Photograph, by Steve Harrison

“Just frame yourself love, it will all work out in the end; or you could always have a Jammy Dodger” As she looked at the black and white photograph he gave her, she realised the truth.

   She realised that the silver salts in the surface layer of the 7 by 5 inches of photographic paper had been changed and unravelled , those tiny particles had been energised , moved, re arranged then fixed in time and space.

Over time the image might fade if he hadn’t been careful, or had rushed those alchemy magic moments in the red light of the dark room, but for once he had safely stored the negative and could print a pristine perfect copy for future celebrations.

   She had always thought of herself as a mirror reflecting light but now she realised she was absorbing light and changing within. It had been an odd process, being  turned upside down, losing focus, making snap decisions, listening to but ignoring the negative comments; but she liked the way she was developing in novel ways to see the world in this new light: she had moved from one side of the lens to the other.

   She questioned what was happening on these blurry days and had turned to folksy advice to put it into perspective. The long shelf-length of self-help books were left untouched: the yellow post it notes inside the American Advice Manuals could curl a bit more.

Her Gran would have recognised the symptoms and in her pre-counselling age would have prescribed a simple mantra.

She would try to make this homespun aprony advice work: if only she could find a string on him to unravel or maybe to tie. He could sidestep her questions and dodge all the compliments and downplay and deny the huge significance of the picture.

“Look”, he said “it only took a 1/125 of a second, this is just an amateur print. In fact I used cat litter trays to do developing not those Posh Patterson ones”

   But he knew there was some magic accordance going on, since the picture had started to ghost itself into reality in the red shadows of the darkroom.

She would put up with this depreciating manner, even the lousy puns that came out when she asked when her picture would be ready.

   “Not long at all, darling, and don’t worry, as one day your prints will come!”

   She ignored this but realised the truth. The picture had joined the rest of her deep memory album that had started with the crinkled edged snaps of a photo corner sepia childhood, this was a huge change, not a new page but a whole empty album for future adventures.

  The significance of the picture in her memory now had increased as she realised she had added a sound track of the tinkle of the bell in the local art shop. She had heeded Granny’s advice and approached another freeze-frame moment in her life.

    She took the print carefully from its temporary store in a favourite book, kept flat like the pressed flowers from another important spring and she gleamed as she asked:

“Do you have a suitable frame and mount for this 7 by 5 black and white print please?”

Piss Pots, by Anthony Bloor

Extracts from a letter written by Mr Jackson, manager of the alum works at Boulby, North Yorkshire, 1784

                                

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun. A chill wind continues to blow from the East, bringing sea frets to our coast from Whitby to Scarborough, and a ghostly pallor hangs over the land. A hoar frost has covered the works, which makes it hard for the men for the earth is like iron and does not yield easily to pick and shovel. We hope that the weather improve in the new year, lest the waters freeze and we be forced to lay men off. But I fear 1785 may bring more distress, with Sir Thomas’s wishes that we give up getting urine from the Manor. Sir Thomas has made it known that Lord Musgrave was fined by the Court Leet for allowing his casks of urine to become a nuisance. Even so, that was in London, where the casks stood on street corners and the shopkeepers complained of the annoyance. Our collectors ride by at night and carry two barrels per horse, each barrel being large enough to hold 25 gallons of urine. They collect chamber lye from our own men, who gain one penny per firkin for their urine. Should we be forced to make other arrangements, the extra expense will cost us dear and our men will face a loss. Both Sir Thomas and Lord Musgrave have expressed a wish to make urine a Manorial right which would be sad indeed as Sir Thomas could henceforth prevent Lord Musgrave, or anyone else, from collecting urine in the Manor, and where would such a measure leave our men? The demand for this article is increasing and we shall be obliged to have urine brought by sea and pay the costs of the transport. We have put off making a decision until the new year, but the men must have heard rumours of the Lord’s wishes, for a mob had gathered outside our gates when I rode home this evening and were protesting most loudly. They were there all eventide and the worse for drink I fear, for they were still there in the early hours, calling me "piss pot" and other unsavoury names. They were still there when the collectors came.

Note: Urine was widely used as a commodity from the 1600s to the late nineteenth century, not only in the manufacture of alum, but also in the production of saltpetre and gunpowder and in the scouring of raw wool. This fictional account is based on research by Alan Morrison as recorded in his booklet Alum: North East Yorkshire’s fascinating story of the first chemical industry.

