was facing (towards the beach), stepping gently.

When I got to the museum, she was already there in the café, drinking tea.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said.

‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘I’m early. I got thirsty. You apologise too much, even for a Sassenach.’ She poured me a cup. ‘Did you have a wow?’

‘I did,’ I said. ‘Did you?’

‘I did, but you must tell me yours first.’

I took out a pebble from my pocket. ‘I’ll show you. When I’m walking on beaches I play this game; I pick up a pebble I like and then try to better it as I go, looking for one more extraordinary, more pleasing, more perfect.’

‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Almost a perfect sphere. And the colours; reds and pinks and greens.’

‘That streak there is the colour of your hair,’ I said. She didn’t blush. I did. ‘Hold it,’ I said; ‘let it roll in the palm of your hand.’

‘It’s like it’s alive. And it feels much heavier than it looks.’

‘I think it must have some iron in it, making it move towards magnetic north.’

‘Or it’s imbued with the power of the sea, and is moved by the moon.’

We drank some tea.

‘Tell me your wow,’ I said.

‘I’ll show you,’ she said. She took a small cardboard box out of her shoulder bag. In it was the skeleton of a young bird.

‘Wow!’ It must have been out there for months.’

‘I think it’s a dunlin, a fledgling. I found it in an abandoned nest. Maybe a fox got the mother and insects did the rest. Feel the weight of it.’ She took it out of the box and placed it in my outstretched palm. It was lighter than the touch of her fingers, which stroked mine as she took back the skeleton. 

‘How much do you think it weighs?’ I asked.

‘A pelican,’ she said, ‘grows to approximately 5 feet long and weighs nearly 20 pounds. Its skeleton weighs in at 23 ounces.’

‘That’s really interesting,’ I said, trying to sound sarcastic.

‘Isn’t it,’ she said; ‘I found out about it here in the museum. There was nothing about the weight of dunlins.’

We finished the tea.

‘I have to go,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ I said, not meaning it. I wasn’t really going anywhere. And I wanted her to stay.

‘We’ll exchange wows,’ she said, ‘like you suggested.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said, without blushing.

She put the skeleton back in the box, which was dark blue and, as I found out later, smelt of lavender. I wrapped the pebble in a paper napkin that was stamped with a thistle design. We exchanged our wows, shook hands and went our ways. I never even asked her her name.

*

Biography

Colin is seventy four, married, with grown up children and has lived in Liverpool for many years.

Publications include two poetry collections in print and short stories on-line and in magazines and anthologies. He’s had plays performed in and around Liverpool.

He cycles everywhere and cultivates a quarter of an allotment. He is a long-standing member of the Dead Good Poets Society and co-runs a regular Story Night at The Bluecoat Arts Centre in Liverpool.

Facebook: Colin Watts

Twitter: Colin Watts @FentimanW

Website: http://www.colin-watts-poetry.com/

 

Lorraine Whelan; Prayers for My Children

February 25, 2018 — 4 Comments
Prayers for My Children

The bedside light is dim and two of my daughters speak to each other in subdued tones. I can’t quite hear what they are saying, but if they were speaking on a normal day I know they’d be talking excitedly about art and writing. They think I am asleep and I am doing my utmost not to disabuse them of this idea. But I also know they are watching me closely, despite their conversation, in case there are any changes in my breathing, any signs of discomfort or pain.

I can hear small sounds of night-time traffic outside. Footsteps. A car door. Someone calling in the distance, laughter – people on their way home from the pub. This is a busy street during the day, but there is always some noise or other, at any hour. I insist on having one window open at least. It gives a welcome coolness to the air. Prevents an accumulation of odour. A sick old woman, me, is near to death. A bit too near for my liking. Earlier today, my eldest daughter had plugged in one of those discreet air fresheners that you can buy in any shop nowadays. She must have been worried that I would be insulted, as she waited till she thought I dozed off before fiddling in the corner with the outlet and freshener. However, it was a relief to me too; the air was cloying. I appreciated the thoughtful gesture.

