I Can Show You the World and other stories Read online

  An hour later Jake coasted across an empty dual carriageway and turned left, following the signs for the city.

  Bad Language Competition

  The Cousins’ House

  By Kaarina Hollo

  My mother’s story brings her to a house. The door opens. ‘There you are! Come in, you must be hungry!’ Her aunt’s black hair gleams. My mother and her mother step inside.

  No one my mother knows lives in a house like this. The furniture exhales beeswax; delicately turned legs and ice-smooth table-tops confront her, force her to look away. But there is not much else to look at; the walls are empty, except for the picture of the Leader in the entrance hall.

  After a time, after coffee and cakes on bone china, her mother rises and gets her coat; my mother (Mousie, they call her) follows her to the door for a last kiss. ‘Have a good time with your cousins, and be good for Auntie Berte and Uncle Karl.’ Mousie stands at the door, holding her mother in her gaze until she turns a corner and is gone.

  The three cousins are all older than Mousie, thin-faced and angular. They take the house for granted. They slump on the couches, play hide-and-seek behind the brocade curtains, and brush their hair at a rosewood dressing table, reflected to infinity in the triptych of mirrors.

  Mousie is their pet, their doll. They indulge her and torture her. When Mousie hides under a bed, they abandon the game and leave her for hours, until her aunt notices she is missing. They put her in velvet dresses they draw from a eucalyptus-lined chest in the mote-filled attic, with a fan in her hand and ribbons in her hair.

  Uncle Karl is very busy, but home every day for dinner. When he enters the hall in his uniform, under the eyes of the Leader, his daughters return his salute, right arms out from the shoulder and fingers neatly together.

  On Mousie’s last day, they play a new game. They find a black dress of silk in the eucalyptus chest, and a white crocheted scarf for Mousie’s head. They lead her to the very end of the garden, behind the azaleas. Mousie lies down on a bed of leaves. Hilde is the priest, and the other two the mourners. They bury Mousie in flowers. It takes a long time, and she must keep her eyes closed and lie very still. She is dead, like the brother who never came home from the hospital. The flowers rain down on her legs, clasped hands, face.

  By the end of the war, the cousins are nearly orphans. The uncle drowns leading his platoon back over the Rhine. Their mother will soon die of cancer. Years later and in another country, Mousie sees a photograph of an officer, asleep, it seems, under water. His hair, too short, clings to his head; his face is relaxed. His heavy sleeve is lifted by the current. Mousie imagines her uncle’s body rocking in the river’s embrace. She feels the flowers dropping onto her black silk dress. They sigh and rustle, settling around her, in the garden of a stolen house.

  Bad Language Competition

  Blackpool Odyssey

  By Martin Scott Lindley

  We’re there now, in Blackpool, parked behind the Sea Life Centre, by the north pier, on the long promenade which will lead us to the Pleasure Beach. I am nine. Walking with my family south, past the pier, there’s euphoria in the fresh seaside air. I see fantastic shops and markets which offer an infinite array of toys, sweets, and fun. Heading further south we pass the casino. Suddenly, I am seventeen. I’m here with my first girlfriend, Jane, walking down the promenade. All I see are the tacky shops, chippies, and street vendors who’re selling pornographic playing cards; one vendor breathing smoke into my face as he insists I buy a deck.

  I am six. We’re in the car and on the unending journey from Wakefield to Blackpool. In the car, a red Vauxhall cavalier, me and my family, four boys and two parents, play games such as the classic ‘count the number of green cars’. I’m sure Dad is the instigator of all this…anything to stop four boys from getting restless… was this the first time we came to Blackpool?

  I am fifteen. We finally reach Blackpool Pleasure Beach. I’m with my best friend Jacob. We’ve hit that age where our interest in girls dominates the conversation; neither of us has ever had a girlfriend so, naturally, we talk about them a lot… Often after school I’d go to Jacob’s, which us a five or ten minute walk from mine, it seemed to shrink with age, and we’d imagine what having a girlfriend is like. Many popular boys had girlfriends. It must be amazing, we thought.

  Now twenty two; I’m at home looking at a photo from the 70’s which has faded and drained, fashionably, to sepia. It’s my Dad and his brother, also in their 20’s, arms around one another, smiling. There’s not much I’ll ever be able to know about this photograph, aside from it being taken outside Blackpool tower.

  I’m twenty three and I’m in my room writing. Jacob is married and teaching English in Korea. I don’t see him anymore. I’ve had a string of failed relationships, but I’m currently dating a PHD Student; I’m quite in love with her, yet it’s probably too early to reveal my feelings. We often talk about Derrida and post-structuralism; she’s involved in body politics. I’m stuck into class… gazing at the screen of my laptop; I’m trying to understand why or how I got here.

