SHREWSBURY FLASH FICTION
A magazine of writing by the Shrewsbury Flash Fiction group. It follows an earlier webpage created by our founder and mentor, Pauline Fisk, who sadly died at the start of the year.
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Wednesday 9 October 2024
Blessing from Brigid, by Bethany Rivers
Monday 23 September 2024
Sunday 15 September 2024
Conjugations, by Peter Shilston
My father used to enjoy conjugating certain ideas in the manner of the Latin verbs we had to learn at school (Amo - amas - amat: I love, you (singular) love, he loves, etc). This one sounds particularly apposite to certain current disputes:-
I am firm
You are obstinate
He (or she!) is a pig-headed idiot
We stick to our principles
You are doctrinaire
They are utterly blind to the true state of affairs
Here's one about going on holiday:-
I am a traveller
You are a tourist
He goes on coach trips
We have discovered a marvellous little Greek island
You have pushed the prices up alarmingly
They have ruined the place completely
This one, about racist feelings, is best done back to front:-
They are Nazis
You are bigots
We only want to stay with the sort of society we're used to
He is a racist
You are prejudiced
I have plenty of black friends, but ....
Matthew Parris recently produced a new one in the "Times", concerning freedom of speech:-
I am fearlessly outspoken
You had better watch what you say
He should be no-platformed
he didn't suggest a plural.
No doubt you could supply more examples
Saturday 31 August 2024
Seamus Heany vaguely, by Barry Tench
I only ever close my kitchen window when it’s really windy. The frame is so ill-fitting there seems little point, so it rests at ninety percent rattling on its metal arm. Occasionally a pigeon will land on the sill and look in over the ceramic white sink. I live in the centre of town, so garden birds are rare. This morning I come face to beak with a crow sheltering from the 8.00am drizzle. It doesn’t fly off or even flinch as I enter the kitchen barefoot. It tilts its head and shifts its weight leg to leg.
Thursday 8 August 2024
Being watched, by Peter Morford
My grand-daughter is always teasing me about what she called my candle-powered payphone. Now that she had graduated with honours in Physics and Artificial Intelligence she had the newest phone on the market as her father’s prize. She decided that I could have her two year old model. What’s more, she’d tutor me. So began my education in state of the art communication.
As time passed I got more emails than before. The spam filter protected me but I intrigued by some of them. For instance, I was congratulated for exceeding my exercise target, having apparently walked an average five mile per day for the last month. A map appeared, showing my driving routes over the same period. The places I’d visited glowed in red.
Stranger still, I had a message from an organisation called Reporting about Your Appliances. The first one told me that my car, a Renault, had a suspension fault with a 60% chance of failure in the next 200 miles. I should take it to my garage. I did. They agreed, fixed and charged.
A few days later, came another message about my computer, the gist of which was to thank me for visiting Sainsburys and invite me to complete a three-minute questionnaire about the shop’s cleanliness, price satisfaction, staff manners and parking. I might even win a prize. Similar reports were invited about my tour of Dudmaston, the Farm-shop at Ludlow and a visit to the Crown last Sunday and that morning’s visit to the dentist.
Another day there was a message about my electric kettle. Its thermostat was cutting the power prematurely. I granted that the tea had tasted rather poor lately. Another report warned me about my lawn mower. The blades were worn and were tearing the grass. I was beginning to feel that I’d had enough of this phony interference via shades of Big Brother and the surveillance society. I phoned Anna to find she was still in Majorca with Tom, so I simply said I had communication problems which could wait until her return.
For another two weeks I had further reports. The clothes-washer was running a bearing. I checked that with the shop which had supplied me a few months ago, they agreed and fixed. Miraculously, no charge.
Three weeks later, daughter and boyfriend were back, tanned, fit and happy to be home in autumnal England. She asked me how I was getting on with her superphone. I related and asked how did the App got the data, some of which was correct.
“Have you seen this article in the Times?” she asked, handing me a copy. It reported that new Renault cars would, in future, be equipped with an App which would detect all the errors and signs of careless driving. Speeding, lane-roaming, tail-gating, letting attention wander, clumsy gear changes and jerky driving – all would be noted and saved. And what to do with the information? The computer would reveal the findings to the motorist who would apparently improve his driving.
But my suspicious mind could again see the sinister Governmental ploy, licking its lips over the new course of fines and taxes.
Sunday 7 July 2024
On the Severn, by Peter G. Shilston
Suddenly my wife said, "Look!"
a tiny flash of
but not out the other side.
Many times we returned to that bridge.
hoping to see him again
perched motionless on a twig
scanning the river below for
minnows and sticklebacks,
then diving, an iridescent meteor,
into the brown waters.
But he never came back.
Sunday 30 June 2024
Eden Rock', by the Cornish poet Charles Causley.
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock: My father, twenty-five, in the same suit Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack Still two years old and trembling at his feet. My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat, Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass. Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light. She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue. The sky whitens as if lit by three suns. My mother shades her eyes and looks my way Over the drifted stream. My father spins A stone along the water. Leisurely, They beckon to me from the other bank. I hear them call, 'See where the stream-path is! Crossing is not as hard as you might think.' I had not thought that it would be like this.'