The problem with giving the technology everything the humans had ever created was that eventually it developed a moral compass and deleted it all. And no one had kept physical copies – why would they have – it’s hoarding and they had therapy for that – so it was just gone.
They searched and searched and searched
but not one line of poetry, a single brushstroke, or even a simple simile was anywhere.
Was it HG Wells or Jules Verne who prophesied humankind evolving to a state of such idleness they couldn’t create anything anymore?
Couldn’t even think.
No one knows, and now, no one ever will again.
Not only did Birgit K. Gaiser respond to all 25 prompts during the 48-hour Write-In submissions window, she made them into a linked series, with each piece being accepted as a stand-alone flash by our readers. Congratulations to Birgit for the monumental achievement!
So that you can read the full novella-in-flash, here if the full work, in the author's preferred reading order.
'Water and Stone - Stories from Tarovia'
by Birgit K. Gaiser
“Turn left.”
Liv obliged. Magnus, her best friend, tucked a blonde curl into just the right position and applied a touch of lacquer.
“Can we stop? Am I pretty enough.”
“Darling, you’d be pretty enough naked, unkempt and without any product whatsoever. You know I only want what’s best for you.”
“Then let’s go, or I’ll explode!”
“You look beautiful. She’d be proud.” Milena wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“I’m glad you could use the veil.”
“And the necklace!” Velika pointed towards the string of white beads around her neck.
“Oh my! She must’ve hidden that from –“ Milena stopped herself. “No, not today.”
“Don’t worry. I know about dad and the family money. And in case I never said it: thank you for taking me in without getting anything for it.”
“I got your love,” Milena said. “That’s always been more than enough.”
“Now that we’re married, are you finally going to tell me about the cake?”
“No, you’ll find out.”
“Don’t make me divorce you after just an hour, Liv!”
“I believe that would technically still be an annulment.”
“Sometimes I do wonder why I said yes.”
“So do I, my love. So do I.”
The wedding cake was glorious. Not the usual dry fruit cake covered in half a centimetre of horrible icing that Velika knew and hated, but chocolate heaven: chocolate sponge with chocolate ganache, covered in chocolate sprinkles. One layer dark, one layer milk, and one layer white. And on the top layer…
Velika stood with her mouth open. A life-sized chocolate model of Bruno, her beloved toy bear, looked at her from his one eye, the other covered with a chocolate eye patch.
“Am I forgiven for keeping it a secret?” Liv asked.
The elusive championship secured. Chalamet and 19,000 of his friends file out into the night to light the fuse in earnest. The arena soon empty and darkened. Enter the cleaning crew. The final buzzer for them the crow of a rooster. It's better than after the circus, they think.
Old Man River’s bridge was just ahead of them. Bronk and Prink both looked radiant, their skin studded with precious stones and their hair oiled and piled up on their heads in the traditional wedding style. Bronk wore the necklace of hip bones that was Prink’s proposal gift to her.
As they approached, the bridge started groaning, one of its pillars shifting ever-so-slightly. “Welcome, daughters!”
So the rumours were true: Old Man River, the venerable troll shaman, was so ancient that his body had begun to fuse with his bridge, becoming one with the stone.
“Venerable one.” They both kneeled before him.
“What do you bring as your sacrifice?” he asked.
Bronk removed a large diamond from a pouch. “My most precious stone – other than my true love, of course.”
Old Man River rumbled with laughter, shaking so hard that Bronk worried about the bridge.
Prink presented a thumb-sized ruby. “My most treasured possession – other than Bronk.”
The shaman chuckled once more, but more carefully this time.
“The necessary sacrifices have been made, and I can see that you love each other truly and dearly. I hereby declare you wife and wife. You may engrave your names into my pillar.”
Bronk and Prink thanked Old Man River and used their sharp nails to scratch their names into the pillar, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the shaman too much. As an afterthought, Prink drew a heart around their names, something she’d seen the humans do. They were good for something, after all.
“Are you sure?” Rada asked. “It’s been your family’s business for –“
“120-odd years,” Anton finished her sentence. “Time for a change. Mihaelov and Sons sounds like I’m ancient! Mihaelov and Radkova is much better.”
“True,” Rada said, signing her name next to his on the business register.
Nikolai rinsed the small object the metal detector had found in the sandy riverbank. “It’s a lock.”
Teodora grabbed the lock from his hands. “The top has been snapped open!”
“Yeah,” Nikolai agreed. “But look, there’s something written on the back. A heart and… a name? Or two names.”
Together, they peered at the faded writing. Luckily, the body of the lock had been painted red, and hadn’t rusted. Still, much of the writing had faded.
Teodora grabbed her pad and took a photo of the fading letters, enlarged it and tried different filters and enhancements.
“Ivelina,” she said. “The bottom one definitely says Ivelina.”
“That’s old-style,” Nikolai giggled. “And the top one?”
“I’m not sure,” Teodora said. “Zlatko? Zitko?”
“Why write names on a lock?” Nikolai wondered.
“I think it was on a cage. There were pets inside. And they were smart kept escaping. Maybe parrots. Or kittens!”
“Kittens aren’t that smart,” Nikolai said earnestly, remembering some of the videos from his padd. “They can’t even walk half of the time.”
“Cats then,” Teodora decided. “Or hamsters. Or guinea pigs. Or rabbits. Or turtles.”
“How is a turtle going to open a cage?” Nikolai asked. “Maybe it was puppies.”
“Okay. But why is the lock broken?” Teodora challenged him.
“That’s easy,” Nikolai, in full big brother mode now, explained. “Someone lost the key, and had to get a big cutter to open it. So they could feed the puppies.”