  Six once again! Me and Dad at the front of the long queue for Space Invader 2. The ride itself is two things. From the one angle it’s a thirty something year old man and his lad, moving in jagged plastic cartridge, on a rail, in a dark room with some fairy lights. From another it’s beautiful; Dad, though not being keen on rides, has joined me because I wasn’t tall enough to go alone. The ride is spectacular: stars emit the only visible light as me and Dad whizz through space.

  Bad Language Competition

  Kitchen Sink Drama

  By Lynn Myint Maung

  She came in from shopping to find three otters standing on the formica table in the kitchen. They did not meet her eye, but looked sombrely at the floor with a faint air of enduring impatience. The whole place was enveloped in a fishy fug and she hesitated, before remembering the lamprey in the fridge.

  As she hacked it into steaks, she heard them shuffle and sigh. One appeared to be female, smaller and more delicate in features than the other two. From the corner of her eye she noticed that they had now sat on 3 legged stools, whence they stared at her fixedly.

  She placed the lumps of lamprey at three points towards the outer edge of the table, lest they fight, but they each chose a dish and ate in mannerly, unrushed silence, while she sat smoking and watching.

  After the meal was over and she moved the dishes to the sink, the otters brought out musical instruments; a guitar, drum and some kind of horse bells. The music was wild, old, impossible to locate. It began slowly and picked up till it was mad, deafening. The otters stayed on the spot but frenetic, hunched over the instruments, never looking at one another or her. The female of them sang from time to time, almost screaming, the language unintelligible.

  She could not stay still. Rising from her chair, she swayed at first in the small space of the kitchen, but opened her arms after a while, threw her head back, started to spin like a dervish. Her soul hummed with excitement and vigour, her body feeling its age but allowing enough to satisfy her.

  The music stopped suddenly, after just enough time to not pine for more. Her ears still rang with it. They would want some other refreshment now, perhaps something to drink. She went to the larder to fetch cordial, but when she came back they were gone.

  FlashBang

  Mirror on a Stick

  By Frances Gapper

  On his slow walks around the garden, Grandpa carried a mirror on a stick, so he could see the flowers from different angles without stooping. The hellebores in particular were more beautiful underneath, he said. Green and white and purple. In myth, Helleborus niger originally sprouted from the tears of a young girl. Grandpa wrote horticultural books, his name renowned in the gardening world. What a dear old man he was, my mother reminisces. But I remember how he used to shove the mirror under my dress, cold against my bare legs. Just want to check if you’re wearing knickers.

  FlashBa
ng

  Search History

  By Iain Rowan

  “internet dating”

  “what wear on first date”

  “seduction techniques”

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  “love at first sight”

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  what does it mean partner want space

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  can you undo clear all internet history

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  “anger management tips” online

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  “private detection agencies”

  strategies keep temper

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  anger management

  confront partner cheating what say

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  anger management

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  plastic sheeting

  woodchipper hire

  “industrial bleach”

  “carpet cleaning services”

  best prices sell gold engagement ring

  “internet dating”

  FlashBang

  The Magician

  By Nettie Thomson

  He calls himself The Magician and specialises in close-up magic, a master of prestidigitation, illusion and enchantment. His hands are so nimble and fast that his quarry never feels his wallet liberated or wristwatch slip off as his hand is shaken.

  His confidence increases exponentially with each successful gag. His tricks get bigger – all audiences demand it – and he soon performs his arch chicanery with such dexterity his victims aren’t aware he’s there until he’s gone.

  One night he steals a girl. He mesmerises her with soft words whispered in her ear, incantations writ by Hades himself. He takes her by the hand and leads her into a night-blackened alley where instead of the embraces and caresses she expects, he executes The Disappearing Lady. Or is it Sawing A Girl In Half? Mere pedantry, he thinks, and prepares for his next performance.

  Flash Fiction South West

  Kissing Frankenstein

  By Tania Hershman

  On her hundred and first birthday she said,

  ‘I was the first actor to speak in a talkie, you know,’

  and,

  ‘Boris Karloff, what a sweet man.’

  ‘I want a dog,’ said her great-granddaughter, crouched at her feet, demolishing a cupcake. But the old woman was dreaming of movie sets, she only 19, Karloff already a star.

  Later, after the cupcakes had gone, along with cousins neither the old lady nor her great-granddaughter knew, she was taken back to her room.

  ‘Boris Karloff,’ she murmured, wondering what old age really meant. Would she have allowed that kiss while the crew were taking down the set if she’d known that, eighty-two years later – oh my! - she would be the only one remembering?

  ‘Why ever not?’ she declared. ‘He had the softest lips!’

  ‘Whose lips are soft?’ demanded the child. The old lady’s son just grinned.

  ‘Boris Karloff, Mum?’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You and Frankenstein?’

  ‘I shan’t tell!’ said the old lady. ‘He swore me to secrecy. He was married, you know.’ She turned to the child. ‘They rise from their graves,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘And then they eat you!’

  The little girl didn’t even blink. She climbed on the bed.

  ‘I love your face,’ she said, stroking her great-grandmother’s cheek.

  ‘You minx,’ said the birthday girl, recognising something that she would leave behind, something that would carry on without her.

