Thanks to the maintenance outage that left Blogger down, I put this week's Friday Flash, Something Blue, over on my secondary blog - my mild OCD didn't want me to miss a Friday posting.
Normally I use my Cultural Carnival to discuss films or exhibitions, but this week it's hosting my flash. With any luck, things will be back to normal as of today! In addition, I'll be posting a "Making Of" entry on Tuesday discussing today's flash.
However, due to a peculiarity of Wordpress, I couldn't get the Audioboo box to load properly, so feel free to use the player below if you'd like to hear me narrate this week's flash.
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This is Picasso, a short I wrote in 2009 for a story prompt on the EditRed website. It was subsequently published on Postcard Shorts, but I'm still very fond of it, so I thought it would make a nice Audioboo for today's Spoken Sunday! I hope you like it.
Picasso
Silence held the gallery in its tender grasp. Silver ribbons of moonlight snaked across the parquet floor. Reaching up the walls, they fingered the heavy wooden frames that held some of the world's most beautiful paintings.
Miles away, the clock struck midnight. Its heavy chime floated on the still night air. Life stirred in the gallery as goddesses, royalty and anonymous angels hauled themselves out of their frames. Renaissance minstrels struck up a tune, while Pre-Raphaelite heroines started to dance. Laughter soon filled the gallery as its famous inhabitants joined the ball.
The frivolous atmosphere broke as a solitary figure limped into the main hall. Two eyes stared forlornly from the right hand side of its face, and a cruel mouth twisted into a snarl beside its ear. A simple slash served as a nose, and it tried to disguise its backward-facing hands held at right angles.
The music stopped as the congregation turned to face the newcomer. Millais’ Ophelia stepped forward, dripping water onto the chequered tiles.
"Dear me, who painted you?!" she exclaimed, barely able to contain her revulsion. The reply was plaintive and dejected.
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It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. I know this is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of young people like myself enjoying the evening delights of the city. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza. I hear glasses chinking, cutlery against plates, laughter. The words are indistinct but I hear stories being told. People guffaw as their companions reach their punchlines. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...
I stand on my bed and peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends will be huddled around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. They will be carrying platters of steaming food, the dishes a riot of colour and smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. The air will be thick with bonhomie and warmth.
I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.
I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.
You miss the silence when you live in a city. Noise surrounds you, pressing in on you, constantly swaddling you in a shroud of sound. Babies cry, competing with too-loud TVs, while phones ring and sirens scream and people shout to be heard. The sound muffles the real world, as our world becomes what we hear through televisions and radios and telephones. You long for silence, you miss it. You wonder if it still exists out there, if any part of the world still experiences quiet.
So you leave the city, go just beyond the suburbs. Countryside unfurls around you, and you see the world anew. The universe turns down the volume on life. A sudden panic grips you as you wonder if you've gone deaf. Do you still exist, if you hear no noise? Does the world still exist, if it produces no sound? The panic subsides when birdsong cuts across your paranoia. The clear melody, warbled with such finesse, soothes your mind like a lullaby from Mother Nature herself. You hear the roar of blood in your ears, and feel truly alive. You do exist, and for the first time in a long time, you are not a product, producer or victim of the noise. You are simply you, reconnected to the universe. Thoughts drift into your mind, you feel creative. You feel alive.
But a part of you misses the noise, the hubbub, the constant stream of sound. The noise was a comfort, a constant companion. It walked with you in dark places, and dampened idle worry with its onslaught. Out here, the silence feels lonely. You are alive, but you could be the only person alive. The noise proved other people surrounded you, but the silence forces you into isolation. Do other people exist if you cannot hear them?
So you return to the city. At first, the noise feels threatening, and it overwhelms you. But you settle into the cacophony, and escape into the mindless chatter of shouted adverts and one-sided mobile phone conversations.
