#flashficweds

Rachel had never been so happy.

In her latest celebrity 'catch' Amanda Bovem speaks to celebrity Chef Bill Compton about his new restaurant, and his tasty new recipes! A: Bill, sweetheart, lovely to see you. B: Lovely to see you too Amanda, thank you so much for having me. A: It's our pleasure. With the new branch of Bemuse Trout opening up, how could we not? B: Thank you, that's very kind. It's been a long time in the making, so I am very excited to see us launch in a new location. A: Can you tell us a little bit about what can expect? B: Of course. Firstly, let me confirm to all your readers that you don't need to worry. We will still have all our old favourites from the Bemuse Trout on the menu. But being this close to the mountains, we have included some of the nearby fauna and flora in dishes exclusive to the restaurant. You might think that sounds disturbing for a seafood restaurant, but we've tried to push our boundaries, and I think you are going to be excited by some of the results. A: Fantastic. Inevitably there will be some question about the reasons behind setting the restaurant up in the mountains, especially as this is so close to your birthing point. How much did that factor into your decision to locate yourself here? B: You are not wrong, choosing a location near to my birthplace took a big part in the decision. Arriving here is an unbelievable moment in anyone's life, especially back then when it was so infrequent. I had...I had to leave a lot of people behind. Those first six months were horrific, but I spent a lot of time up here in the mountains. I got to learn this place. This is somewhere that means a great deal to me. A: Powerful stuff. What do you think diner's should look out for most? B: I've tried to include a lot of different cooking techniques from my own home, and mix them with some of the amazing ingredients you have here. All those giant vegetables, the game meat; it's a whole different world of flavours to what I had before. I want to build on the legacy of Bemuse Trout, and lets our guests discover the majesty of the mountains. And trust me, try the squid. A: Bill, I know you are busy, so we will leave it there. Thank you so much for your time, and the very best of luck with your new venture. B: Thank you Amanda. I look forward to welcoming you soon. I love what you have done with your horns by the way.

That is as far as I got. You have to get further.

There are only three months left of this incarnation of The Butter Mouse. After that the narrative will change, and there is a possibility things will never go back to how they were. So today I thought we would travel to one of the farthest corners. Imagine you are at the seaside, sitting on the beach, and looking out over the ocean. Think of that spot where the water forms a thin strip on the horizon, like the join between the wall and the skirting board. There is a place where the only spot to sit is a small mossy rock, and no matter where you look, that thin strip of water will be all around you. No matter what time of day, or what time of year, the sky above is golden, with popcorn coloured clouds. The waves lap at the minuscule island, never strong enough to overwhelm this last bastion of land. You have to dive to find the true existence of this world. The light turns the water sapphire all the way down to a bed of golden sand. Interrupting this level plain is the odd jut of a seaweedy brick, and maybe even something that was once the head of a statue. But these are all gone now. All that is left are the sea creatures. Some are like giant manta rays the size of London buses. Others are more like seals, but with tails that curve round like a mermaids. Perhaps the Platonic form of selkies. There are more, but this is not an ecosystem. There is no relationship between predator and prey. Everyone one of these beasts has been and will be around forever. Their lot is to swim this ocean forever, swooshing round and round, riding on the currents in an eternal loop. You can go to the rock on any day, and they will always be below the waves. So no matter what happens next, you can always return to this spot. The Butter Mouse will always be at peace here.

The rest went in the bin. I didn’t go to the newsagents again.

The best days of my life were at Grandfather's. His house was little more than a brickwork shack up on the mountain, but to me, he owned a palace. In the daytime I read, listened to old records, and played board games with myself. Grandfather did not own a television. We spent a big of chunk of every afternoon sleeping. After all, we had to rest for fishing. Grandfather insisted on going fishing at night. The stars were always bright and plentiful, and the lake hid in the mountains, silent as the moon. His rowing boat creaked from side the side, tied up on a small jetty, alone on the water. Our journey to the middle of the lake took a good twenty minutes, even with the long steady strokes that Grandfather had perfected over sixty years. We didn't chat much when fishing. Grandfather always focused a lot on the water. If he did speak, it was in oblique tips like 'it's always better to be out here with the moon' and 'you need to know which ones you are looking for.' Every so often we got a bite. Grandfather reeled in red fish the size of his forearm, sometimes throwing them back in, sometimes laying them flat in an old plastic cooler, half filled with crushed ice. 'For your mother,' he said every time, his big grin showing the gaps in his teeth. So our routine went, every day of the summer. When the sun took away the darkness, we headed back to the dock. Grandfather let me go straight to bed upon our return, and woke me at lunchtime to a glorious lunch of baked bread and fresh fish. This all changed on the night we caught the squid. Our hook spiked through one of the eight tentacles, a cold piece of metal piercing the white flesh. Two green eyes rolled back and forth, and the crisp mountain air filled with the tang of rotten garbage and orange peels. A tentacle curled towards us, suckers the shape of broken hears. Grandfather shook the line, and with a splosh the squid crashed back into the water Grandfather looked up to the skies. 'Hold on tight,' he said. 'This only happens when the squid appear.' I had so many questions, but I held on tight. Grandfather smiled. The water bubbled and under the surface a shadow rose towards us. Then with an explosion of foam burst into the moonlight, spluttering and thrashing around. It's skin was so pale, and the limbs no less aggressive or terrifying than the squid's. I reverted back five years, and cowered away from the monster, forcing myself into the corner of the boat. Despite his age, Grandfather grappled the creature in one wrinkled hand, and launched it into the boat with. That soaking alabaster abomination crashed against our cooler, splashing melted ice and fish juice all over us. The wood groaned in displeasure with the weight of another body. My breathing expanded into short rapid, and I tried to make sense of the situation. But Grandfather patted the beast, and picked up his oars. 'I am glad you to got to see this,' Grandfather said. 'But that is enough for tonight. Time to go home now.' He began to row us back to the jetty, our new companion with us, gasping from a red, blubbery mouth. This was the first time we had ever gone back before the sun came up.