  Flash Fiction South West

  A Good Dying

  By Alastair Keen

  ‘Tickets please.’

  The girl lifted her huge carpet bag onto the table and started rummaging, ‘Shit, it’s in here somewhere.’

  The guard rolled his eyes, holding on to a seat to steady himself. The girl brushed her long henna-red hair back, then attempted, and failed, to blow the stray strands away from her face.

  She first placed an antique silver rose bowl and a bright green shower cap in the shape of a frog carefully on the table.

  ‘Oh, good grief,’ whispered the guard.

  The girl wiped her brow on the velvet sleeve of her maroon dress. She then lifted both arms into the air, shaking them in an attempt to move the sleeves up her arm. Bangles jingled, rings sparkled. The guard smelled rose water.

  A jade grotesque; what appeared to be a cheese and pickle sandwich; a can of ready mixed gin and tonic; a teddy bear key-ring; cough medicine.

  ‘Aaargh, where is it?’ she said. ‘Deep breaths.’ Eyes framed in thick black eye makeup looked to the heavens.

  The guard plucked at the front of his shirt trying to get some air flow.

  The girl dived headlong back into the bag. A flat cap; black notebook; chocolate muffin; silenced .22 calibre Ruger; train ticket.

  ‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Oh!’

  The guard was running out of the rear of the empty carriage, ticket machine bouncing off his hip and the seats. She shrugged her shoulders and meticulously placed the items back in the bag. The squeak of the brakes and the announcer declared they had arrived at Exeter Station. She loped out of the station.

  The girl checked the address in her notebook. Satisfied, she walked up the empty drive. The old man looked up as she walked around the corner of the bungalow.

  A red rose of blood grew on the old man’s white shirt, followed a microsecond later, by the sound of two rounds entering his chest and the soft tinkle of brass shell cases falling on the patio stones.

  The girl sighed. A sad satisfied sigh. There was a ‘Wills and Kate’ mug on the patio table. She tipped the tea into the flower bed and wiped it out with the hem of her dress. The girl placed the mug in her bag and left for the station.

  Back on the train she consulted her notebook while devouring her cheese sandwich. Without looking she retrieved the can of gin and tonic from her bag and downed half of it. She held her hand in front of her. Still steady; after a year still steady. What did that mean?

  The house in Bristol was a terraced, red brick building. She looked at her watch and waited in the bus shelter over the road. A bus stopped, blocking her view. She waved it on.

  A blue car pulled off the drive. She stood, clomped across the road and around the back of the house. The back door was open. She made her way to the stairs. She climbed. Front bedroom. In the dressing table mirror the reflection of a man asleep. She crept in, avoiding the tubes, wires and host of mobility equipment. He was on his side facing away from her. She placed the cold muzzle of the suppressor against the nape of his neck. She shot him in the back of the head with a single soft nosed round. No exit wound. No noise, apart from the top slide of the automatic clicking backward then forward.

  Gently she moved the man on to his back. No pulse. There was a spoon left on a tray from dinner. She picked it up and wiped the soup on her dress. It went into the bag. She caught the last train to London.

  The girl stepped on to a narrow boat and slipped through the small door in the stern. It was dusk so she flicked on the lamp just inside the door. One by one she placed the items from the bag on the many shelves, fitting them in where she could. There was barely enough room.

  Spoon; mug; rose bowl; teddy bear key-ring; shower cap; grotesque were all placed on the shelves. She booted up her laptop. She had mail.

  Dear Dignity,

  We are need of y
our services. My wife has Parkinsons and we are in agreement. Please contact us as soon as possible.

  NH

  ‘No rest for the righteous,’ she said to the photograph of her mother on the desk.

  Flash Fiction South West

  Ripening

  By Martha Williams

  I am his peach.

  I sit, taut, watching him smile as he walks the length of day, and when the light is orange, he comes, swooping in with the promise of plates and pillows.

  His fingers stroke my skin and I start to melt, softening into the scent of my own juices.

  Between his palms, I lower, like a breast after a sigh, sinking until my coat becomes comfortable, looser.

  Flaccid.

  He turns away. I sag. I watch him leave. My face turns to promise more, but my insides are browning. I shrink, I dry, I become powder, dusted with grey.

  I am shocked to realise that to ripen is to rot.

  I wait.

  I hear, ‘That one, that looks overripe.’

  I think, ‘Bite me.’

  Flash Fiction World

  Every Picture Tells a Story

  By Francesca Burgess

  Caroline Henderson, known to all as Mrs Ross of Westwick, sits patiently in her cornflower blue gown. The troublesome ache in her neck, the result of having her head turned towards the artist while her body faces the desk, is starting to become more than a slight inconvenience. Why had her husband insisted on Mr Webster executing the painting here in the study, where she has already spent far too long writing letters? Communications she would rather not compose. Endless acceptances for functions she dreads, to ladies more important than herself. Women she knows only slightly.