The hospital bed whooshes and settles. Like the freshener, it too is plugged in to an outlet and is regulated to a constant air pressure for my maximum comfort. At first this sound was startling, but everyone – both me and my various carers, my daughters – is well used to it at this stage. I have been bed-ridden for at least a month, confined to this small room. Maybe it has been longer, I am not sure, as I navigate the fuzzy edges of time these days. I have friends who visit often and a lot of children, who cater to my every need. Well, some more than others.

This room used to be my mother’s sitting room. I have a permanent image of her seated between the bay window and the fireplace, watching the “soft parade”. I understood this phrase later to mean the outside world passing by. I was determined not to be like my mother. I would fully participate in everything life had to offer. And I did. I don’t know where the time has gone, but I would so love to have more of it. There is still much I could do. Fun I could have. “People to meet, places to go” as they say. If only.

Changes were made to the room before I got home from hospital. Items brought down from my upstairs bedroom. Lots of photographs form a collage on a cork board: my numerous children and grandchildren and great grandchildren watching me from the wall. But no books. No art. None of the clutter of my life. My bedroom here, now, is more clinical than I am used to, but it is pleasant enough. It is practical. In one corner there is a table for medication – so many prescriptions, syringes and tiny plastic cups – a veritable nurse’s station. In another corner the potty chair looms; it is moved closer to the bed in the evening, when non-family visitors have gone home. There are several tapestry covered foot stools that I bought years ago and a comfortable chair for special guests. The small set of drawers has been brought down from my room to contain the clothes I need now – mostly pyjamas – and one drawer of bed linens. It is a practical room to die in. 

The two daughters who are with me now like to talk to each other, but when they realise I am awake they change their focus to me. Other siblings have accused them of “partying” with me when they are here together at night, and I am wondering who could have started this strange rumour. I only wish I could dance, be capable of a party! I love dancing.

I ask for painkillers, the potty, food. Generally that is the order of things. Though less “asking” – more demanding, or motioning if I can’t speak. Sometimes I can’t speak, the pain is so bad. And sometimes I can’t even indicate where the pain is. They try to keep me comfortable. I try to escape in sleep.

We laugh when I am on the potty. This has become the state of things: there is no longer a time and place for private bodily functions. They help me out of bed, slowly, slowly. Sometimes I am in more of a hurry but still everything goes very slowly. I can’t will my feet to move. One daughter always massages my feet while I am seated. Or rubs my back; this I love. Her hands are so warm. They are considerate of my modesty and place a shawl on my lap. My daughters sit beside me, hold my hands, ask gentle questions, tell jokes, reminisce. I am joyful with them. There is still much joy in my life.

I’m hungry and one of the girls offers to fix me a bite to eat and the other takes the potty bucket upstairs to clean. While one negotiates the steep staircase to the main bathroom, the other walks – quickly – down the hallway to the kitchen and investigates the fridge. I hover over her shoulder, peering inside the refrigerator as soon as it is opened. I like the look of the cooked drumstick of chicken cling-wrapped on a small plate behind the milk carton.

My daughter brings me a ham sandwich with a light salad and a cup of coffee. I can’t hide my disappointment with this fare and ask her about the chicken leg. The expression on her face is priceless: she has a look of surprised awe. Then I remember that I have been in my bed this whole time, and though I correctly saw a piece of chicken that was there in the fridge, I am confused at my guesswork. She explains “out-of-body” experiences to me, and describes the incident in detail when my other daughter returns to the room. She is hugely interested in this “astral projection” as she calls it, and talks about her own, related experience from a hospital bed, in another country, many years ago.

