The only pebble on the beach, by Pauline Fisk

(Pauline Fisk, who founded Shrewsbury Flash Fiction, sadly died four years ago. I am here republishing one of her stories as a tribute and a memorial)

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Nothing prepared me for it.  It was not an exceptional day. We were on my favourite beach - that’s as special as it got - me and my friends having a good time. 

They were the ones who saw her first - a woman down at the water’s edge who looked just like me.  I became aware of the nudging, and glanced where they were pointing. Dear God, it was like looking at myself. The shock broke over me like a wave. It wasn’t only the clothes that did it – the black t-shirt and sawn-off jeans that were just like mine. It wasn’t even the hair turned white prematurely like mine, or cut like mine, or the jutting chin or cheekbones. 

No, it was the way that other person carried herself.  It went through me like a knife, separating blood from bone. If that ever happens to you, you’ll know what I mean. She came slowly up the beach, fishing for pebbles with her eyes, picking up her choices, pocketing the special ones, throwing away the rest. She was lost in a world of her own. Except that it wasn’t her world.  It was mine.  

By now, our entire party was riveted, looking from her looking like me to me looking, I guess, exactly the way I felt - which was overwhelmingly embarrassed. This was worse than any possible public dress malfunction. If my soul had been revealed to the world's gaze, I couldn’t have felt more exposed. Never have I felt so vulnerable.

Only when that other person drew level did she raise her eyes. Instinctively I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. I could have asked who she was, but I wasn’t curious.  I hoped she’d walk on. I didn’t want her asking who I was. Didn’t want to find I had a secret twin. Didn’t want to wonder what my mother, all these years, had kept hidden from me. Dear God, hidden from us.

That other person saw, of course. I didn’t have to see her seeing me to know she saw her replica.  Her shock broke over me like another wave. I swear I felt the two of us being sucked down the beach like pebbles running for the sea. Each had thought she was the only pebble on the beach, special and unique.  Now here I was, making less of her whilst she made something ordinary of me.

So, there you have it. Not much of a story you might think.  Just some person looking for pebbles but finding me, skirting round the subject whilst I hid my face, then sauntering on, emptying her pockets as if something had been spoiled. 

But there are secrets here that will never be revealed. A hidden truth set in cheekbones, chin and hair. A name I’ll never know because I didn’t ask, enthroned on my beach, surrounded by my friends, missing my chance, whilst my other self walked away, wearing her solitude like a crown.

Copyright © Pauline Fisk 2013 .
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Happy Christmas!

A Happy Christmas to everyone!

I found this charming 15th century Nativity scene at the Petit Palais in Avignon.

Feedback, by David Bingham

I have a problem: I act too readily in response to the advice people give me. So when my tutor said, "James, your work is a bit self-indulgent: why not try writing it in the third person?", 'I' became 'he', as he thought, "She's right, of course". And when she said, "Give your main character a different name", Gustav took over. His left eye twitched when she further suggested he should have a distinctive mannerism.

   Next, wolves howled in the distance and snow piled up against the walls of the cabin, following her remark about the need for an exotic setting; and after hearing her views on developing backstories, it was revealed when he was a boy his father had taught him to use an axe.

   "Finally, you need significant events", she said. "The more dramatic, the better!"
   So Gustav looked down at the pool of blood which oozed from the gaping wound in her head. He didn't regret what he'd done: she had it coming. All that moaning about being stuck out there with only him to talk to! What had she expected: barn dancing? Gustav dragged her body out into the blizzard and left it deep in the forest.

Then he returned to his cabin, took out his recently-purchased Surface Pro4 and typed, "It's a hot summer's day here in Wolverhampton and I'm off to Costa to get myself a Frappuchino".

Unprepared: a dream, by Peter Shilston

I had spent the morning working on a cupboard-full of someone else’s junk, extracting the few items that were worth saving and putting aside the remained to be thrown out, and then I met Kom. He must have spotted how bored I looked, and he asked me if I was yet ready to be initiated. He had mentioned this before, and this time I said yes.
Initiated into what, you might ask. Here Kom would employ a word which he said was untranslatable: somewhere between a religious faith and a view of life. I took it to mean some exotic form of Buddhism, or something on those lines. I didn’t inquire; but I certainly wasn’t prepared for what followed. Kom led me into the older part of town and through a nondescript door to a courtyard beyond. On the opposite side was an open doorway, which was evidently where I should go. A couple of other people were waiting there already: they did not turn to look at me. Kom said that etiquette required that I should wait for the person ahead to disappear out of sight before I entered. I asked Kom if someone would instruct me what to do, and he said yes, of course.
While I waited a watched an old man in the courtyard who was going through a dance, involving many singular jumps and hops. His bare legs looked wiry and strong, and he moved as lightly as any gymnast or ballet-dancer, He looked totally self-absorbed and took  no notice of anyone else. It seemed plain that he was an adept. After a while the way ahead of me was clear.

Inside the doorway there was a metal ladder leading upwards. I climbed it. The climb took a long time, and was partly in darkness, but at last I emerged into daylight.  
I was high above the town, standing on a platform of glistening white quartz. It looked like a natural formation, though it was not much wider than the top of a column, and the sides were almost as steep. I did not like this at all. I once went rock-climbing with a friend, and felt most uncomfortable on the exposed heights. I sat down, hoping it would be safer. Then the instructions came:
“Conquer your fear. Look down on the city bone-yard and do not be afraid” One of the oddest things is that I can’t remember whether these words were written down, or spoken, or just popped into my head. I looked. There was a city below me, but it did not resemble the town I had come from. In was totally silent, and I could not see a single human being anywhere. Beyond the city there was countryside and further off, faint through the haze, a range of mountains. It was not scenery I recognised. Then I looked to see what to do next. There was a sort of path down, but it looked very slippery and dangerous, without anything to hold onto. More instructions came:
“Why the need to hurry? You can stay here for ever if you wish”

I cannot for the life of me say how I did get down: I have no memory of it whatsoever. I wonder if I fainted. But I certainly didn’t fall, or I wouldn’t be here today. Am I, perhaps, in a sense, still up there on that high and perilous seat? I tried discussing this with Kom, but he cut me short, saying that everyone’s experience was different and it was best not to talk about the subject: he would take me to the next stage when the time was right. What his own initiation involved he refused to say.

