Friday Flash Fiction 42

ROSWELL
By Gareth L Powell

So there we were - me and this kid - sitting beneath a fizzing neon sign in an otherwise empty bar in New Mexico. We were both in uniform, and it was one of those clear desert nights where the moon's a pickled egg and the air's sharp enough to cut you.

We'd borrowed a jeep from the base and it was parked out front. I had five dollars and a harmonica in my back pocket. The kid – whose name was Eric – had a comb, a pack of cards, and a picture of his high school sweetheart. He sat looking at it, smoothing it out on the table.

"Where are you from, anyway?" I asked him.

"Banner County, Nebraska, sir."

"Who's the girl?"

He touched the face in the picture and his shoulders slumped. It was the first time since we'd left the base that I'd seen him relax.

"Her name's Luanne. I've known her since we were eight years old."

There was a cow's skull on the wall above the door. I said: "Is she waiting for you?"

He shook his head and the light caught the scars on his face.

"We haven't spoken in five years. The last letter she sent me, she'd met this guy from Harrisburg – a meat packer, I think - and they were talking about getting married."

A song came on the jukebox – blues on guitar and piano. He picked up his glass and the ice cubes clinked.

"I still think about her, though."

He closed his eyes. A car passed on the highway. The stars were bright and hard. I looked at my reflection in the window, counted the stripes on my sleeve.

I said: "Yeah, life's like that."

Friday Flash Fiction 41

THREE THINGS HE REMEMBERED ON HIS DEATH BED
By Gareth L Powell

1.

When he was sixteen, he almost drowned. He lost control of his kayak at the head of the rapids at Symonds Yat, overbalancing where the green river water met the first black rocks.

2.

He saw his first dead body at the age of twenty-two. He was working in a pet food shop in Gloucester. He heard a noise outside. When he went to investigate, he saw there had been an accident in the street. It was a hot summer's day. People were lying smashed and bloodied in the dust.

3.

He was in the kitchen of a friend's house with Lisa, fetching the dessert. He was forty years old. She had offered to give him a hand. The other guests (including her husband) were drinking wine around the dining table on the patio.

'I want you,' he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. 'I really want you too. But you know if we do this, we can never, ever tell anyone.'

Friday Flash Fiction 40

DEPARTURE LOUNGE
By Gareth L Powell

As they filed through the departure lounge, a woman broke from the crowd and the guards shot her. She fell awkwardly; her legs were still twitching as they dragged her away.

The other passengers shrank back. Why had she run into their bullets like that? What did she know?

On the edge of the crowd, Nina took a tight hold on her duffel bag. A single tear ran down her cheek. Beside her, her Donor grunted and picked up the two large cases containing everything she had left.

"This is intolerable," she said, as the guards, using batons and curses, tried to get the queue moving again.

"Yes, ma'am."

The Donor's eye were dull, undisturbed. For an instant, she envied its lack of empathy, its simple-minded acceptance of events. Then, in the crush of bodies, she caught a whiff of its familiar sour sweat and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Shut up," she said.

She shuffled forward with the rest of the passengers. They were mostly hot and scared. Some carried children.

When they reached the departure gate they were led across the dusty, windblown apron to a flotilla of waiting trucks.

"Where is the plane?" Nina asked.

One of the guards grunted and his lip twitched. The wind smelled of ash and spilled petrol.

"Just get in," he said.

Friday Flash Fiction: One Year On

No new flash fiction this week, because frankly, there just hasn't been enough time to write any this week. However, as this is the first anniversary of Friday Flash Fiction, make sure you check out my earlier post: Ten Thousand Words of Free Fiction.

Also, as a special treat, you can download a pdf extract from my forthcoming short story collection (containing a complete 3,500 word story) here: inpressbooks.co.uk

To find out more, visit the publisher, Elastic Press: http://www.elasticpress.com/lastreef.htm

Ten Thousand Words of Free Fiction

I'm proud to say that since last July, I've posted around ten thousand words of free flash fiction on this site, all of which you can read here: Friday Flash Fiction.

Yes, the FFF tradition is a year old this month. I posted the first piece here on 6th July 2007, bragged that I'd try to post a new piece every Friday and encouraged others to do likewise.

To my surprise, the challenge was taken up by Paul Raven, Neil Beynon, Martin McGrath, Justin Pickard, Shaun Green, Dan Pawley and Gareth Jones - and now, twelve months (and one anthology) later, there are many more people taking part, posting very short stories on their websites every Friday.