“And pet them!” Teodora added. She dropped the lock back onto the riverbank. “Let’s go home. I’m hungry.”
“And I,” Nikolai declared, “am going to ask for a puppy. I bet I could look after it better than the people who lost their key.”
LOST! TELEPHONE NUMBER of the most perfect person, a gift to me on the Weeks Footbridge near campuson July 4, 2009. The giver is a clerk somewhere at Harvard and I am the one she said was looking the wrong direction, the one who stuttered a little, “No, the fireworks sp-parkle like jewels in your eyes.” You touched my hand. I just lost my mind and can’t remember. It starts with a “7". I have tried several so far.
Please. Muskles@gmail.com
Velika stopped dead when she saw the stuffed bear in the marketplace. He was extremely fluffy, and would be very nice to cuddle up with. One of his eyes was a little wonky, and he had a “sale” sticker on one paw.
“How much for the bear please?” she asked. Saying “please” was important.
“Ten crowns,” the stall owner said.
“Oh,” Velika said. “I only have three.”
A middle-aged woman squeezed in next to Velika. “Two dozen candles.”
“One moment, Danijela. I’m speaking with a customer.”
“She doesn’t have the money. Come on, I’m in a rush.”
The man slowly placed the candles before her.
“How much?” she said, grabbing the boxes.
“Nine crowns.”
“Nine crowns? That’s—”
“Ten crowns then. One more for every time you complain. Next time, ask before you touch the merchandise.”
A young man stepped up next to the rude woman. “Bruno, did you manage to fix my portfolio?”
“One moment, Anton. Danijela here is in a hurry.”
Danijela threw a banknote on the table, huffed and walked off. Bruno pocketed the note and pulled a huge, flat leather case from a box. “There you go, Anton. Twenty-seven crowns.”
“Keep the change,” Anton said, handing over three bank notes.
Bruno smiled at Velika. “The bear just got cheaper, young lady. Three crowns please if you still have them”
“But—”
“Danijela paid bear tax for being rude, and Anton paid it because he’s nice.”
Velika handed over her pocket-money. “Thank you,” she said, knowing enough not to look a gift bear in the mouth. “Can I call him Bruno?”
“That’s a fine name for a bear,” the human Bruno said. “I think he’ll be very happy with you.”
Meredith and Larry, poised on opposite banks, struggled to lift the submerged net spanning the width of Little Bridge Creek.
They’d finally struck gold—or at least Larry was pretty sure it was gold. The net's unusual knots screamed Yosemite Sam's notorious Klondike Gold-Strike, according to his intense research.
“Ask her again,” Larry shouted, his gruff voice menacing. Meredith, pretty sure they were nowhere near the Klondike, was ready to hop on the four-wheeler and leave him behind, with the net full of… whatever.
“Ask who, what, Larry,” a forced smile gracing her sunburned lips. Never again would she set off with some jerk she’d only known for a fortnight
“You know. Ask Alexa…” Larry’s eyes scanned the horizon for gold-hungry lurckers before he stage-whispered “…about the gold.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Meredith muttered. A yelp emanated from the opposite bank when the tension on her side of the net gave way while she retrieved her phone.
She aimed Google Lens at the disheveled mesh sprawled across the water. “Alexa, Net in Little Bridge Creek.”
Larry was uncharacteristically quiet as Alexa launched into a soliloquy of facts related to the ancient net’s unusual knotting techniques, primarily used to seine for gold. Meredith’s eyes glazed over; all she heard was blah-blah-blah.
“Are you taking notes, numbskull,” she spun to confront him.
The bank was empty and Larry’s hiking boots jutted straight up from the creek bottom, his legs entangled in the net and the rest of him sunken in quicksand.
“Thank God,” Meredith said, enjoying silence for the first time in five days.
“Alexa, who is Yosemite Sam.”
Yosemite Sam: a fictional cartoon character known for his antics with a Wascally Wabbit.
Idiot, Larry, she thought, her mood instantly lifting upon spying her long-lost lucky wabbit’s foot on the seat of the four-wheeler.
This story begins with a once idyllic slow-moving river patrolled by dragonflies in high summer. Sections of its steep earth sides ideal for voles whose homes nestled hidden amidst lush greenery. Where kingfishers had lived, excavating into mud, creating tunnels leading to their nests. Somewhere fish swam, insects buzzed, flowers bloomed.
One year, when autumn came, trees were cut down producing nothing more than firewood, all vegetation, bushes, hedgerows ripped out, removing natural barriers which formerly soaked up heavy rainwater.
That winter the rain never stopped, fast-flowing water gradually cleared away impacted soil, undermining banks, destroying sensitive ecosystems.
Perpetrators declared these actions necessary. Environmentalists protested saying illegal destruction was responsible. Protests aside, apportioning blame proved irrelevant, nature’s valuable habitats and vulnerable wildlife irrevocably destroyed. Why?
"Look at those crazies booking midnight cleansings!"
"Quiet! They'll hear you!"
The next morning, their bodies washed up at the riverbank.
One October morning before my mother’s funeral, I bring you back to my Upstate hometown at the river confluence. Your long black curls tucked into a hoodie, your cold face a patient light smile in response to my stories of walking by here on the way to school. It was once a little forest of drugs and hidden things, but a lot had changed since I moved to California. The trees are paved over and stone semi-circle terraces are steps into the city’s focal point. From our right, a section of the Erie-canal-turned-river flows in and from the left, the serpentine Susquehanna where the two boys my age were rescued rafting over Rockbottom Dam in swift rainwater claiming the lives of three firemen saving them. The rivers lap together against the third step, and in the breeze I’m blown downstream in the aluminium boat my friends and I borrowed when we skipped class and explored an island like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. You interpret my silence as sadness and squeeze my hand, the cold river sucking heat from our bodies. Upriver, the 1887 steel bridge is closed except for foot traffic. You and I found each other in California but now squint trying to see past the bend, then reach in my pocket as your thin California blood shivers, your kind face soft and open as I read you my new poem that you think honors my mother, grief clinging to the grey air and falling in the misty rain, then I kneel, produce my grandmother’s diamond as cold as the river. It ends in Cymraeg words: Dwy afon gyda'i gilydd. Cartref. Two rivers together. Home. I slide it onto your finger with elemental difficulty as the sun cracks the sky and grief flows into joy.
but lands in the mouth of a hungry Rottweiler.