To placate me, the chicken leg is brought on a saucer along with the pepper mill, and I devour it with gusto, obviously dismayed when I reach the small bone and there is really nothing left for me to gnaw on. My two daughters look a bit shocked, but they are also amused. I return their smiles and suggest dessert. Simple rule: if I am awake, I am hungry. It is 4 a.m. One of the girls runs to the kitchen to fetch me some raspberries, cream and a bit of cake that she has made. I realise that this is what the other siblings have complained about as a “party”. But when I first came home, they explained what the Palliative Care nurse had told all of them: “be led by your mother’s desires and give her whatever she asks for; don’t forget to be a daughter as well as a carer”. I don’t have much time left, so it hardly matters how outrageous my requests might be. We all know this. A bite to eat and a coffee in the middle of the night is hardly outrageous.

After more medication and more time seated on the potty, I am tucked in, kissed and gently cuddled by both sisters. I worry and ask for my rosary beads, which are nearby on the bedside table.

One of the girls is not sure what to do; she abhors Catholicism though I know, deep down, she believes in the spirit and the soul. She just isn’t sure how it all fits into the modern world; this is something she will discover on her own terms. My other daughter is more fluid: with good humour she embraces the best of all religions and kneels by the bed to murmur the prayers with me, holding my hands steadily while I touch each bead.

I start with the Joyful Mysteries. The repetition of prayers is comforting to me. The “Mysteries” represent the stages of Christ’s life, a man’s life – well, anyone’s life. My life. Joyful. Sorrowful. Glorious. I think the “glorious” part is supposed to be the next life. After death. I’ll soon find out.

My daughter who is praying with me thinks that what we are doing is parallel to chanting a mantra in Buddhism. She is proud of herself for remembering the order of the prayers from her childhood. The other daughter is completely quiet, listening but not participating in this ritual.

I pray for both these daughters and the others too. They will all need a lot of help in the coming days to face their fears and despair. They have shown me the depths of their care and I know they will support each other with strength and love when I am gone. I pray that they will be kind to each other. This is my most important prayer. It will be a time of deep sadness for them, but I pray they will remember my joy. This will be my legacy.

*

Biography

Lorraine Whelan is a writer and visual artist based in Ireland.

Fiona Perry; Circumnavigation

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Circumnavigation

(Part 2)

The calm, pretty midwife wanted the absolute best for my baby and me. I could tell by the way she said, “I’ll be back in an hour to give you the first pessary”.

I was aware that I had been nodding and grinning at her too excitedly as she spoke but I had just finished a box of Black Magic chocolates which Loran had given me for my hospital bag and I was ready for anything. The other mothers-to-be on the ward were nervous, weary or in pain so I was consciously trying to tone it down a bit because my mood seemed so hopelessly out of synch with theirs. But I couldn’t resist taking out a small Babygro and stroking it. There will be a baby inside that by tomorrow.

The heartbeat couldn’t be found. The normal precursor, a musical introduction of rushing blood, was absent too. “There’s something wrong with the Doppler,” I thought, refusing to acknowledge the concerned expressions and solemn hush in the room. But the look registered on Loran’s face could not be ignored.

When Michael was born he had to be untangled, set free. His cord encircled his belly and coiled fully several times around his neck. It was as if he had been attacked and squeezed lifeless by the tentacle of a giant squid. In fact, his umbilical oxygen supply had been cut off as he dropped to be born. But I wasn’t listening to explanations at the time. I was cradling my perfect baby, who was still warm from being inside me, and contemplating why the awesome power of birth had cast out this tiny, suffocated corpse instead of the wailing, pink newborn of my imagination.

As the heat dissipated from Michael’s body into mine, I began to disappear, my molecules mingling with the surroundings. Lorcan’s expression changed from pity to fear as he shouted something at the midwives.

I was bleeding out a crimson river over a tundra of starched hospital sheets. Before long, I found myself swimming underwater, Michael in my arms, admiring green swathes of seaweed and darting fish. I tried so hard to hold him but he wriggled free and swam away into the watery darkness.

 

*

“The Holy Spirit moves in mysterious ways,” I whispered at the kitchen window overlooking my David Austin Tranquillity rose bush, as I sometimes did when I thought of Michael. 