Of the thirty-nine stories I've so far written for this project, my personal favourites are (in no particular order):

• Natalie
• Carnival
• Thai Curry
• The Long Walk Aft
• Mid Life Crisis
• Close Encounter
• Coffee House
• God's Gift
• The Point Furthest from the Sun
• Fresh Meat
• Life Goes Wrong

Friday Flash Fiction 39

CARNIVAL
By Gareth L Powell

By midnight, she was in the arms of a Brazilian telemarketer from Teddington. They lay together in his hotel room, the open window allowing the deep bass of the street festival to ebb and flow over them, the mingled smells of hashish and fried onions to galvanise their empty stomachs.

"I feel kind of bad about Richard," she said. "I shouldn't have left him like that."

Alejandro rubbed a sleepy palm across his face. Although bare-chested, he was still wearing his jeans, and his hair was flattened on one side, damp with sweat. "You don’t have to worry about him any more," he said. "You have me now."

He lit a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table. Leigh sat up and hugged her knees. She was wearing a creased cotton sundress with buttons down the front.

"Do you think he'll be all right?"

There were steel drums playing in the street. She got up and pulled back the net curtain, looked down at the crowd. She said: "It was just a stupid argument."

Her shoes were lying on the floor by the door. In the orange half-light, Alejandro held the cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He took a small, tight drag and cursed in Spanish. "Come to bed," he said.

Leigh ignored him. All she wanted was to be left alone.

"You know, it was his idea to come here," she said. There were people blowing whistles in the street. She wrapped her arms across her chest. She didn't know where she was.

"I hope he's all right," she said.

Friday Flash Fiction 38

MID LIFE CRISIS
By Gareth L Powell

One morning, as he was getting ready for work, Lester looked in the mirror and saw two reflections staring back at him. The first showed him as a slim, confident young man, a successful novelist and father, the kind of man he'd always wanted to be. The second showed the real picture. In reality, he was going to be thirty-nine in a few months; he was single, stuck in middle management, working long hours, and staggering home every night too tired to do anything more than drink beer and watch TV.

For a long time, he sat on his unmade bed, listening to the sound of traffic in the street outside. Then he rang his office and quit his job. He threw his business cards in the bin. He gave his landlord a month's rent in lieu of notice, and used what little savings he had left to buy an old VW camper van. He packed a few warm clothes, some books and an old manual typewriter.

He headed north into the hills, where pine forests filled the valleys and sheep grazed the high slopes. He ate once a day. He stopped shaving and learned how to cook over an open fire. He stayed away from alcohol and cigarettes, and read at night by the gently buzzing light of a paraffin lamp. In the mornings, he wrote, battering out stories on the typewriter, page after page.

He wrote about his childhood. He wrote about music and girls and dancing, and the peculiar pains of adolescence. He threw everything he had onto the page. He wrote about loss and missed opportunity, and he wrote about the beauty of the world and the lessons he'd learned in his life. For the first time in years he felt clear and focused, and his mind bubbled like a mountain brook.

Sometimes, he would leave the van and hike up into the hills, returning at dusk exhausted and happy, his skin tingling from the wind and sun. Other times, he would lie out in his sleeping bag under the stars listening to the crickets shuffling in the long grass, watching the great vault of the night sky wheel overhead.

On one of those nights, curled up beside the red embers of his cooking fire, he saw something in the sky. A few minutes after sunset, a long, dark storm cloud rose over the hills in the east, bristling with electricity, blowing before it an immense, blood red cross that span slowly across his field of vision, shedding sparks like a pinwheel, screaming like a crashing jet. Lester cowered in his sleeping bag until he fell asleep, dropping into a series of terrifying, exhausted nightmares.

The following morning, he rose early and packed his typewriter. He wanted to get back to the city, give Sherry a call. She worked in his office. She was blonde and cute and used to laugh at his jokes. He had her phone number somewhere, and he was going to give her a call, maybe invite her out for coffee.

As he drove away, his front tires crunched over the embers of the previous night's fire, cold and grey in the sharp dawn light.

Friday Flash Fiction 37

This week's offering is a coda to my short story 'Six Lights off Green Scar', which you can read online at InfinityPlus: http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/stories/sixlights.htm

SAL DERVISH
By Gareth L Powell

Sal Dervish turned up in a busted starship with a dead body in the hold and a dying woman in his arms. He splashed into the sea and the local fishermen towed him into harbour.

Now, months later, he's fishing from the end of the village's wooden jetty and his ship, The Wildcat lies half submerged in the brown water beside him. He's gradually mining her for scrap, selling odds and ends to a local merchant. The guy's ripping him off but he doesn't care, as long as he gets enough to live on. Overhead, the sun burns white and clean, the same colour as the sand on the beach. Behind him, the village huts drowse beneath their shady palms, and in a clearing a kilometre or so back from the beach, rough wooden crosses mark the fresh graves of his two former passengers.

