Sketch for a science fiction story; by Peter Shilston

 Earth was once ruled by immensely superior beings, possibly come from another planet. They have now departed, leaving a world full of mysterious ruins remaining from their mighty but entirely unknown civilisation.. The few humans still alive produce little for themselves, but mostly just wander through the wreckage in seach of food or of things that might be useful; though in most cases they have no idea what the objects they find are for. 

Long Jump, by Peter Morford

   Looking back, Don Finney knew exactly when his life changed. He would have been seventeen and competing at his college sports finals. He had two events – the 100 metres and the long jump. He won the sprint easily and he went to get his medal from the great Olympian Mike Powell himself.

   “Mike Powell?” you ask. Look him up and you’ll see that he’s been world record holder for the long jump since 1991. His jump of 8.95metres still stands. But for how long? As he put the ribbon round Don’s neck he said “I see you’re doing the long jump later. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

  Don won. “Welcome back, Son. I reckon you’ll be after my record. You’ll be bigger than me in a coupla years. If you’re good enough you could get yourself a scholarship at my University– Irvine, California.”

   Don told his parents what Mr Powell had said. His father’s response was “Go for it. Get all the help you can, train hard. It’s a good ambition and we’ll back you all the way. As my dad said to me – go for a win, go on for the record and then – make sure the record’s memorable. It’s not enough to go an extra centimetre – go for a nice round number. You’ve got to beat 8.95? Be the first man to jump 9.5m Being the first man to hit a nice straight number can’t be taken away from you. That guy Bannister was the first to run the sub-4-minute mile. The record only lasted a few weeks but nobody forgets the man who did it first.”

   In the next two years Finney became known and when he enrolled at Irvine he found a dedicated coach and all the facilities he needed. His coach made him faster on the track and trained him to match his strides to the take-off board. Finney’s “cycling” kicks gave him the extra momentum and more length.

  As everyone knows, he just kept winning until, in the Olympics 2016, he hit world fame. He won a gold but the record still evaded him. Men like him are never satisfied. He was already rich; had an athletic wife and sponsorship dollars poured in. All the time he was winning he was haunted by the ideas of being the first man who beat Powell.…

  Mike Powell encouraged him. “I was 28 when I set my record. You’re only 22. Just keep jumping. Aim to peak at the next Olympics.”

  His dietician tweeked his diet, the coach worked on his speed and technique while his psychologist dealt with his doubts. His agent found him a ghost writer for his weekly syndicated articles, booked his TV appearances and took 10%.

  For two years Don Finney, the “Flying Finn,” was unbeatable. He resisted offers to enter other running events, leaving him to concentrate entirely on the long-jump.

   It must have been on his 25 th birthday when he felt the first twinge. .

Language, by R.B.

 The Original Language is spoken only by God and the angels. It contains the True Names of all things, which were created by these Names being pronounced, and would be annihilated if the Names were pronounced backwards. For this reason, the Names can never be revealed to humans, though there may be clues and riddles to give us hints.

   The True Name of God Himself enabled the whole universe to exist when God uttered it at the Beginning. At the End, He will utter it backwards and the universe will instantly disappear.  

The hitch-hiker, by Peter Shilston

 A huge black-purple cloud like a gigantic sinister mushroom had sat menacingly over Cheshire and south Lancashire all afternoon, threatening imminent downpour up ahead of me. Soon it was officially night-time, though this made no real difference to the visibility, or lack of it.

    I don’t generally pick up hitch-hikers, but the state of the weather made me more merciful usual. Besides, this was a woman, so I daresay some old-fashioned chivalry kicked in too.

   She was good-looking in a slightly blowsy way, but her clothes were unusual. She wore a hat a bit like a traditional gentleman’s topper, and a black dress, with lace-up boots of the Doc Martin’s variety. The most striking feature was her eyes, which were intense and piercing.

       As we drove off I commented on the foul state of the weather. She replied that she didn’t mind it, and then surprised me by talking about how in the past storms were caused by witches, and that some still possessed the power to do this. I don’t talk much when I’m driving, and I reckoned that any human contact would be preferable to the third-rate pop music and inane chit-chat that you get on the radio, so I responded with some vague interjection like “Oh really?” This set her off, and soon, with no further encouragement from me, she was into a detailed discourse about black magic today, and her part in it. She kept turning round to face me; fixing me with those unsettling eyes of hers. I was increasingly puzzled, and uneasy.

    As we joined the M6, the storm was going full blast, the rain came lashing down and we were reduced to a crawl. My companion was delighted. “What a storm!” she chortled, “There must have been some really strong cursing going on to get this! I think I can make a guess as to who’s responsible! I wonder why they did it!” For no reason that I could discover, she began discoursing on initiation rituals, and Tantric sex as a powerful engine for magical power. I told her I’d never been initiated into anything. “Oh, but you must!” she cried. I daredn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

   How was I to get rid of her? It occurred to me that, although I’d told her where I was going, namely, right up to the Lake District, she’d never told me where she was going or where I should drop her off. What on earth was I to do?