Kristina remembered the night the newsagents near her house burnt down. Her Mum always said it was for insurance reasons. Even now the building was a shell, faded MDF covering the blackened windows, dandelions forcing their way through the path. She had been allowed a quarter pound of sweets, and a can of fizzy drink once a week. The man behind the counter was tall, and often rubbed his hands together. The shop had a strange smell to it, a bit like dunking you nose in a sugar bowl, and small ceilings, patches of damp next to pipes mended with duct tape. They didn't stock the same brands as anywhere else. Cans with lots of drawings of rolling forests on the label, faded grey prices with black printed price. There was too much honey for such a small shop. She sometimes got a comic as well, but they were always wrinkled, pierced with tiny holes, and sticky to the touch. The night of the fire, a group gathered downstairs. Kristina guessed they met at her parents' house because they had the biggest living room. She knew most of them. They were sensible types, doctors and lawyers. She had met them at parties before bedtime, when they wore cream summer suits, and drank whisky and soda, or sipped champagne in tall glasses. Tonight they bunched up on the sofa and armchairs in tracksuit bottoms, quaffing mugs of tea, and whispering. One of them carried a translucent jerry can that smell of service stations. She got sent to bed within an hour of their arrival. Kristina didn't understand how her parents thought she could get to sleep, considering the crackling coming from outside, and the thick smoke pouring down the street. She opened her curtain just a peek, and orange flames reflected in the windows of the flat opposite. No-one turned their lights on. The scream of the fire engines did not emerge from the distance. The thing that crawled down the road, out of the smoking building was the size of a horse, but had a yellow and black thorax and six thin legs that pawed at the melting macadam. It had the shopkeeper's head, but chunks of skin flapped off like old plasters, revealing compound eyes underneath. Unseen hands dragged it backwards, and even over the crackling of the flames you could hear an angry buzzing. Kristina stopped watching after that. It is amazing how quickly you get over things. How you easily you forget. Especially when a new shop opens, gleaming white, ceilings high, crisp fresh comics on the shelves, pick n mix in containers the size of buckets, silver scoops showing off the gleaming lights above.

Human beings do not and cannot live everywhere. I am not talking about the top of Everest, or the innards of a volcano. I mean those tiny outposts of rock in every ocean in the world. The ones covered in hundreds if not thousands or seabirds, which Tippex the rocks with guano, and marinate the air with the stink of dead fish and manky feathers. There is one in particular that is no bigger than a modesty priced restaurant, and is three days boat ride from the nearest coast line. The rock are so sharp that no matter where you land they will scratch the paintwork of your boat. Mark discovered this when he arrived. He swooshed away some seabirds with his briefcase, breathed in that fishy smell, and remembered this was his dream. It was more of a display of paperwork than a purchase. His solicitor hadn't understood his request at first. But when he realised no-one was going to check anyway, he drew up the contract, and charged Mark half a grand. Mark had the paper in his briefcase, next to the crown. He had it custom made at the jewellers, and the cost was so prohibitive he as to remortgage his house. Not that he cared anymore. He positioned himself on one of the less mucky rocks, and spread out his legs like he was straddling the back of the chair. He unclipped the briefcase, pulled out the crown from the protective casing, and using both hands coronated himself. The waves crashed against the rocks, and the seabirds got braver. One pecked at his leather shoes, another hopped on the tails of his suit. With the cold metal resting on his forehead, Mark achieved his dream. He was king of all that he could see.