            Geraldine looked at me wide-eyed, clearly surprised that the subject of the Holy Spirit had made a reappearance in our conversation.

            “I don’t know Mammy,” she said in a casual tone, as if controversial theological discussions were a common occurrence between us, “that belief has been used to cover up a multitude of sins for the Church. I’m not sure it should be employed in this instance to excuse the mysterious predilections of priests.”

            She looked cautiously towards me, blushing right up to her hair line, but when she turned back to read the paper, a smile flickered on the corners of her mouth.

            That’s it. She doesn’t deserve this lovely dinner, I’m going to throw it all in the bin!

            After I placed the mashed potatoes and the steak steeped in oniony gravy in separate casserole dishes and covered them with foil to keep warm in the oven, I told Geraldine that I was off to work in the spare room.

*

I’ll say the Mysteries and start an Our Lady of Hope Novena for her tonight. I was sure I could convince her to continue with Medicine. History? What kind of future does that hold? Teaching? Untold years slaving for some bossy headmistress? I sat in an armchair running my eyes back and forth over the knitting machine’s needle bed for a long time. When I came to myself, I saw that I was wringing my hands.

            I picked up the body of a baby cardigan and started to sew on a sleeve when I heard the familiar dripping noise, subtle but present. Predictably last night, Lorcan had said he couldn’t hear it, presumably just to annoy me.

            In an effort to screen out the sound, I slipped wantonly into my customary knitting daydreams; Geraldine is a cardiologist renowned for her surgical ability; now she is a paediatrician reassuring a despairing couple that their beautiful boy is in safe hands; finally an oncologist speaking to the World Health Organisation about new, cutting edge therapies. Her confidence and poise astounds onlookers. Her hair is shiny and groomed.

             As I finished the last stitch on the armhole, I had the despairing thought, “none of those dreams will come true now,” and the words spiked with every irritating drip sound from above. The infuriating pitter-patter was increasing in volume the more determined I was not to listen and it wasn’t confined to one location above the ceiling but moved around and overlapped like light rain fall. I jumped up and wandered around the room following the sounds.

            Resolving to find the cause, I stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a torch from the drawer. Geraldine looked up from the paper and gave me a bored look. She was massaging the back of her head again.

            I pulled apart the step ladder in the hall, wobbled up the steps slowly and lifted the attic hatch door. My head and shoulders were now above the entrance as I cast the torch light around.

            In the corner of the roof space, seemingly floating just below the eave, was a huge, white oval-shaped object, as softly contoured as a Georgian wig. Imposing and stately.

            A wasp’s nest.

            I had a sudden recollection of my father tackling one on the farm by dousing it with petrol and setting it alight with a blowtorch, it didn’t seem to bother the wasps but he badly singed his eyebrows. It is was very funny, right enough. A little shudder of muted giggles washed over me. I tightened my grip on the horizontal door frame to anchor myself, my heart was fluttering like insect wings.

            As I continued the investigation I noticed that the wasps in flight appeared to be astonishingly stupid and uncoordinated. They were banging off the roof and wall, emitting little tapping noises with every collision. That explains the dripping sound. Why are they incapable of flying in an efficient, straight line? I singled one out to track it with the torch light. It was facing the nest whilst flying in a series of ever-increasing arcs away from it. The movement looked like a hypnotic act of worship, every conceivable angle of the nest was being lovingly memorised as if the insect had just witnessed a miracle inside. “The wasps are trying to tell me something,” I thought, swiftly followed by, “I’m losing it. Mary, mother of God preserve me.”

*

Biography

Fiona’s short stories and poetry have been published in The Irish Literary Review, Spontaneity Magazine, Into The Void, Dodging The Rain and Skylight47 amongst others. She grew up in Ireland but has lived most of her life in England and Australia. She currently lives near a volcano in New Zealand. Follow her on Twitter @Fionaperry17.