    We stopped at a service station, and I filled up with petrol while she nipped inside. While she was away I came to a decision, and I’m afraid I took refuge in an outright lie. I told her that I’d just received a message on my mobile from the friend I was going to stay with, saying that he was surrounded by flood-water and advising me not to come; so I’d have to leave her there, because at the next intersection I’d be turning round and going home. No doubt a more adventurous man would have taken her home and demanded to be instructed in the joys of Tantric sex, so I suppose you could say I chickened out, but there you are.

   The last I saw of her was in the rear view mirror as I drove away. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her as she stood there. I wondered whether she’d claim credit for it.

Saint Ethelbrugha, by O.T.K.

Ethelbrugha has never been officially recognised by the Papacy as a saint, and it is doubtful whether she actually existed. Her legend is as follows:-
   Ethelbrugha was the daughter of an Anglo-Saxon nobleman. Even as a young girl, she would berate her parents' relatives and guests for the immorality of their lives. This often led to her being spanked, but she was in no ways deterred; and later she behaved in the same way towards prsoective husbands chosen by her father. Finally he gave up the struggle in disgust and sent her off to be a nun.
   She gathered around her a community of likeminded sisters noted for their practice of severe mutual discipline, and it is said that even when she was an abbess she would still allow herself to be beaten, as a token of humility. How she died is not known.
   In the 13th century an order of nuns who claimed Ethelbrugha as their inspiration was suppressed by order of Pope Innocent III because of the "scandalous" lives of its members.
   Ethelbrugha is commemmorated only in a handful of chaurches. She is depicted in just one late-Victorian stained-glass window, where she bears her symbol; a cane. It is believed that the donor was the poet A.C.Swinburne. 
   A few years ago an extraordinary earthernware figurine was discovered, dating from the early 16th century. It shows Saint Ethelbrugha with her bottom bared. Scholarly debate continues on whether it was a devotional object, or the work of a Protestant artisan ridiculing her cult.
   Ethelbrugha has recently been hailed as the patron saint of spankers and BDSM enthusiasts. The Vatican has yet to pronounce on the matter. 

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New Self Care, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 

The Usual, by Peter Morford

You would have to say that Mr Jock Birnie is the most reliable and predictable of men. For six days a week, fifty weeks a year he will close his front door and march the quarter mile to his outfitter’s shop, “Birnie and Son, established 1975.” The staff will arrive at 9 o’clock, have just thirty minutes for lunch and leave at 5.40. Mr Birnie will be home at six. Fiona will offer him a glass of sherry and, fifteen minutes later, they will have dinner and a chat.

Fiona likes her soap operas and game-shows. He doesn’t, so at five to seven he always walks the hundred yards to The Rose and Ragwort for his evening drink, his routine for as long as anyone can remember.

I’m looking out of the window now, knowing that Jock’s on his way. I check my watch. He’ll be here any minute now. Dead on time, he comes in, nods to his friends, hangs up his coat, walks to his usual place at the end of the bar. He hauls himself onto the stool, leans against the low back. Elbows on the polished top he smiles at the little brass disc with his name on it. Mr Birnie’s seat.

Joe Partridge, the landlord greets him. “Your usual Mr Birnie?”

“It’s my birthday today. Exactly forty-five years ago, my father bought me my first legal drink in this pub. Your dad served us. You were a baby then so you won’t remember.”

Joe said “I know about it though. Your usual is it?” He knows that Mr Birnie will want a double scotch, single malt. He’ll probably play a game of darts. At eight he’ll treat himself to another double before saying “Good-night all,” at nine sharp. Joe prides himself on knowing his customers.

Jock seems to be thinking. “I’ll make a change tonight,” he says.

“A different scotch ? I’ve got a nice Bourbon.”

Jock growled, “American dishwater.”

“Gin?”

“Tarts’ ruin.”

“Vodka?”

“Russian bilge-water.” Jock leans forward and says “Between you and me, Joe, Doctor Pearson told me I drink too much – what rubbish – and that I should think of retiring. Maybe he’s right. I’m, 63, I can afford it. My assistant could buy me out. I’d keep the premises for the rent. I could take Fiona to New York to see our son. Do a world tour perhaps.”

“So what will you have?” Joe says yet again as two couples come to the bar.

He calls his daughter to help. “So what’s it to be?”

“A coke. Cherry flavour, no ice.”

Joe rummages for a bottle and wonders what the world’s coming to.