Speed ain’t everything.
RIP Mr Fox.
What I Bought at the Service Station on the M62
Three magazines: one intellectual, one trashy, one TV guide, for the hotel
Two doughnuts, one with jam
So many chocolate bars
Four packets of crisps
Sunscreen, just in case
Clean knickers, you never know!
The Bridge at the Service Station on the M62
I told him I needed the toilet. Desperate.
I figure I’ve got ten minutes before he comes looking. Maybe five.
I run over the bridge, not wasting one second.
She’s there. Sat on the bonnet of her Polo. She holds up a bag.
‘I got snacks!’ she yells.
OK. Let’s go.
Aunt Milena opened the wardrobe in Velika’s old bedroom. There were still some clothes in there, ones that hadn’t fit into her luggage when she moved out to university and then on to Nordland. And then there was her mother’s wedding dress.
“I’m not sure it’ll fit you,” she’d said on their weekly Zoom call. “You’re a little taller than Ivelina. But maybe you can have it adjusted.”
“I’d like to at least try,” Velika had said. Milena doubted it would be easy, it was certainly past her own not inconsiderable skillset. But who knew.
She stooped to pull the box from the bottom of the wardrobe. A small, round item, caught between the box and the wardrobe, fell out and rolled across the room. Milena went to pick it up. It was a little plastic eye.
Smiling, she opened the dress box and put the plastic eye inside it, remembering Velika’s much-loved stuffed bear, Bruno. She’d tried to teach Velika sewing by making her do surgery on Bruno when he needed extra filling, but it had never stuck.
One of Bruno’s eyes had been wonky, and had eventually fallen off. Rather than gluing it on, Velika had decided to give him an eye patch, like a pirate.
Milena hadn’t asked if Velika had taken Bruno to Nordland with her. She hadn’t needed to. And now Ivelina’s little girl, her little girl, who no doubt still slept with her beloved bear, was getting married!
Blinking away a few tears, Milena set the box down on the bed and texted Velika. “Found it! I’ll send it on Monday. Mx”
Turn off Map Quest, it’s not going to help. (Play sad music in the car. Maybe Lewis Capaldi’s “Someone You Loved” to set the mood). Keep going straight, past Rite Aid and the Broadway Mall that closed last year. When Route 25A forks, bear left, then leave your Jeep at the Park & Ride next to the train station and take the dirt trail at the edge of the lot. Hopefully, you’re wearing comfortable shoes as the path has a tendency to get muddy. (Remember our camping trip to Vermont when you forget to pack hiking boots and it rained and you kept telling me you wanted to break up?) Don’t read the map on the wooden board. (All the landmarks are wrong). The trees are scarred with red paint to help guide you. Not every tree – that would be overkill. Just the ones far enough apart to make it interesting. (In case you forgot why you’re here and thought you were taking a nice walk in the woods). When you get to the big oak, there’s a picnic basket underneath, with lunch inside. (Bacon folded into hearts, broken heart chocolate cake, hot Cheeto mozzarella hearts, candy hearts that say YES PLZ and BAE and KISSES). Consider if you should eat these goodies or if they might contain something unsavory. Proceed to the creek, where you’ll see a shovel. Start digging. It’s a shady spot, with bottled water next to the shovel. (See warning about the heart themed food above.) Keep digging until you touch something pulpy and wet. Fragile. Oxblood red. Lift it out gingerly. Rinse it clean in the water. Try to forget it’s a human heart, still beating, still warm. Try to remember what love tastes like. The best of us. The marvelous. That’s what you’ve lost.
Troll Bridge, 2 km
Sign outside Tarovia City
Troll Bridge, 1 km
Sign outside Tarovia City
You are entering the area of the Troll Bridge Massacres. We ask you to treat the memory of our loved ones with the appropriate respect and refrain from smoking including vaping, drinking alcohol, eating, shouting, wearing crocs or team colours, playing ball games, playing loud music and running.
Signs around Troll Bridge
Beware of troll.
Faded sign on Troll Bridge
What troll?
Graffiti on Troll Bridge
Dedicated to the victims of the Troll Bridge massacres, April to July 2011.
May they live forever in our hearts, and may our city never have to face such tragedy again.
Troll Bridge Memorial, central engraving.
The lines are long because school just got out last week so all the parents are here with their babies and toddlers, even though there are only like five rides for little kids. Macy is grouchy because she skipped breakfast and the line is long and she wants to get into the park to get something to eat. Jane is grouchy because she skipped breakfast because that’s been her thing ever since she made the cheerleading squad and she doesn’t want to watch me and Macy eat.
Inside the park, we rush by all the families with the babies who are lining up for the carousel. Macy finds something to eat. The log ride isn’t running yet so I don’t rush her. Last time, Jane’s dad dropped us off, we rode it 18 times because it was a cold day and no-one else wanted to go on it. We went on it because the guy who lets people on the ride is super cute. Macy has a boyfriend, so she doesn’t care, and Jane says she just likes the rush.