When he's done fishing, he's going to sit out on the quay with some of the locals, drink a few tall glasses of the local whiskey. It's Saturday evening, which means there will be fireworks in the village along the great sweep of the beach, and music from the tinny speakers nailed to the bamboo posts of the jetty. But for now, he has The Wildcat's radio out on the planking, where he can hear it. Occasionally, it pops and crackles with snatches of official transmissions, the cross-chatter of search and rescue teams. But they're not searching for him. They're searching for Tamara, and she's dead.

Friday Flash Fiction 36

LAST DANCE WITH ALICE
By Gareth L Powell

Jack and Alice were married in the autumn and they asked Ed to be the Best Man. Toward the end of the evening, he danced with her on the hotel patio under the party lights.

'You look fabulous,' he said.

She held him tight. She had goose bumps and the night air smelled of lavender.

'Tell me,' she said, 'how's it going with that girl Jack introduced you to?'

Ed looked away. 'We've only been out a couple of times.'

'And...?'

Ed let go. He leaned on the rail, looking out over the hotel gardens. 'Oh, she's nice enough,' he said.

'But…?

He ran a finger round his collar. He hated wearing bow ties. Inside, in the main function room, he could hear the music winding down for the evening, the DJ calling the guests for the final dance.

'She's not you,' he said.

Alice lowered her eyes.

'Look, you'd better go and find Jack,' he said.

Alice glanced at the open patio doors. She had her hair teased into short curls, her nails painted red. Her arms were thin and cold, her eyes wide and bright.

'Thank you,' she said.

'What for?'

'I know how you feel about me, Ed. But you've been great today, you really have.'

He looked away. 'Thanks for the dance. '

'Are you going to be okay?'

He turned and forced a smile. 'I'll be fine. Now go and find Jack, and don't worry. I'm happy for you both. Really.'

Friday Flash Fiction 35

END OF THE WORLD
By Gareth L Powell

Michelle and I broke up over a lunchtime bottle of wine in a crowded bar by the river. We'd been seeing each other for eighteen months, and now it had to end.

She said, "So that's it?"

I shrugged. "I guess so."

She fiddled with the stem of her glass, looking angry and upset. The place smelled of garlic and spilled beer. We finished the wine in silence, and got up to leave.

As we stepped outside, the ground shook and the office blocks of Canary Wharf ripped free from their foundations, rising into the sky like rockets, trailing pipes and cables and loose bricks.

People were shouting and screaming. Michelle put a hand to her mouth. There were tears in her eyes.

"It's the end of the world," she said.

Illuminations Reviewed At The Fix

The Friday Flash Fiction Anthology, Illuminations, has been reviewed by The Fix, in an epic article by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro that manages to comment on every one of the sixty-six stories included in the book. And considering that the book was conceived, edited, designed and published in a ridiculously short period of time, I think it stands up pretty well. His comments on my nine contributions are quoted below, along with links to the online versions of the stories, for your reading pleasure:

William observes a “Snowball” from a dome on the surface of the Moon. The pacing in this very short flash piece is effective, the setting works, and, most importantly, the revelation of the last line is entirely consistent with what we know (and don’t know). This poignant, speculative outing is as fresh as snow.

Contemplating “The Point Furthest from the Sun” may lead one to inaction, even as a loved one is having a rough time. I missed the significance of the title, which, based on the skill of the writing, I’m sure was chosen with care. I found it intriguing. The repetition contained in the last two sentences certainly emphasizes the importance of what we’ve learned, but I’m not sure it heightened the experience for me.

The narrator of this tale learns of the horrors inflicted on some “Fresh Meat.” The attention to detail in this very compressed narrative, in conjunction with the sparse, polished sentences and strong rhythm, worked to make it a chilling experience.

A simple misunderstanding at an Amsterdam “Coffee House” informs this quiet, observational piece. It vividly captures a moment in the interaction between two characters and, through implication, portrays the characters and setting more vividly than might appear at first glance. Perfect coffee house reading.

Ed, on his way to take pictures of a crash site, stops at a roadside café and sparks up some conversation with the waitress, “Natalie.” There is an almost Ballardian sense of fragmentation and despair in this well-written tale, which artfully utilizes technological imagery to build tension in the setting and refract the character’s inner selves. An impressive feat given the space, this riveting piece transcends “flash” and approaches a less formalized version of the Ballardian “compressed novel,” in the best possible manner.

