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?                                                                             

Prisoner, by Martin Needham

As I write this it is six days since I last saw the sun.

That accursed trickster and deceiver of the emperor dropped me through some poxy trapdoor as I cursed him for what he is. I lie in this deep foul cellar with just two deficient lightwells far above. I am glad that my handbills proclaimed that charlatan for the devil he is. When they find me, the emperor will have him beheaded and his guts fed to the cats for making his loyal and true adviser vanish into thin air and claim it as sorcery.

   I am hoarse and weak from five days of shouting with no food or water. All That son of a dog left me is this damned single slate and stylus to scratch at it. The slate is now almost full again. These few days make me believe it will be clean in the morning.

It is now the beginning of the sixth year of my incarceration.  I regret my lack of faith in the sorcerer. I should not have ridiculed his abilities so publicly and rudely without proper scrutiny of his acts. My position remains unchanged: I receive no food or water and yet miraculously I am renewed each day along with my beloved slate to reflect on my sins and refine my thoughts. I still hope that as I endure my daily penance of line writing, I will reach a point of true repentance and eliminate from my mind all malice towards the wizard. I pray that at that point he will release me from this place.

Over six long decades I have mastered the arts of brevity and of contemplation increasingly free from desire. Serenity lies in the perfection of truth. I praise the wisdom of the great one who granted me this perfect space of eternal peace for the telling and retelling of the one story with ever greater clarity. I feel only love and wonder at the magnificence of my master’s creation. I see with ever deepening respect, the justice and beauty of my existence. I wonder if further revelations are yet to come, and if my spirit has yet reached a point where I might be released to Nirvana?

After six centuries I am overwhelmed by a fresh revelation of my most magnificent miracle-maker’s power; for he had set my contemplative spirit in a most exquisitely carved ivory inro guarded by a lapis scorpion netsuke. When the merchant of this market opened the inro, I was released.  My spirit left its womb and I perceived the scorpion, protector of my peaceful place of contemplation, become wondrously real and strike down the merchant with a venomous sting. Free from the singularity of reflective purpose my mind is fast disappearing: lost in the richness of existence. I take these last moments of consciousness to marvel at the screaming face adorning my former repository, the re-petrified creature and my unfortunate liberator. They were still there when the collectors came. 

The Flute,by Graham Attenborough

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun... I didn't think I'd miss it that much but I do. The consolation is the brightness of the stars against the pitch-black. It's indescribably beautiful but even that becomes familiar. The important thing is to keep busy. Apart from the task of collecting artifacts, my main concern is safety. The possibility of the pod malfunctioning here on the Dark Side is a frightening thought, given that I'd probably be dead before they found me. It's during down time that it gets to you - the aloneness. I'm not really supposed to but I do examine the artifacts. They're incredibly strange. Sometimes I wonder if some of them are simply natural phenomenon but then, others are obviously designed - for something. Take 'the flute' as I call it, it's clearly a metal object. Long and sleek to touch, with small indentations all along its length. It was the first artifact I found and straightaway it reminded me of a musical instrument. I couldn't resist playing with it and, sure enough, treating it like a flute seemed to work. It made sound in my head. Strange unearthly noise and I'm certain that it was vibrating, calibrating in some way. I have it with me now. I'm toying with the idea of keeping it. I know it's madness and that if I'm caught I'll be in the deepest shit imaginable. Still, it could be done. I feel as though I'm meant to have it, or, it's meant to have me.

I'm back in the sun. I've done my shift safely. It was great to regain contact and to hear a human voice again. It won't be long now and I'll be on the ship back to Earth and, if my plan works out, I'll have the flute with me. I've discovered more about how it works. It makes a music that's beyond our understanding, but, better than that, it shows me things, incredible things about where it came from and who, or what, made it. I don't understand what I'm supposed to do, I just know that I can't exist without it and that, whatever it's for, it wants me to be a part of its purpose. It wants to go to Earth.

I'm sitting in my seat. Waiting for take off. The flute is singing to me. I don't know how they missed it. It's as though it made itself invisible. It showed me how to arm the killer artifacts. They're ready and waiting in warehouse No. 5. It won't happen till after we've gone. I feel sorry for everyone here but it's what the artifacts knew would have to happen. They were waiting you see. They were waiting for me to take them to the warehouse, to bring them to the base. They have a plan. They were still there when the collectors came.

Put up your hands, by Catherine Redfern

Put up your hands

All you Old Girls of convent schools.

Put up your hands

If, in pastel-paged autograph books,

You have these lines.

            Be Lady-like, be Mary-like,

            Be Mary-like, be Lady-like.

Yes.  Hands down.

Here was the life training

Of a Child of Mary.

Be meek, be humble,

Be obedient, submissive, uncomplaining.

To demand is unseemly in a woman.

The Blessed Virgin is watching.

Be worthy of her, be pure,

Let her be your model.

But, what of…?  What of sex?

Ssh!  A brazen word, a sinful word.

Oh, let us pray.

Or, let us not.

Now I fantasize, of course,

You can all see that.

Let’s rip off these blue-ribboned  medals.

Let’s crowd round the boys from St Joseph’s

Here  for our Corpus Christi procession

Let us roar:

“What do we want?”   “We want sex.”

“When do we want it?”  “We want it now!”

Well, we hardly manage that,

But we hover and we look.

Bold Brigid O’Flynn even passes a note.

But who glides here, black-robed and beaded?

“Girls, hand back your medals.

You have defiled them

You have shamed Our Blessed Lady. 

Join your hands, cast down your eyes

Mary, our refuge and our strength,

Pray for us  that, shunning all temptation,

We ever seek the virtuous path.        

Brigid O’Flynn,

You will report to Reverend Mother

 Immediately after Benediction".