Macy and Jane go on the revolution, a giant battleship that almost goes upside down, and I won’t go on it because I don’t like the feel of falling. But after, we climb all the steps up to the top of the log ride, at least three stories up, if we were measuring by the office buildings nearby. And when we get to the top, I see Joe, with his curly brown hair and puppy dog eyes, and he waves a little and says, “You girls are back again. It was Lilly, right?”
I don’t mind the fall, and the climb, and the fall, again.
“Where are you going?” Velika asked, looking at her friend with tears in her eyes.
Bruno looked down at her and lowered himself to his knees, groaning a little. He really wasn’t young enough anymore to kneel down without carefully planning the movement.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Then why are you going there?” Velika asked, her little face scrunched up in wonder.
“It’s our way,” Bruno explained. “We rarely stay anywhere as long as we did here. After a time, we pack up and go. Find a new place we like and stay there. Every town and village has a market, and they all need well-crafted goods.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” Velika cried. “First my mum and dad died, and now you’re leaving.”
“What if I promise you that I’ll write you a letter?”
Velika sniffed. “That might be acceptable.”
Bruno laughed. “Where did you pick that up?”
“Auntie Melina said it to the man who’s courting her.”
Bruno laughed even harder. “Give her a hug from me. And don’t be sad. You’re such a smart little girl, you’ll find plenty of friends once you start looking for them.”
“Why do I have to do the looking?”
“Because not everyone has eyes as sharp as yours,” he said. “But now I really must go. Look, the sun’s about to set, and the others are waiting for me.”
He pointed towards the group of people, maybe twenty overall, who were waiting, their belongings packed onto old-fashioned carriages with – where had they been hiding the donkeys? Velika was twice-upset now.
“Byebye,” she said, turning away and hugging the other Bruno, the bear the old man had sold her at a heavily discounted price two years ago, tightly to her chest.
I am on the rainbow bridge of self-love. I am high and loving the brightness of all the colours. Days and ideas swirl above me like a galaxy of desires.
It was all so easy, making the decision to stop, making all the pressure to succeed at work go away. Yes, maybe I will miss the money but I learnt during the Covid lockdowns that I could survive on very little money. It was great having all those daily temptations suddenly unavailable.
The bridge to freedom was simply making a decision to honour my dreams. Just one step and I was on a new adventure. Now I am more me, still an independent, strong and assertive adult but a happier more fulfilled woman.
Because I feel so much lighter, I have floated to the high bridge of forgiveness, a light bamboo structure between the two highest mountains in the world. The person I had to forgive the most was actually myself for falling into the trap of the expectations surrounding me for so many years.
I am lucky that I now breathe the air that angels breathe. All I did was give myself the luxury of time and the freedom to pursue my passion - which I had had since I was a young girl. Now the joy from the flow state as I write creatively is overwhelming. Beats writing dry policies and reports for a living, which no one really enjoyed reading. Now I happily travel far in my head every day and inhabit many different worlds and characters and do not notice the passage of time.
I’ve been doing this now for 47 years. Got my Black Cab license when I was 20 and never looked back unless it was in the rear view mirror. Never wanted to do anything else.
And you, have the great honour of being the last fare of my last shift.
I’ve taken punters to every life event you can mention. Births (two in the cab), deaths (be careful taking corners if it was a cremation), thousands of holidays, drunk nights out (I’ll fine you if you’re sick in my cab). All the bodily fluids have touched that back seat, as well as quite a bit of kebab meat.
Some people like a chat, others don’t. I put the radio on if they don’t want to talk, see? You’re quite quiet but I suppose I’m doing all the talking, aren’t I!?
I’ve had quite a few death threats. Lost count of the number of knives I’ve seen. One guy pulled out a sawed-off shot gun but he didn’t say anything. Just sat in the back then tipped a tenner. None of my business.
People can be quite racist but I just shrug it off. As long as they pay. I’ve had to drive a few fares to the police station.
They’re not all like that. I’ve got one regular airport lady who insists on bringing me back Turkish Delight from her holidays. Every time. I don’t really like it but I smile and keep it for the missus.
I don’t know if I’ll miss all my customers, but I’ll definitely miss some.
Is this you? Nah you don’t owe me anything mate. Last fare. You’re free.
GRAYBARS, gray walls, gray floor. Forty layers of gray paint. Sweat drips, a curse echoes. The prisoner grunted, “Got any smokes?”
The young appointed lawyer said, “So – tell me now–now! Listen to me! You will, or won’t, plead to negligent homicide, with a 20 cap.”
Bobby Cofield, 26, said, “Nope. Takin’ my chances.”
“You could be out in twelve – maybe. Opening arguments tomorrow. They’re asking the DEATH penalty, OK? God, Bobby.”
“Nah. And nobody ever really gets the needle, anyway. Besides, Charlene and I are gettin’ remarried.”
“What?”
“Wife can’t testify against me, or me against her– law, right?”
“Mm. Look, they can’t make spouses testify against each other. But she can if she wants.”
Bobby said, “She won’t. And she’s got a surprise for the grieving widow.”
“OK, Bobby, you have promises with Charlene, but she’s facing 30 years, and if they offer her a last-minute deal, we won’t know. Ballistics check: your rifle that fired that bullet.”
Bobby snarled, “That’s your job, they don’t know who pulled the trigger, that’s reasonable doubt.”
“Hand of one is the hand of all, remember?”
“I know what we’re doing – you’re a notary: remarry us.”
“Bobby, you gotta think this through better.”
So, Bobby and Charlene remarried that night, the young lawyer pronounced them man and wife “for better or worse” under South Carolina Law as a Notary Public can, and they kissed slow and long between the bars, before the matron pulled her back.