Here's my short flash fiction for this week's #SpokenSunday Audioboo. It's called The Unenviable Position of the Girl at the Crossroads, which I got from my good friend Sophie Bowley-Aicken as part of our title swap. I gave her the title of Two Flags Flapping In The Wind, which you can find on her blog, here.
I've also decided to post a transcribed version, too, just in case you can't listen to audio! (That might be best, actually, since I inexplicably decided to record it in a regional accent that is not my own!)
"I remember hearing the death sentence. I remember the magistrate's face as he delivered it. He knew those charges of witchcraft were rubbish, but he had no choice. The town needed a scapegoat, and that old bag down the valley delivered me. Burnt at the stake. Why me? Why not some other soul? Well I weren't going to let them burn me alive. They left me in the cell overnight and I cut my wrists. I figured I'd die my way, not theirs. I think my jailer left the glass for me. He knew I weren't guilty.
The universe don't look too kindly on suicides though. No heaven, no hell, not for me. I get to remember all of this while I lie here. I can hear voices up there right now. Two men, arguing about what direction they should go in. I could tell 'em, give 'em directions, but I can't move from where I am. I'm pinned in this box with a metal spike. Trapped in a box, six feet under the crossroads. Lying here, until Judgement Day."
I wrote a blog post on Tuesday about the new phenomenon of AudioBoo, and how much I'm enjoying figuring it out. Well now there's an extra reason to get on board, as Benjamin Solah's #SpokenSunday hashtag gets into full swing! Benjamin's written a post over on the Spoken Sunday blog to explain in greater detail, but in a nutshell, Spoken Sunday combines the concept of the #FridayFlash tag with the 'open mic' quality of AudioBoo.
It's my intention to write a short, 100-200 word flash fiction with the sole purpose of posting it as a spoken word Boo every Sunday, but this week I was very tired so I decided instead of go back through my archives of material. I've chosen The Crossing, which was originally published on Gloom Cupboard in January 2009. I'm still very proud of it, and I thought it would be a good flash to dust off, and give an airing for Spoken Sunday. You can find it here.
I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you get involved with Spoken Sunday!
All written content and photographic prompts are under copyright to Icy Sedgwick (or respective guest posters) and therefore can't be copied and posted elsewhere, unless you're quoting directly from posts and providing links to the original.
Icy Sedgwick was born in the North East of England, and is based in Newcastle. She has been writing for over ten years, and had her first book, a Western named The Guns of Retribution, published through Pulp Press in September 2011. She spends her non-writing time working on a PhD in Film Studies, knitting, baking and making jewellery.
The search for a murderous outlaw has brought the long roving Grey O’Donnell near to his hometown of Retribution, Arizona. Bounty hunters ain’t popular but old fashioned manners, kindness to regular folk and a face for the ladies make Grey an exception round these parts; and a six gun’ll take care of the rest. Anyway, Grey has a job to do elsewhere. But, the odious Jasper Roberts has made himself Sheriff of Retribution and he has a score to settle with Grey. Jasper ain’t gonna let morals or the law get in the way of a good hanging and the townsfolk are cowed by their villainous lawman. Can you really mess with a man’s momma and get away with it? Sometimes there is more than one bullet with your name on it.
Fifteen previously published stories, collected together for the first time, spanning fantasy, horror, sci fi and speculative fiction. Among other things, Bleed Them Dry puts a new spin on vampires, talking corpses tell their side in The Dead Do Listen, a little girl is fascinated with an antique that hides a dark side in The Mirror Phase, and a devilish game of chess goes wrong in Checkmate.
The First Tale
A vaguely steampunk adventure, set in the fictional city of Vertigo. The Resistance is pitted against the shadowy Weimar Corporation that runs the City. Their stalemate is broken by the death of a suspected infiltrator, setting Resistance Commander Liss Hunt and her bewildered companion Philip Wiseman on a journey into the depths of both organisations to discover the truth behind who - or what - is really running the City. Featuring automatons, mad scientists, chases, a gun-toting heroine and even the Living Dead, The First Tale is a short novella that proves people are not always what they seem.
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