Assurbanipal, by Peter Shilston

(Written after a visit to the Assyrian exhibition at the British Museum)

Behold: the king!
I am Assur-bani-pal: mighty king, king of the world, king of Assyria.
The king is the representative on earth of the gods. The duty of the king is to restore the earth to perfection, as it was created by the gods at the beginning of time.
Accordingly, I have rebuilt the shrines and temples, with proper reverence.
I have brought together in my libraries the books of the ancient Sumerians and Akkadians; the tales of their storytellers and poets, and the wisdom of their astrologers.
My soldiers are as numerous as the sands of the desert. With them I have crushed those impious wretches who rebelled against the will of the gods: I have destroyed their kings and nobles, scattered their peoples and laid waste their cities. 
I have slain lions without number, for they symbolise chaos and disorder.
And I have commanded my builders and sculptors to record my deeds in stone, that they may be remembered for ever.
Behold me: the king!

Foretelling of a Death, by Pauline Fisk.

(This is a republication of another story by our late founder, Pauline Fisk)

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On the day he was to die, Robert the Canadian told the truth once, though not to himself, lied five times, as discovered afterwards, bought a swim, took a shave and shampooed his hair.

It was in the Quarry Pool, on his sixteenth lap, that he joked aloud about his dicky heart.  That was his truth, not that he recognized it as such. Later, in the castle garden, he told the old lie about the sea-going yacht.  He had a nautical air. The dog woman, whom he often talked to, never questioned him.  Neither did the beggar on Pride Hill who was used to Robert striding past, crisp in plaid shirt, polished boots, woollen walking socks and combed-back thick white hair, dispensing coins because a rich man like him, with a house on leafy Kingsland Road – lie number two – liked to give to those less fortunate than himself

Lie number three had its moment in the Loggerheads that night, sitting in Poets’ Corner watching Pete the Painter sketching. He was off to Manchester next day, Robert said. Lecturing. Pete - who often disappeared himself - never thought to question the Canadian’s movements. The man came and went.  He had a farm in the Scottish Lowlands, which he talked about with fondness, and did so again tonight, lie number four.  Sometime he’d take Pete up there, he said, though Pete - who knew the Canadian as a man of his word - knew too [by what reason he couldn’t explain] that he wouldn’t do it.  It took one to know one when it came to the fantastical. Perhaps that was it.

Pete went home, door locked, ‘Do Not Disturb’ note sellotaped to knocker on the off-chance that nocturnal friends came visiting.  The Loggerheads closed its curtains. Its last drinkers took the hint, leaving only ghosts to haunt the staircases, or so the Landlady said, drinks in hands, hopes jangling in their pockets, a remembrance of bygone days when the pub had housed a brothel. 

The streets of Shrewsbury after midnight are like a millpond sea without boats.  Only the latest of night prowlers would have witnessed the last walk of Robert the Canadian down St Mary’s Water Lane and under the English Bridge, following the river, though not home to Kingsland Road as was his proud boast.

It was in the Quarry Park that he was found. Who knows why a man would choose one particular bench to die on over any other?  In the morning his body was stone cold.  A rough sleeper with polished boots - and nobody had known it.  The dog lady hadn’t had a clue. The Loggerheads lady, so attuned to lost souls, never caught a whiff of his. The swimming pool attendant – where, as often as he could, he went to keep himself neat and tidy - never would have put him in the category of the man who begged on the street. It came as a shock.

Robert the Canadian kept his secret to the end. It was his only treasure in this sad old world. He wasn’t even Canadian.  That was his fifth lie.  This is a true story. I have not made it up..

Spinning My Spinning Top Tale, by Georgia Kelly

To write about what one knows is a dangerous game

Each syllable the click of a gun.

It’s a Russian roulette

learning how to encapsulate

a hundred thousand

thoughts, looks, words

phrases, actions, consequences

into the space of an innocently clean page;

a tumble of speech

thrown up, spat out.

One wrong move and I’ve captured it all wrong

the game is over

in the flick of a wrist

I am branded a liar

a weaver of untruths.

To be able to know is to write, they say.

Ask the neatly balanced equations

toy soldiers in formation.

Ask the tidy lines of sums

as black and white as a chessboard.

Then tell it to my page:

a patchwork of scribbles

messy with hyperbolic phrases.

So I give you, ladies and gentlemen,

my spinning top tale.

Flight, by Catherine Redfern

("Most of man's ills come from his inability to sit quietly in a room"  -  Blaise Pascal)

But, Blaise, your countrymen ignored you.
Look: look at the balloon.
That was the beginning:
man getting above himself

Balloon, bi-plane, channel hops,
aces high, slaughter figures rising.

And a second time: dog-fights, night raids,
the East End flattened, Dresden demolished;
but all quite neatly finished
in a distant land,
the quiet tea ceremony shattered
with some new equipment.

And still the restlessness.
How can a room 
contain this flight,
this longing for the stars,
this race to be the first?
The Moon was the glowing prize, 
now Mars is in his sights.

Blaise, you are quite alone
in that quiet room.
Man has been chasing other worlds,
but soon enough
- surely soon enough? -
he wil return.
This little Earth,
suffering and sickly,
needs his cherishing.

Sweet Auburn, by Peter Morford

A visitor seeing Auburn for the first time would see it as a bit of authentic English history.
Come to Auburn and enjoy its Englishness. Take a seat under one of the protected oaks and admire the 800 year old church with its faded sign inviting you to support their repairs fund. There’s a Tudor pub, a cafe calling itself "The Old Smithy", and the cottages have wild life gardens and hanging baskets. Gnarled Wisterias reach the thatched roofs. All in all, you might think it’s an idyllic place to live.
   Opposite the church is Mr Seth’s farm gate. Mr Seth is a relic of his own ancestry. His farm, or rather small-holding, is just productive for his ageing family’s needs. They have a cow for her fresh un-adulterated milk. They eat their lamb and wear their wool, home-spun by Mrs Seth. They have just enough land to produce all the fruit and vegetables they need. The pigsty and hen-run provide the rest of their diet. He nurses his old Massey-Ferguson tractor because it’s his only vehicle and is cheap to run on red diesel. They even have a little surplus to sell to the just-surviving village shop.
   Sometimes, more for sport, Mr Seth will shoot a few pigeons or rabbits. Recently he shot a drone which had been annoying him. So be not misled by the apparent tranquillity! 
   Next to the church is the 18th century rectory, built for a large family, but recently the vicar and his small family hadlived in just three rooms, leaving the rest to nature. Before it could fall down through neglect, the Church Commissioners found a hedge fund manager who was used to London prices and knew a bargain when he saw one. “For the price of my three roomed flat in Canary Wharf I can live in the country,” he told his accountant.
   The new owner extended it and generally concealed all the original features. He built a four-car garage for their son’s Lamborghini, his wife’s purple Range Rover and the orange Humvee he’s always wanted for himself. A pair of Harley-Davidsons had their own space. He replaced the low garden wall with railings and a security gate. And now what do we see? An extended old vicarage, renamed Hedgefund House. It is protected by powered iron gates and conspicuous security devices. When they have a party the favoured guests land their helicopters on the back lawn.
  The neighbours object to the noise. But the Hedges have their problems too. Unpleasant country smells waft over from the Seth’s farm. A tycoon needs his rest without the disturbance of those strident bells counting out the quarters. Mr Hedge, in the spirit of being a decent chap, got himself on to the Parish Council, the better to make his protests. Old Seth turned up at the PC meetings to fight his case. “Get they foreigners out,” became the slogan 
of Sweet Auburn: loveliest village of the plain.

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.