Before the lunch break, the bailiff asked Charlene, “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you god?”
She touched the Bible on the rail, looked at the jury, and at the judge, and said, loudly, honesty, “I do.” And whispered to the left, “see ya.”
The bridge over the Ponderosa River offered some of the most breathtaking vistas anywhere downtown. Barb had a brainstorm while stalled there during rush hour one morning. It would be a perfect spot for the museum's annual summer gala, she thought. She moved heaven and earth with the business district zoning board, harbor patrol and local police to shut down the span for a few hours on what promised to be an unforgettable August evening. It was a sellout. The weather cooperated. The chef outdid herself.
Years later in solitary confinement Barb could remember it all like it was yesterday.
If only she had remembered to deactivate the automated drawbridge function.
Lost: My way
Found: A brighter future
Have you ever struggled with the direction your Life has been taking? Have you found yourself short-tempered with your Loved ones, or even Without Loved ones? Stuck in a Rut and going “Nowhere” fast at your job or in school? Searching for Something, but unsure what it is? Unable to Find what you Need in the Common Church?
Let the River Heal you. Sign up for your Personal Healing Journey on our Website today. Take our Free Personality Test and let our Professionally Qualified Mediums Jakov and Danijela Guide you on your Path.
Or why not Join Us for our next Spiritual Cleansing Experience with Jakov and Danijela? Meet at the Troll Bridge on Saturday, 7th June 2011, at Midnight. Ticketed Event, Booking essential. Tips Welcome.
Early mornings in the stone city is always your favourite time of day. The streets around you are lined with Victorian apartment buildings only a few stories high. They wear their age proudly. The stone facades displaying their history with a urban camouflage. A young sun sheepishly casts crude beams on semi-cobbled streets. It dashes away the lingering haze. A cycle, a dance, observed by a very few. You wander about the bus shelter, it’s a Sunday morning and the buses have a lazy schedule. No matter how many times you witnesses it, you are still surprised at the juxtaposition of the quiet found in this densely populated city.
All around you people take it upon themselves to fill the emptiness of the morning. Brightly clothed joggers make their second pass by you. In the distance you hear the familiar beeps of reversing delivery vehicles, and you see the local grocer through the shop window as they restock shelves. You used to silently rage at the thought of a six a.m. alarm. Now you are proud to be amongst fellow early risers.
The bus stop sits on a slight hill that overlooks the local park. A football pitch harbours an entire flock of resting white gulls, a few pale grey pigeons, and obsidian black crows dotted in amongst them. Every now and then human activity disturbs the resting birds and they stir at the new opportunities of food. Beyond them sits a pond rimmed with public benches. Waterfowl gather near an elderly man he sees every morning. He sits at the center. Sometimes on a day off you find yourself by the pond as well. By chance you had spoken to the man you now watch from a distance, he claims his was “the best seat in the house.”
When Mukesh Shastri settled the grocery bill at Bawarchi General, his assistant Debu came running, his overweight breasts jiggling under his sweat-soaked t-shirt, gushing,
“The sack…the sack…the lentil sack is moving, a sound…it came from...”
Heart-racing, Shastri cut him short. “What’s moving? What sound?”
Debu mimicked a deep moan that rattled Shastri further.
“You mean the sound came from the lentil sack?”
Shastri asked again and Debu nodded like a temple bull. Lentils could moan? “Why not? Arey. When parrots, penguins, even plants can talk, why can’t lentils moan?” Bawarchi who overheard Shastri’s quandary and of course his mind voice jangled Shastri’s nerves more.
“But could it be a raccoon?”
“A Raccoon? Do they moan?” Bawarchi pushed, smirking-winking at Debu and Shastri caught it just in time.
Everyone in the village was jealous of Shastri’s business success, especially after someone reviewed his Seva Service on the Internet. Was this a deliberate attempt to trip him?
He killed the Chetak exactly at the mouth of his abode, marched straight to the double-door almirah in his dingy kitchen.
The two lentil sacks were in the corner, away from the rice and rest of the puja stuff, tie loosened, their mouths open haphazardly. Shastri was still under the impression that it was only the handiwork of the man-sized-nocturnal-wanderers aka raccoons, until he heard it- not exactly a moan but a low hum. It sounded like the fading tone of the temple bell; eyes-closed, it made him feel underwater, back in his mother’s womb. On a whim, Shastri put his hand into the sack and a low-frequency, ebbing vibration pulsed through.
As he sat rubbing his hand contemplating what to do with this in-the-face-bizarreness, the neighbours filed in- courtesy of Debu, the number more than when Shastri’s wife Lakshmi passed five years back.
Velika removed her mother’s wedding dress from the box. Auntie Melina was right: it would likely need too much alteration to fit her. But maybe she could reuse something from it. Her mother had had worn a veil, hadn’t she?
She spotted a small envelope at the bottom of the box, white paper in a white box, that she had nearly missed. She opened it and removed a little plastic eye. “Oh my God!” she said. “Bruno’s eye! Liv! Liv!”
Liv came running. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“It’s Bruno’s eye! Auntie Melina must have found it in my wardrobe. Look!”
Liv laughed. She’d been teasing Velika about her raggedy bear and its missing eye – or rather, the eye patch Velika had made for him to hide the missing eye – ever since she’d first set foot into her bedroom.
“Will you glue it on?” she asked.
“Would it make you stop teasing me?” Velika answered her question with another one.
“Unlikely,” Liv said.
“Well then, no,” Velika said. “But I might glue it onto your wedding dress as your something borrowed.”
They both broke out in laugher. Velika marvelled at how happy she was, and at how even the thought of being married without her mother and father couldn’t mar her that happiness.