Don't Touch, by Martin Needham

It is now the 734th year since the outbreak of the Great and Merciful Peace and all the inhabitable areas have agreed upon two supreme commandments. These two rules were  born out of the  necessity of circumstance and have transformed human existence. 

Early in the time of Scarcity  the elders who took control of the holy google-net ruled that all human life was sacred and may not be taken, every individual must eat in moderation and exercise to maximise their lifespan. The eggs and sperm are still taken from the young at 17 years of age to be protected so that selected embryos can be produced  in gestation tanks when required by their family.  

For the first  two hundred years humanity prospered, people expected to live to 120 and then 150 and now 200 years. The sterile homes and blessings of the virtual worlds created by the omniscient and most revered google-net  meant that people continued to live entertained and safe existences.  So the planet was fully repopulated until the time of the  Super Abundance, coinciding with the final impotency of antibiotics. 

At this time the second great rule was revealed to us. Thou shalt not treat the sick. So for half a millennium we have lived in the midst of a dichotomy of rules born out of conflicting necessities which are  sustained by a personal greed for life and enshrined in religion. Thus we preserve and revere our online lifespan but we may not interfere with the sick. In this way the overall balance of life is preserved.  We study the great sciences of prevention, sterilisation  and vaccination that we might live longer. Everyone must wear their life preservers; white synthetic spider silk suits that armour us against the scourge of abrasions. We live within our sterosphere helmets that protect us from infection. We conduct our business through virtually controlled machines and exercise in virtual worlds inspired by reality and imagination.

I am a servant of the great and most majestic high google. In my first half century I was one of the developers of the most miraculous world time web, which has become the great investment sensation of our  age. We succeeded in drawing in  digital signals refracted back from the black star gravity pool. These data streams from the birth of our most revered google net brought us knowledge of what we now call  "the age of visceral engagement" .  At first we were shocked and sickened  by the violence, bare flesh and physical contact. It has since been used to reform our virtual entertainments.  

This is my first attempt to send a super accelerated data burst on the reverse path back through the curve of the  space/time depression. There is no rule against it, but in my heart I know there should be.  Studying your lives for over a hundred years now I feel compelled to warn you of the unfortunate alignments of rules, culture and circumstances that have enslaved us. I realise that this act may threaten our own existence.

I am 198 years old. I have followed the rules, lived long and been  well rewarded by our standards,  but perhaps less well in your judgements. I will send richer data streams after this simple old fashioned coded message, but try to imagine.  We must endure our illness and the consequences of them, we must not intervene.  We do not touch and remain untouched. 

I have recently lost another greatgreatgreatgrandchild in such circumstances as further fuel my doubts about the rules by which we live. We had stepped outside our block - risky but not against the rules. Five year old Louis saw the leaves blowing down from the trees. Before he could be stopped, he put up his visor that he might chase and catch a leaf. It brushed his eye as it floated down: infection followed and then death. 

I have stood coldly by and watched death too many times, and I know that you would judge me ill by the standards of your time for doing so.  Our children's instincts betray our true nature. It is  buried deeper as we mature by the consistent layers of conditioning that we must not touch.   When I first looked back at your time I was shocked, offended and physically sickened by the way that you touch each other, walk barefooted, breathe the air. We had lost the words for two mouths touching and even now I cannot bring myself to write it,  but now I am obsessed  by it and jealous.

 Preserve your humanity not your individual  selves, live a real and dirty life. Set your descendants free.

Yours in perpetual  servitude.            Gideon

The Politics of Poverty, by Annabelle Jane Palling

Those who govern my state have to wait

Till my body sinks deep into rumpled cotton
(I am too lazy to iron the sheets).
Then tiny, aspiring tyrants inside
Get ready for Big Things to happen.

Parliamentarians, some 40 or 50,
Gather round to propound at length.
Infinitesimal fists fly or shake
There are drunken backslaps and brash huzzahs
(And sometimes sulking in front of the fire,
Because someone else came up with it first).

At dawn, they turn in – the bill drafted and sent
To be readied and placed on the back of my tongue,
Either neatly stacked and tied with fine ribbon
Or crumpled and covered in wine stains and blots.
But ready to tumble out when I wake
Shocked by the strange new shape and odd taste.

The Crow, by Georgia Kelly

Help

for I am lost,

fall to the ground,

you collect my skin

fresh gum collecting in teeth,
pull bits of my being
into somekind of reformation,
clumsy stuff: pieces and parts
like rolled-up socks and secrets
into the back of your drawer.

In the darkness
claws begin to unfurl;
Where feet once grew
feathers sprout sporadically
from craters, pits, holes;
the pores you made.
Unbeknown, I thrive on mites and lice,
wing, legs, shells, flesh
surrender to my hooked trap.

You

You with your futile limbs
and gawky oafish frame:
Forgetful of my caged presence
till the search for an item mislaid
cuts me from my oaken jail.
I am a deathly shadow
against the whitewash of yout walls.
In the keep of your chamber
I peck you dry.
As crimson swells and soaks,
seeping down halls
stairs onto the street,

Take your last breath as I fly away.