An unplanned hyperspace return to Earth provides Diego and Carla with a direct glimpse of cosmic “Lost Toys.” Powell again manages to imagine an intriguing situation and justify it with a rationale that is not only dramatically plausible but also thought-provoking. Some descriptive details, in particular, stand out. A tale to be found and enjoyed.

The revelation that ensues the narrator’s “Thai Curry” dinner with Nina is conveyed with elegance and emotion in this charged, biting, sad tale. With skill aplenty, Powell artfully builds not only a situation, but a mood, and places it in a broader context. More bittersweet than curry, but just as delectable.

In “The Red King’s Nursery,” Lawrence is vastly outnumbered and hopelessly outgunned by an enemy which, in the form of a talking remote, seems overly chatty and casual to be truly menacing. The whys and wherefores become revealed by the tale’s end. Though there were some clever moments and engaging writing, I didn’t find myself caring enough for the character to make this piece work on the psychological front, and I couldn’t ignore the weakness of the ending enough to make it work on a plot level either.

On his six-month watch aboard a starship forty years from its destination, with the remainder of the crew asleep in their pods, Kurt finds himself on “The Long Walk Aft” and the terrible fate to which it leads. The un-subtle situation is described in the no-frills manner in which its protagonist experiences it, and the detachment and realism only serve to strengthen the inevitability of its ending. It brought to mind Tom Godwin’s “The Cold Equations.” I enjoyed the image of a book being recycled for food; that seems somehow appropriate, under the circumstances.

On the whole, a pretty good review, I thought. You can read the whole thing here: http://thefix-online.com/reviews/illuminations/

In other related news, that cheeky scamp Shaun C Green has done a great impersonation of my flash fiction style over on his blog: http://www.nostalgiaforinfinity.com/?p=127

Friday Flash Fiction 34

VICTORIA ROOMS
By Gareth L Powell

Darren and Kate are sitting on the steps of the Victoria Rooms, above the fountains, holding hands. It's late. It's been raining and the pavements are wet.

“What time is it?” Kate says. She has tinsel in her hair and she's left her underwear in the toilets of an Indian restaurant on Park Street.

Darren shrugs. He doesn't have a watch. He's drunk and uncomfortable on the cold stone steps. “I don't think I can go back,” he says.

Kate stiffens. "Look, I'll call you a cab, okay?" She doesn't want him crashing at her place. She pulls out her mobile phone and Darren folds his arms.

"Don't be like that," she says.

Illuminations Available At WH Smiths and Blackwells

I discovered today that Illuminations is now available to order online via both WH Smiths and Blackwells:

• http://www.whsmith.co.uk/CatalogAndSearch/ProductDetails-Illuminations+-9780955866203.html
• http://bookshop.blackwell.co.uk/jsp/id/Illuminations/9780955866203

Flash Fiction Workshop

This is a photo from the FFF workshop at Orbital 2008. Left-to-right: Gareth D Jones, Martin McGrath, Paul Graham Raven, Neil Beynon, Gareth L Powell, Justin Pickard, Shaun C Green. Photo courtesy of Gemma Morgan.

Friday Flash Fiction 33

GOD’S GIFT
By Gareth L Powell

Jack’s upstairs neighbour really was the world’s greatest lover.

In the evenings, Jack had to turn his TV up to hide the bumps and giggles from above. One time, a lump of plaster fell off the ceiling and smashed his glass coffee table.

In the mornings, there would usually be two or three ashen-faced women in the communal stairwell. Some were lost, some shell shocked or euphoric. Some were reassessing their lives and relationships in the light of the previous night’s events. Jack would take them in and make them coffee, call them cabs or get them cigarettes, that sort of thing.

He liked the company. He liked being useful. And sometimes, one of the girls would stay a few days.

They used him to wind down, to ground themselves. Sometimes, they just needed to talk. And when they left, as they inevitably did, it made him sad.

He would rinse out the empty coffee mugs, clean the ashtrays, and then fetch himself a beer from the fridge. Then he would settle himself on the sofa again, rest his feet on the coffee table frame, and turn the TV volume wa-ay up.

Photos & Reviews of Orbital 2008

Some photos from the weekend are already starting to appear on Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tags/orbital2008/

Plus, there's a photo of the Friday Flash Fictioneers and a nice summary of our workshop over on Gareth D Jones's blog: http://garethdjones.blogspot.com/2008/03/and-jolly-good-time-was-had-by-all.html

Other Orbital reviews from the FFF crew can be found here, here, here, here, and here - including the story of how Martin McGrath assumed upon being introduced to her that Interzone author Aliette de Bodard was my wife.

Orbital 2008

I've spent the last few days at Orbital, this year's Eastercon, in the Radisson Edwardian Hotel, Heathrow - and what a few days it's been...