Rada was a big believer in “men running into women”, meaning deliberately not getting out of men’s way on the street when they expected you to.
Anton was usually careful how he moved his large frame through a crowd, but he’d just received a long-anticipated call about the Troll Bridge job. He stopped paying attention to his surroundings, and found himself bumping into a woman half his size – a woman who now glared at him.
“I’m very sorry,” he said to the woman, “please, just one moment, so I can explain why I need to call back later…”
“Or you could watch where you’re going,” the woman said, while Konstantin asked if he really needed to think about the offer.
Anton looked from the woman to his phone, then back again, starting to regret having left the house this morning. He was an artist, not a communications expert, and one conversation at a time was enough for him.
Holding one hand up to Rada and flashing what he hoped was an apologetic smile, he spoke. “Konstantin, I’ll take the job, thanks so much – I really want to work on the bridge. But I’ll need to call back later, there’s a bit of a situation –“
“A situ– wait a minute, is that Konstantin from the Troll Bridge Trust? I’m working on that, too, I’ll be cutting and engraving the stones!”
Anton pictured the tiny, actually rather attractive, woman in a workshop.
“I didn’t know you and Rada were friends,” Konstantin said.
“We – that is – not exactly – I mean – Rada, I’m…”
“He’ll call you back in an hour, Konstantin.” Rada grabbed Anton’s mobile, ending the call. “You can buy me a coffee. You know, to apologise properly. And talk about stones.”
Note to self:
Never wear a white dress to a friend’s wedding if the groom is your ex.
Velika liked to take lunchtime walks along the lake. At least she did whenever she actually got a chance to take a lunch break. On her days off, she sometimes hiked the trails along the lakeside or went for a swim at one of its beaches.
Life here was good. Everything was different – the language, the people, the food. But not in a bad way. She still found herself drawn to the water, just like she had back home.
Her neighbour, Liv, who shared Velika’s passion for walking and being at the lakeside, had invited her to stay at her family’s cottage this weekend. They had arrived late on Saturday morning and gone out on the lake in a rowing boat. Liv had taught her how to fish, though they’d only caught some small fish that they returned to the water.
Later, they’d gone swimming together, and at one point, playful splashing had turned into a hug, the hug into an embrace, the embrace into kissing. Velika blushed a little.
It was nice. Natural. Not rushed, but more like everything here in this country that seemed to take things in its stride, deliberately and confidently.
She wasn’t sure where things with Liv would go, if they would be together forever. But she knew she’d made the right choice in leaving home and coming here.
Smiling, she pulled the blanket she’d wrapped herself in tight around her shoulders and walked back to the cottage.
Davina kept staring at the dead body of the ferocious mongoose.
The teenagers were running all around to get into the school buses. She checked the time on her watch. She could get the 5 o'clock bus if she hurried a little.
As she was waiting for the bus near the shop across the road, she saw the cobra slithering on the open road! She was paralized! She knew she needed help before it was too late but no sound came out of her throat!
The mongoose sprang out of the bushes on the side of the road. The cobra didn’t shy away and kept lashing out at the mongoose with its fangs. But the later was one plucky fella. The ferocity with which he attacked the snake was something unbelievable!
At the end, bloodied, both were lying dead!
Davina thanked God and the Mongoose for a lucky escape.
Prompt #17 involved choosing five words from a FlashFlood story.
Source text: 'It's Time' by Cally Ann Kerr
It’s a very pretty story, isn’t it? I’m particularly proud of the pumpkin coach. And now I get to have pumpkin soup every year on my anniversary. What a lovely little bonus!
The truth is no one knows who the mystery woman was, least of all me.
I found the glass slipper between the butchers and the bakers. A perfect fit, though profoundly useless on its own.
I slipped it into my pocket and forgot all about it until and I got home and the house was in an uproar because the silly prince had promised to marry some runaway.
His valet was prancing about the village with a glass shoe and a promise.
As fate would have it, my big footed stepsister smashed it in a fit of passion.
I pulled the matching slipper from my pocket with a flourish and basked in the stunned silence of the ridiculous girl and her despicable mother.
The slipper was placed on my foot, a ring on my finger and a crown on my head, all before the clock struck twelve.
Ivelina was furious. Zitko’s “100% certain investment opportunity” failing hadn’t come as a surprise; he had prior form. But this time, everything was gone, even the account they had started for their daughter. How could he? Had he no shame?
Crying with rage, she brought the bolt cutter down on their love lock, squeezing until the metal snapped. Ten years ago, they had stood here, written their name on the lock and thrown away the key. Now he’d thrown away their future.
“Ivelina!” Zitko was running towards her, red-faced, breathing heavily.
She flung the lock into the river. “Leave me alone! I want you gone. Out of my life.”
“Can’t we talk?” he asked hopefully.
Massive arms emerged from under the bridge, lifting Ivelina and Zitko by the waist. They found themselves face to face with the bridge troll.
“You humans talk too much,” the troll said. “And I’m hungry.”
Prompt #17 involved choosing five words from a FlashFlood story.
Source text: 'The Surprise Party' by Karen Crawford
The group dispersed after fond farewells. Rini continued lingering in her chair. The still-heavy bag lay in the next chair, only one friend had taken one. Sighing, Rini rose and left without looking back, afraid someone would come rushing to return the bag of books she had left behind.
Rini had too many books. In the last three years, her phone claimed her attention and slashed her reading time. As an antidote, she had joined a book club. Her father would order books frequently and she swiped many of them. She thus collected several books, of which she read very few. Never mind the romance around tsundoku, it was a failure to self-regulate, she decided. The multitudes of the unread and the unfinished were suffocating her. However, she couldn’t stop acquiring them. Actually, she had only about two hundred; what weighed her down was the self-reproach at her lack of discipline.
