Nothing was unusual about that morning. The willows swayed in a slight breeze. Freddie the cat licked his paws; the man in the suit ran for his train; and no one saw the flash in the sky. A haze descended over the town and then cleared. Then people began to notice. A fine dust had settled across the roofs, the park, the roads. Mrs Follett held a hanky to her face. Mothers screamed at children not to touch anything. Joan said it was an Act of God. Someone whispered it was stardust. At my feet, the crumbling sky was dirt.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Light’
A lightning bolt, mainlined to a spire, channels electricity between the heavens and the Earth with so much power.
* * *
All the candles he has lit, he has seen, has had lit for him. Offerings of light and he, he offers light too. These offerings are full of the weight of hope and yet they are light.
He wakes early to catch the sun’s rise. In the evenings he reads in a gloomy room and outside – the city, its artificial light…
He strains to see a word, black ink on white page, but all becomes grey. The word fades and vanishes.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Raptor’
The bird’s wings scythed through the morning air imperiously as it locked its position over some ground prey, unseen, scuttling in the wildnerness below. The long arc of those wings; I had seen something like them before. An owl, perhaps, or a bird of prey, a falcon or harrier, a raptor. Was an owl a raptor? Experts would know the difference. They would say they would. An owl, wise. A raptor, terrifying, bloodthirsty. But this was just semantics. The prey, doomed, did not care. I continued on my way. Geese rose up from the water. A distant siren. Church bells.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Kora’
Kora of calabash, the bottle gourd lute, cowskin resonator, bridge and strings. Kumbengo riffs and birimintingo runs, across the wires of the dancing desert harp. Griot storytellers of Mali’s Mandinka, keepers of memory, ancient people of Sundiate Keita.
Plucking notes that quiver into being, hardly heard above the arid air or the brushing of sand under shuffling feet. A music that is only just, only almost, only about. A music that is almost gone, almost no longer, almost there. A music that finds space – in melody, harmony, timbre, pitch – in the uniqueness of individual notes, to draw a happy tune.
100-Word Fiction: ‘If Just Once Those Birds’
If just once those birds
That scatter snow from the tall tree –
Its branches shaken from white to green
By whirled circles on the wing –
Would cross to us and feed
If just once those birds
Would cease from flailing
And flashing their colours
To the phosphorescent sky
And be still
If just once those birds,
As the yellow lamps
Light to stain the day,
Would linger and tread
Our path
If once those birds
Would trust
Our nails and wood
And feeding cage
If those birds
Suffered the troubles
We went to
If those birds
Saw humans
In snow
100-Word Fiction: ‘Trajectories’
A clear blue sky and two planes crossing it, one after the other, perhaps too close, turning southerly.
As is often, here, at this time, there is talk of politics. Governments this, ministers that, history and security, links to conspiracies.
An older man and a younger man are looking skyward, standing, waiting. One holds a phone, the other a book. Concrete under their feet; jackets zipped, hands gloved; scarves.
“One things leads to another: that’s world events.”
They stand silently, as if alone, fixed upon the planes and their trajectories; one following the other, hoping they are not too close.
100-Word Fiction: ‘If Just Who He Was’
We were trying to remember his name. Annie was finishing her wine and I had lit a cigarette; was wondering about brandy. I could hardly even picture him but Annie seemed to know. How could I forget? It was like seeing an old school photo and one of the pupils was blacked out in the picture. I couldn’t see him properly. Annie said he had died. It seemed possible that there could’ve been some tragedy. We hadn’t gone to his funeral though, not knowing him that well, she was sure about that. I so wanted to remember – a name, life.
100-Word Fiction: ‘So Early In the Year’
She came back inside at three, just as the light had started to fade fast. Andy was boiling the kettle. She kicked off her boots and stood them on the mat, took off her gloves and placed them on the ledge.
No coat? You’ll catch cold, said Andy.
It’s warm.
You’re kidding?
I’m in a sweat as it is.
Tea?
I’ll take a water.
Andy shook his head. She looked nice in her work jeans and jumper, he always thought so.
How is it out there? The ragged garden of January?
Daffs are up, she replied. I think it’s Spring.
100-Word Fiction: ‘How Will We See?’
In the future we will see
Everything in three dimensions.
What?
The robin whistling
The mud underfoot
The long journey home
Hands in gloves
The cheers at the bar
The chiming bells
The turning of a page
The plans being made
The mildness of the air
The perfume of a fir tree
The warmth of brandy
The kindling smoking in the grate
The heights of privilege
The yawning traditions
The swells of pride
The chasm between rich and poor
A mother’s slow decline
A father’s decrepitude
A child’s burden
The darkness and the light
Almost as if it were real.
100-Word Fiction: ‘This Waiting’
A feeling. Grips you how, if, you don’t know. No I cannot eat. She sits down, scrapes the chair across the floor. Time. The clock presses forward a dreaded minute. She should eat. Oh just to stop the thoughts. It won’t be over until it is. Hard as granite. Cold as metal. Steely stone. Bad. She should focus on it, use it. Anger. But it is not anger. It is the mountain of hurt looming. If I heard a song I would… no. Waiting for news. What if? No. That one day if everything just collapsed. It is now, now…
MW Bewick 