Bayveen O’Connell; Collooney Man

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Collooney Man

The storm woke me, cleaved the old tree and threw my bones into the air to feel the darts of Connaught rain in the shadow of my Maeve in her cairn. Someone in the sky was throwing spears of light. Barely a man when I was buried face down and alone, I was catapulted into a new time and space, with half of me tangled in these roots. Who were my people? What was my crime? Why was I brought back? And my bed, my eternal bed exploded?

     The wind died down and dry leaves scraped along the marrow, drying me, though I felt no cold. Days and nights passed. I saw the stars hadn’t changed. Cows kept their distance from the cavity left by the wrenched tree. It seemed that cow pats looked the same but gave me little bother without a nose to smell them with.  A farmer appeared with a dog a few times. The dog sniffed, whined and made to go for my leg bone, while the farmer clutched his chest and just peered down at me with his gob gaping.

     Not long after, more folks came with white gloves, masks, brushes and tiny spades. These strange hands were gentler than those that buried me. My skull was carefully plucked from the high roots, my shoulders and spine unwound and lifted down, and I glimpsed my hips and thighs being dug out little by little. The touch put me in mind of a mother or a lover. All lost and long gone. 

     I was put on trays with little tags, covered in sacks and placed in a strange cart that was driven from the inside. Later, under a very strong light near my eye sockets, the people with gloves and masks put me together again. They took each bit of me, looked at it, put it back down and made a little scrawl on their vellum.  Staring at me and shaking their heads, they smiled excitedly. I wanted to tell them that I was just old bones.

     Couldn’t I have stayed looking up at the sky after having my face full of dirt for all these years? If I’d been able to reunite the pieces of myself, where would I have gone? Taken the back road towards Strandhill, struggled up the slopes of Knocknarea, and knocked on Maeve’s grave to see if she was awake?

     I missed my earth blanket with its peace and quiet. It wasn’t much of a grave but it was mine. Someone was done with me all those days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries before and placed me there. Did Maeve really toss me back up to have all these eyes on me? To be danced around like a bonfire?

     The people disappeared and the giant indoor sun went out. It was no place to sleep – on some table made of silver. Please Maeve, I prayed through broken teeth, send another storm, set me free once more.  

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Biography

Bayveen O’Connell lives in Dublin and delights in dark things. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in The Bohemyth, Nilvx, Rag Queen Periodical and Molotov Cocktail. She is currently seeking a home for her Historical Gothic novel set in a medieval village. 

Kurt Tucholsky; Flu Remedy

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Flu Remedy

At the earliest signs of the flu—recognizable by a slight tingling in the nose, foot cramps, coughing, a shortage of money, and an aversion to going to work the next morning—one should gargle a pinch of ground cocaine mixed with half a drop of iodine. This helps the flu to take hold.

The flu, also known as Spanish flu, influenza, and the common cold (in latin: the sniffles), is spread by nervous bacteria which have themselves come down with a cold: the so-called infectious animalcules. The flu is sometimes accompanied by fever, which begins at 128 degrees Fahrenheit. On days when the stock-markets are strong, the flu is somewhat milder; when the markets are weak the flu is stronger—so it’s generally stronger. In order to expedite contagion, male flu-sufferers are advised to kiss a woman; female flu-sufferers, a man. Consult a medical professional if you are unsure of your sex. Contagion can also be achieved by visiting a cough-house (or so-called “theater”). But avoid covering your mouth when you cough: this is unhealthy for the bacteria. The flu is not strictly-speaking contagious, but it is an infectious disease.

Cold compresses always did my husband the world of good—for best results cook up a warm batch of semolina pudding, pack it in a linen cloth, eat it, and then give the patient some brandy—within two hours the patient should be tipsy; after another hour, blind drunk. In lieu of cognac, furniture polish can also be used.

It’s best to avoid all vegetables, soup, butter, bread, fruit, compote and dessert. Homoeopaths are advised to lick a five-Pfennig stamp three times a day, or, if the fever is particularly high, a ten-Pfennig stamp.