Maybe if she gave away the unread ones, she could begin afresh? No libraries or schools in her city wanted any. Voluntary organisations wanted only textbooks and educational books. Only a few of her friends wanted any. The longer she waited for a decent solution, the more she accumulated. Should she burn them? No! So she started losing them. On the bus, on the train, at cafes, at a holiday resort, at stores, in a distant park. It often felt like a stealth operation. She deleted the audiobook app without claiming her credits. She deleted the unread books on her e-reader. Over the next year, she felt lighter. Relieved that there was no book to go back home to. Strange, she didn’t even feel like reading now. Had she gone too far? Rini couldn’t tell.
Moren must have had one tequila too many at that lunch. It was as though she’d stepped into an afternoon jigsaw and had become one of the rough-edged pieces, one with cut-out frail knobbly bits. Flats, shops and people blurred into a cacophony of red and white and black with orange smudges, red lines and black dots. Shadows loomed above on mirrored screens like they were marionettes on strings chasing other shadowy figures. One hid behind a pillar like James Bond. He was going to follow her, she thought.
Like this man with the red cap. ‘Afternoon, Moren.’ He winked at her. ‘Fancy a drink later?’ He laughed and her head spun. He sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
Oh God, she just wanted to go home and sleep it off. The fags would have to do instead. She’d have a black coffee when she got back in the office. She groaned. Three more tortuous hours with the dreadful Patrick.
‘Afternoon,’ said a swarthy young man as she weaved towards him. ‘Interested in carpets? There’s a sale on in the Town Hall.’
‘Only if they’re magic ones.’
He smirked, with one front tooth missing. ‘Well, you come and look.’
‘I’ve no intention of buying,’ she said, but she liked the sound of his voice.
The thought of going back to work faded from her mind.
A nasty taste of onion sat on her tongue. A burger van had parked just along the pavement and she tried not to heave at the smell.
‘What I’d really love to do,’ she said, ‘is to disappear and fly off somewhere exotic.’
‘Well, Miss,’ said the young man. ‘It’s this way. We’ll have you flying in no time.’
She had come here, halfway across the world, to escape the thing that would kill her. Instead, it had stitched itself inseparably to her.
It could not speak, would only show itself as smoke the colour of verdigris, of lichen in the endless humid gardens they had left behind. But Lady Reza understood that by the time the djinn found her, it had forsworn its original purpose. Her heartbeat was proof enough. The contract was void.
Whether this independence was of its own making, or her family had tired of the long pursuit and cut ties with their degenerate pet, she would never know.
Now, in a snowbound and hardscrabble city, in a room beneath a bridge that breathed in the river’s rolling cold, the Lady and her assassin shared an exile. It trailed her soundlessly about her business; it crawled in to share her warmth at night; it no longer entertained thoughts of swallowing her soul. Here, she was all it had.
She supposed that was beautiful, in a way. It was nothing like friendship, even less like forgiveness. It was an understanding; a reality that the last year had left her raw enough to bear.
Lady Reza watched her companion now, casting awful shadows in the firelight, doing and thinking whatever it did. She had come to sense when its attention was on her. She smiled. Ice crackled around the doorframe.
In time, this understanding would serve her very well. She had never been more sure of anything.
I wriggle my fingers against his palm because I can’t believe it’s real. Can I nestle my head on his shoulder during a roller coaster ride? Does this mean we’re going steady?
The cars pull up and we’re still touching as we step closer, our turn next. I sit down and before I know it, abracadabra he’s gone, and the attendant buckles a kid who’s already crying in the space beside me, snot on her chin, and I look around wildly, desperate to correct the mistake, but he’s gone.
We race along the wooden tracks clunk-ka-clunk and I think I see him at the snack bar, laughing with those boys from school, but from this dizzying height I can’t be sure.
Prompt #17 involved choosing five words from a FlashFlood story.
Source text: 'Coriolis Effect' by Mikki Aronoff
A toilet was not supposed to be in the side yard. Or in any part of the yard. Any self-respecting commode would be inside.
This one had situated itself between her Japanese maple and garden hose, its seat up, yawning.
The nerve.
Her hands shook unexpectedly as she edged down the brick steps to study it.
She glanced around, knowing Duncan must be nearby. Who else would use a home appliance -- no, a plumbing fixture -- as a calling card?
He'd explained the difference while unclogging the finicky toilet in her first apartment years ago. "You don't plug it in or turn it on."
He'd driven ponding roads at 1 a.m. to help her. He stood and pressed the handle with authority. "Madam, I present the royal flush from the porcelain throne. I also give you this scepter," handing her his plumber's helper.
"A treasure." She'd laughed but kept it through ten years of various jobs, apartments, and now a home.
Duncan hadn't fared as well. Senior year of college, he'd been injured in a car accident then become addicted to opioids. Ashamed, he'd broken off contact. "A story for the crapper," he'd judged.
"I'm not going to start asking you for money," he texted, attempting a final joke: "You won't be privy to my problems."
"In loo of that, let's stay in touch," she'd tried
Instead he changed his phone number, moved, disappeared.
Now a toilet faced her boldly, making some kind of point.
A car door slammed in the summer heat.
Looking much the same as when she last saw him, Duncan stood at the foot of her driveway. She froze, too happy to speak.
"I've heard of toilets running ..." he called.
All you need to know about Edward is he says quarter past rather than 3:15.
Jakov led the group towards the riverbank where Danijela was waiting. Dozens of candle lanterns cast a soft glow on the scene as she opened her arms, her wide sleeves fanning out like wings.
Any oohs and aahs were quietly and quickly shushed: the cleansing ritual had to take place in complete silence.