I travelled from Bristol on Friday morning, with Colin Harvey, author of Lightning Days and The Silk Palace. We got to the hotel at luchtime and pretty much launched straight into the thick of things - the highlight of the afternoon being an energetic panel discussion on the future of the UK short fiction market.

I also met up with some of the Friday Flash Fictioneers, and finally got my hands on a copy of our anthology, Illuminations - which looks absolutely awesome.

We launched the anthology Saturday afternoon at a flash fiction workshop, which went very well. But by that time, I had started to feel ill - a feeling that would only get worse as the weekend progressed.

I met some old friends, such as Jetse de Vries and Roy Grey from Interzone, Andrew Hook from Elastic Press, Neil Williamson, fictioneers Gareth D Jones, Justin Pickard, Martin McGrath, Neil Beynon, Paul Raven, and Shaun C Green - and some new ones, such as fellow Interzone author Aliette de Bodard, Dev Agarwal, and Christopher Teague from Pendragon Press.

But by Sunday morning I had begun to feel really dreadful and had to miss the guest of honour speeches by Charles Stross and Neil Gaiman - but before I retreated to my hotel room with some rice cakes and bottled water, I did manage to stop by the art auction and buy the original artwork for my short story, Ack-Ack Macaque, drawn by SMS.

Friday Flash Fiction Anthology Now Available To Download

Now that the paperback version of Illuminations is on sale, Out Two Out have also made it available to download as a pdf, in return for a small donation to charity.

Follow this link to download your copy: http://www.oddtwoout.co.uk/buybooks.html

Warren Ellis Plugs Friday Flash Fiction Anthology

On 14th March, Warren Ellis wrote:

"... if you go over to Velcro City today, you’ll find details of a collection of flash fiction by sf writers, released under Creative Commons and donating all its profits to the NSPCC. Nice one, Paul. Includes work by Gareth L Powell, the author of the terrific “Ack-Ack Macaque” story I mentioned a couple of months back."

SF Signal calls it:

"A Internet experiment done right"

New Friday Flash Fiction Anthology

Odd Two Out press has announced the release of Illuminations - a new anthology showcasing original, cutting edge short fiction from eight up-and-coming young writers, including yours truly.

Illuminations collects together the best Friday Flash Fiction posted by myself and the other Friday Flash Fictioneers.

Edited by Paul Graham Raven (of Interzone and Futurismic fame), the sixty-eight pieces in Illuminations range from mainstream literature to far-out speculation; from horror to humour; from outright fantasy to straight-faced space opera. And being flash fiction, they are all less than 1,000 words long, making the book perfect for dipping into.

The collection is available in paperback from Odd Two Out Press for £6.99 including postage and packing, and can be ordered directly via: http://www.oddtwoout.co.uk/buybooks.html.

From the web site:

"Friday Flash Fiction started out as a writing exercise on the blog of fast-rising sf author Gareth L Powell but quickly became a bona fide web phenomenon with writers from across the world taking up the challenge. Illuminations presents some of the best Friday Flash Fiction, collected in print for the first time."

The featured writers are: Dan Pawley, Gareth D Jones, Gareth L Powell, Justin Pickard, Martin McGrath, Neil Beynon, Paul Graham Raven, and Shaun C Green. We come from diverse walks of life – musicians, office workers, freelance journalists, students, magazine editors – and this new anthology collects together the best of our weekly output, along with introductions from myself and Paul.

All the stories in Illuminations are published under a Creative Commons licence that permits them to be reproduced in the public domain as long as no profit is made in the process.

Copies of Illuminations: The Flash Fiction Anthology will be available to order for £6.99 from Odd Two Out Publishing, or from the authors themselves. All profits from the sale of Illuminations will be donated to the NSPCC.

Alternatively, The Fictioneers will be running a flash fiction workshop as part of Orbital 2008, the British Science Fiction convention held at the Raddisson Hotel, Heathrow over the Easter weekend. Convention-goers are invited to come along to quiz the team and have a go at writing their own extremely short fiction.

From the back cover:

"Join the Friday Flash Fictioneers as they take you on a whistle-stop tour featuring the best of their stories from the last twelve months. From bright dawn on new worlds to the darkest shores of our own planet, from heartbreak to laughter - nowhere is off limits as long as it can be told in a flash. Spellbinding, unpredictable and entertaining. These small flashes – these illuminations – showcase the powerful art of very short fiction and reveal a group of writers for whom the sheer joy of storytelling shines through every word."

Place your order(s) at: http://www.oddtwoout.co.uk/buybooks.html