The Wrath of the Gods, by Peter Shilston

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun. Over us there hangs a pall of black cloud, lightning-crowned, and there is an evil stench in the air. Strange things fall from the sky. It is plain that we have incurred the anger of the gods. Perhaps I should have fled, as others did, but now it is too late: only thieves and murderers walk the streets. 
   I have locked and bolted my doors. I have sufficient food and drink, but it is tiring to read and write by the feeble light of this little lamp. But I should not have to wait long for the final doom: the death of this city; perhaps of the whole world. 
  I wonder; what did we do to so anger the gods? We always offered the prescribed sacrifices, with due reverence. Somehow, all unknowing, we must have committed a sacrilege so terrible that it shook the very foundations of the earth: so terrible indeed that the precise nature of it cannot be revealed even to us.
   My eyes grow tired. I shall cease writing and try to sleep. I wonder if I shall ever awake in this life? I do not know if anyone will be left alive to read this page, but I sign off thus: in the first year of the Emperor Titus Falvius Vespasianus; I, Marcus Barinius Scapo; citizen of Pompeii.

(Note: this story and the three that follow are all variations on the theme: "Write a story beginning with these words")

Trading with the Arabs, by Peter Morford

“As I write this page it is 6 days since I saw The Son,” I emailed to my Chairman. He would know what I meant.

          When he was in England, The Son, Sheikh Ibn ben Mohammed, could have passed for a well-tanned Englishman, in his Saville Row suit, bowler hat and English manners. Six days ago he had been my dinner guest at the Savoy Grill. And, because he was drinking my wine we were on Ben and Jerry terms. To have discussed business during a meal would have been unmannerly.

          As we sipped his port he wanted my guidance on the matter of casinos and nightclubs and “Where are the prettiest women for the right price?”

          “I thought you’d been here often enough to know,” I said.  He lit his cigar.  The head waiter whispered into his ear and, with reluctance, we went out for a walk in the Embankment Gardens.

          At last it was time for business. “I am not authorized to sign the contract with your company,” he said. “My father, Crown Prince Frazel, has the final decision. We must meet again in Dihary. I will fly back tomorrow and request an audience for Monday next. Will ten o’clock suit you?”

           “Can I be sure that your father will keep the appointment?”

          He smiled. “Of course, Jerry. I will call him now – if you will excuse me,” he said as he took out his cell phone.

On Sunday afternoon I touched down at the peaceful Dihary Airport. From my suite I phoned Mohammed to invite him for a non-alcoholic drink. “I cannot come now, Mr Conway,” he said “but my father will see us at ten tomorrow as arranged. Please be punctual.”  The Sheikh was in his formal mode.

          The next morning I arrived in good time. A receptionist in a burkha took me to a waiting area and offered me coffee, cakes and a pile of English papers. 

          At ten nobody had called for me, I checked with the burkha. “Later, but soon,” she said.

          I returned to my computer, keeping in touch with my London Office.  At one o’clock the burkha came to me.  “You are invited to lunch. Follow me please.” She led me to a table by the window so that I could admire my most recent project; a ninety storey tower.  Our next building would bring even more glory to the Kingdom.   

          Meanwhile the Siduas have their own concept of time.  As buyers they always keep the seller waiting. I finished a leisurely meal and returned to my computer. At 4 o’clock Burkha came over to me and said, “Sheikh Mohammed and Crown Prince Frazel will see you in the morning at 10am.”  No apology.

          Nobody came from Tuesday to Friday, when the secretary told me, “Monday morning at 10…please.” Was there a smile in those dark eyes?

          All this time I had no word from Ben, sorry, Mohammed.  I had called his mobile – no connection- and his office was clearly instructed not to put me through.  Had we lost the contract? My Chairman was getting restive when he skyped me.

          “Don’t worry Sir George. They need this deal more than we do. All they’re doing is showing a bit of Muslim contempt for the infidel.  I’m patient because I’ll get it in the end,” I said.

On the second Monday morning I decided to give them some of their own medicine.  I arrived at 11 and was asked to wait. I settled down to coffee and The Times.

          At 12.45 Sheikh Mohammed came in, wearing a djellaba and  head-dress. We certainly were not on Ben and Gerry terms.

          “Good morning, Mr. Conway. The Crown Prince is ready to meet you and discuss the contract. We will go to the palace at 2 o’clock. You will be my guest for lunch.”

          Afterwards we drove to the palace. It was 2.45 but Mohammed was unconcerned.

          “My father will be here soon,” he said.

          “Perhaps,” I said as his entourage came into the room and a different burkha lady brought in more coffee. The old man stopped before me and bowed formally.

          “I am honoured to welcome you to my humble tent, Mr Conway. You will take coffee with me?