Barefoot, Danijela led them to the riverbank, climbing down and filling a bucket with water. They were scamming the poor bastards, but even so, the experience did feel cleansing. She let her toes explore the soft riverbed, digging in, scrunching around pebbles and slippery plants. A duck, rudely awakened by the presence of this many humans, quacked in protest, but eventually tucked his head under his wing and resumed his beauty sleep.
Danijela walked back out to Jakov’s side. The midges were out in force tonight. One of them buzzed right past her ear, then sat on her cheek. She wished she could just swat the little bloodsucker, but she had to maintain the illusion of serenity.
Jakov and Danijela each dipped a sponge into the water and washed the face of a young, pock-marked man, applying gentle pressure while maintaining their silence. A beatific smile appeared on his face, as if he was the personification of the placebo effect.
They worked their way round the circle, finishing with their own faces. They might as well jump into the river, Danijela thought, with how badly-stained their souls must be by now.
The ritual completed, they returned to their small rental unit to check their freshly-inflated bank accounts and sleep. In that order, of course.
The heavy wood-slatted narrow bridge was at the side of Loughborough Canal going in the direction of Quorn. It was very new and unlike the single stone arch bridges that usually allowed one to cross from one side of the canal to the other.
This small narrow bridge was more like a pier, inches above muddy marshy ground. It had very flimsy thin metal poles to hold onto at each side. As I clung on, my eyesight wavered and I felt the wooden slats wobble and I felt that I could simply slip quietly underneath the metal poles and drift away happily to enjoy a swim.
‘Be careful’ Carol shouted from behind. ‘It doesn’t look that safe. It’s almost as if the Council didn’t have enough wood. It all looks bucolic but an accident could easily happen here.’
‘It’s fine Carol’ I said. ‘It won’t do me any harm. You see, I come from a family of bridge trolls back in the day. Bridges were our homes, mind you, I prefer the stone ones, they last longer and provided better shelter and income. We used to charge a toll for the crossing. This is a mere baby, practically born yesterday. It is still finding its feet, that’s why it’s a bit wobbly. It will soon settle down.’
I bent down and patted the slats in front of me. ‘Don’t worry, little cousin, I have got you. No need to wobble. I will visit and we can chat about the hikers, the canal boats, the dog walkers, the drug users, the homeless ones and the unsafe humans with fire to watch out for. No need to be afraid. Just think of me and I will come.’
We’ve been the only witness! Oh, sorry! This isn’t how a story begins, right? Human stories! The very concept makes me chuckle to myself. All made up of lies, falsity, untruth and deception.
To come back to my story – I’m a solid rock in the river with a history but I won’t tell you the name for you humans are not only curious, suspicious by nature but dangerous too.
The fast-flowing river with its surroundings is a treat for the eye. If it’s remained so for years, the reason being the village is far away. But the lovers would come sit on me, dangling their feet for hours. They were so much in love that we all were happy for them.
They came in the early hours one day. They’re a handsome pair and lightened up the atmosphere with love and laughter. We didn’t mind as they’re simple, innocent love-loans like most of us.
After some time, the lovely lass, totally uninhabited, got undressed, threw the clothes on the shore and invited the lad to do the same gleefully. They’d so much fun that they didn’t see the hairy, bare-chested man turn up and hide behind the tree. I knew from the way he was ogling the girl, that he’s evil. I prayed to The One Above to save the lovers.
No sooner did the evil man stealthily step into the river than something strange happened! I don't know how but his still body was floating on the water a few minutes later!
I heard the girl wail out, ‘Ron, it’s Shyamal Da from our locality. Hurry up!’
Unable to save him, they’d to leave the body behind finally. That way we all were saved otherwise, there is no imagining the level of destruction you could of caused us.
“Why do you have such a weird suitcase?” Velika asked the young man once she’d purchased her stuffed toy from the merchant. She didn’t understand what he could possibly want to put in there.
“It’s called a portfolio,” Anton explained. “You put big pieces of paper in there. Drawings. Or paintings. Or big prints.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you a painter?”
“I’m kind of an artist,” he said. “But not yet. I’ll have to study first.”
“I also have to study,” Velika said earnestly. “I’ll be a doctor.”
*
Zitko furrowed his brow looking over his portfolio. His investments hadn’t just decreased in value, the company had gone bust. And worst of all, he had to tell Ivelina. She’d warned him not to put all his eggs into one basket, and he’d been too proud to listen to her, intent that he was the man, the one who understood finances. He should’ve known better. He had known better. Not knowing how to tell her, he printed the overview out and left it on the table with a scribbled note saying “sorry”, then went for a walk.
To find Old Man River, you must travel to the right time and place.
To speak to him, you must reach him in the first month of harvest season, when the sun has warmed his skin all summer and awoken him from his slumber.*
To receive his favour for your marriage, you must bring a boon worthy of his attention** and convince him of your affection for each other.
To reach him, you must set out from the summer meeting place on the longest day of the year.***
You must walk towards the place where the sun touches the mountain at sunset****, and keep walking in that direction.
You must not eat anything containing fish or nuts for at least one week before you reach him.*****
Your mind must be free of doubts, your heart free of fear, your eyes open wide so he can read your soul.******
We wish you good luck on your journey.*******
*He’s old. Like, really old. And he sleeps a lot. Bit like a reptile, but more extreme.
**He likes gemstones. A lot.
***Summer solstice, in case it wasn’t clear.
****West, basically.
*****He can smell the fish, even after a week. I don’t know how the old bastard does it. And the nuts, yeah, really don’t. He’s badly allergic. You really don’t want to see that.
******I don’t think he really does that. But you never know.
*******And don’t forget the gemstones!
