It’s where I put my ‘black cat’ stories: last to be picked, hard to see unless you look hard, not everybody’s cup of tea. There’s a tiny trilogy up there today on the matter of being lost. At least one is a vengeance piece for time not very well wasted!
Written for Every Day Fiction’s one-time invitational.
Photo credit: adapted from Polaris the north star by pakpolaris-d34x4z1 via Google images.
“If you walk on the cracks, the bears will get you.”
“No, they won’t.”
But they did. Not bears exactly, more trans-dimensional, multi-versal, quantum-coherents with no sense of humour.
‘The Spooking of Einstein’ is in Urban Fantasist’s Grievous Angel today. 290 words, free to read.
Control was a competition piece and reached the finals of its group. MashStories have voiced it and posted the audio on Soundcloud. I don’t know if the choice of voice artist was coincidental but she is appropriately British and does a jolly good job!
This story was a finalist in Flash Fiction Chronicles’ 2014 String-o-Ten and, like many stories, it has a history. This meant very little at the time, beyond personal awe at the way the cosmic forces of gravity and the motion of the moon and planets become crystallised at the turning of a tide on a river. Finding a bunch of roses lodged in a shrub on the river bank where they would not be swept out to sea or blown away sparked the theme – a woman investing hope in those forces following a deep tragic loss. If magic exists anywhere in the universe, she wants to believe it will be here.
The river is the Adur in Sussex and the shrub just a few hundred yards from the A27 which, this last week, has been the focus of world attention after a jet ploughed into traffic lights there*. Eleven people died, many more were direct witnesses waiting at the lights just behind those who were hit, or travelling on the eastbound carriageway. Others saw the ball of flame from the airport where they were spectators, and thousands sat in shock at home as social media and TV put out video, photos, and stunned analysis throughout that day and the several that followed.
The road is partially opened today (August 30th) and on Tuesday I will be on it taking kittens for their vaccinations. I will be feeling simultaneously selfish and grateful that I was not there on that day and nor was anyone I know**.
This is the story:
Here the Magic Must Be
The river was almost at its zenith, that tipping point between the heaving press of the sea from the coast and the thundering weight of dark, fresh water draining from the hills. It glittered and sparkled along its banks as if strung with fairy lights.
The woman twiddled her handkerchief until it knotted and then pushed it into her pocket. Twice a day, every day, all of heaven and earth balanced here on this point, she thought. For reassurance, she felt for the handle of the knife that sat quiet next to the handkerchief and watched a pair of terns shrieking and wheeling overhead. They landed on the river, drifting up-stream at opposing angles until the tidal cusp caught them, held them, suspended them in the moment.
The woman saw it. With sudden urgency, she pulled out the knife and reached to one side where a small regiment of roses lay swaddled in cellophane. She lifted the pale tag to her mouth and breathed her warm breath into the name written there, pressed it between her palms to remind him of her flesh, and pierced her finger on a thorn to give him her blood.
Then she stood, cut the flowers free of their wrapping, and approached the water’s edge. If magic existed anywhere it had to be here at the turning of tides, in the repeated drowning and birthing of land. She crouched down, touched the petals to the water and wished.
*Approach video clips with caution
**Eight victims have been named so far; one is the son of a friend’s close friend. Like me, many will be waiting and hoping not to recognise the last three names when they come but some will not be so fortunate.
Albert’s teeth are opinionated, unlike Albert. All day they clack on about things for which Albert has no interest or that he considers they should keep to themselves. In LA Review of LA, issue nine, June 2015. 299 words #literary #noir
There were many parts of Rosa that acted outside of her direct control and she would watch from somewhere above or outside while they got on with it. Most of the time they just responded to whoever was in the room, but occasionally one took the initiative and went out on a limb, so to speak.
Part of the current Mash Stories competition, Control contains the three necessary key words, ankle, fashion, and criminal, and opens a small window on the world of a woman or girl victim of abuse. The story draws on recent events in Yorkshire, UK where child victims of sexual exploitation were sometimes themselves criminalised and returned to their abusers, and reflects the dissociative impact of sustained trauma such that the prose is also detached and relies on implication and inference for its impact.
Probably not a story to enjoy, as such, but I hope it has meaning and does not betray the victims of this appalling crime.
Spirits of the Freeze-Sea is the story of the dreadful consequences for Izzy and her sister Shalla when Izzy forgets she mustn’t close her eyes to the ice spirits. Told in three parts, Spirits of the Freeze-Sea brings together All the Birthdays*, Dancing to the Wild Ice**, and the new Shalla’s First Ice Shatter. Available for eReader download from Cut A Long Story, price 99p.
*First seen on Readwave
**First seen in Lancaster university DLMA 2013 showcase as Dance to the Wild Ice.
Terminus’, The room stinks; pinned-shut curtains, asleep on their makeshift wire, silently breathe in odours of dead food and trap them there. 275 words. In Fine Linen journal, January 2015. This is a subscription magazine.