One must not leave the bed under any circumstances—it does not necessarily have to be one’s own bed. In case of chills, woolen stockings should be worn, preferably around the neck. To avoid bare legs, wrap each leg in a detachable shirt collar. The main thing is warmth: so a trip to the thermal baths is in order. On the return journey, make sure to sit on the top deck of the omnibus, but have the other passengers close their mouths to avoid a draught.

Conventional medicine is powerless against the flu. It is therefore a idea good to hang a pendulum over the belly: if it swings from right to left, it’s influenza; but if it swings from left to right then you’ve got a cold on your hands. Wash your hands immediately and proceed to Dr. Weissenberg for treatment. Take the white cheese he prescribes and smear it directly onto the flu; sticking it to the underside of the bed is a sign of medical ignorance and hard-heartedness.

Under no circumstances should you bring this mysterious ailment to a so-called “Doctor.” If you have the flu you’re better off asking Frau Meyer. Frau Meyer always has a remedy. If there is an outbreak of flu within a circle of acquaintances, it is sufficient for one member of the circle to seek treatment—the others can just follow the same instructions.

Principal remedies include: Camomile tea, elderberry tea, magnolia tea. rubbertree tea, and cactus tea.

These remedies go back to our grandmother’s days and are not particularly effective. Our modern age has seen the advent of new means of supporting the pharmaceutical industry. Popular flu remedies include: Aspirol, Pyrimidine, Bysopeptan, Ohrolax, Primadonna, Bellapholisiin, and Ethyl-Phenil-Lekaryl-Parapherinan Dynamite acetylene Koollomban-Piporol—In the latter case, it’s enough to pronounce the name several times in quick succession. Take all these remedies immediately—for as long as they help—in alphabetical order (“Ph” counts as a single letter). Bicarbonate of soda also does wonders for one’s health.

Prophylactic injections (lac, from the Greek. Lit: “milk” or “lake”) are proven to be particularly successful after treatment. These injections have a 100% success rate in cases of flu which are already over.

Americans are known to treat flu by filling cold compresses with hot Swedish punch; Italians keep their right arm extended in the air for long durations; the French ignore the flu, just as they ignore the winter, while the Viennese write lengthy feuilletons each time they fall ill. We Germans tend to treat the matter more methodically:

We go to bed, catch the flu and don’t get up again until we have a really high fever—at which point we rush off into the city to take care of some urgent business or other. A telephone by the bedside of female patients can considerably lengthen the course of the illness.

The flu was invented by the English priest, Rev. Jonathan Flue in 1725; it has been scientifically curable since 1724.

The signs of a full recovery include back pain, coughing, foot cramps, and a slight tingling sensation in the nose. These symptoms however do not belong—as the layman might be inclined to believe—to the old flu, but to a new one. The duration of a common domestic house-flu is three weeks with medical treatment, twenty-one days without medical treatment. Additionally, male patients suffer from so-called “self-pity” with roughly the same amount of fuss that women exhibit during childbirth.

Julius Caesar’s go-to remedy for flu was laurel-leaf soup; at the Vanderbilts’ palace they prefer platinum-broth with soft-boiled pearls.

I’d like to conclude my remarks on the subject with the words of the world-renowned Fluologist Professor Dr. Dr. Dr. Ovaritius: The flu is not a disease—It’s a state of being!

1931

Translated by Daniel Kennedy

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Biography

Kurt Tucholsky (1890–1935) was a German-Jewish writer, journalist and one of the most influential satirists of his time. He wrote under multiple pseudonyms for a variety of magazines and newspapers, most notably die Weltbühne. He tirelessly and mercilessly satirised those he considered to be the enemies of democracy and human rights, but grew increasingly pessimistic about the future of his country.
He left Germany in 1924 and travelled widely before eventually settling in Sweden in 1930. In 1933 the Nazis revoked his German citizenship and burned his books.