#flashnificents

We started on Christmas Eve 2011 as a team of seven. Five years and four months later, our members have since moved on to pursue other creative ventures whilst the few who remained struggled to stay inspired. Consequently, we have decided that we will no longer post new material. Our archive will remain so you can enjoy one thousand stories from our dozen contributors.

As I come round, I realise I’m tied to a chair. A spotlight in front of me snaps on, revealing a tall figure with prominent cheekbones dressed in an outfit entirely composed of mirrors.

‘Congratulations, Normal. You have been randomly selected to help the tastemakers pick their next trend.’

You have got to be kidding me.

My captor continues. ‘Our critics claim we’ve lost the common touch, you see. They say we’re championing superfluous beauty treatments, expensive ineffective superfruits, and idiotic hats that resemble lampshades. So, if you’ll be excuse my French, we need randos to tell us if what we’re pushing is bollocks.’

Uh…

‘And if I do this, you’ll let me go?’

‘Absolutely. And with a free giftbag of goodies. Shall we begin?’

I shift in my seat, suddenly painfully aware of an itch between my shoulder blades. ‘Okay, go ahead.’

A bland instrumental track strikes up. My host withdraws from the spotlight and picks up a microphone whilst a small queue of stick-thin models shuffle in. The first steps forward with a toaster and our MC starts their spiel.

‘Toasters with cameras! So you can take a breakfast selfie. You’ll look as hot as your bread.’

‘No.’

The toaster carrier steps aside and a woman wrapped in wallpaper takes his place.

‘No.’

The MC is taken aback. ‘Don’t you even want an explanation?’

‘Don’t need one. You can’t drape wallcoverings over someone and tell them it’s clothes.’

‘Alright…’ Judging from their bitter tone, clearly my host had thought that idea was a winner. The wallpaper woman is replaced with a child holding a bowl of hair. I dismiss him as I quickly as I do the rest of his bizarrely-dressed colleagues with weird snacks and pointless electronics.

The dull background track continues, but no one else steps forward. ‘Is that everyone then?’ I ask, now really wishing I could scratch my back.

The presenter flounces and flounders. ‘No… Of course not. OBVIOUSLY we have something more… Wanda, take my mike.’ A woman who’d brought in a branch on a leash obliges. The leader steps into the spotlight.

‘This season, we are all into – or will be pending your approval – uh… oh, I don’t know. Individualistism.’

I nod. ‘I’m listening…’

‘It’s where you… I guess… do what you want? Yes. Instead of following others. You are your own trend!’

I try to applaud, then remember my hands are bound. ‘Yes. Good. Do that. Now release me.’

‘Very well.’ At the snap of the MC’s fingers, the toaster man and wallpaper lady undo my ropes. ‘A prepaid taxi will be waiting outside to take you home.’

‘Thank you.’ I get up. ‘You know what I like most about this Individualistism?’

My captor’s face lights up. ‘Ooh, do tell!’

‘It means you lot are now out of a job. If everyone does their own thing, why the hell will they need you?’

‘Ah…’

Will I be able to understand any of this? I don’t know legal talk and get lost watching Law and Order.

Okay, they want someone to be foreman. I’m not sure what that is, but I’ll put my hand up anyway.

Aw man, they get to say guilty or not guilty? Wish I’d been picked now.

I bet that wig is heavy.

Alright, this case is about… him robbing him? Better pay attention.

Did I set my Sky+ to record the match?

Wait – I’ve got it set to record the series.

Oh, that dude might have robbed a store…

Whose side is this lawyer on?

I hope they have CCTV of the crime. That would totally shut this lawyer down. Or support them.

Ooh, lunch break.

Aaand we’re back. Different lawyer. Still no CCTV.

God, this is boring.

Let’s see if I can name all the cast from Scrubs.

Braff Chalke Faison Reyes McGinley Jenkins.

Too. Easy.

Closing statements – that means we’re almost done, right?

Time to go into a room and get our Twelve Angry Men on!

Well, that was disappointingly quick. That’swhatshesaid!

And we are done.

Jim felt lousy.  His head ached, his throat was sore, and he still had to get home from work.  The third week in a row that he’d felt like this, but he’d shrugged off his wife’s suggestion that he see a doctor.  He was a working man, and like all working men he wanted to stay that way.  When did he have time to see a doc?

 Jim worked in Manhattan, but lived in Kingsbridge Heights, riding the 4 through the Bronx home. Each night the same, staggering out of the office into the darkness with screen-burnt eyes, only leaving work in daylight in the months around midsummer.  He considered himself one of the fortunate ones, he had a paid up ticket, never had to worry about getting through the walls.  

 The walls were just one of the many changes to have taken place since America had been made great again. It had started with one wall, the ‘Great Wall’ as it was still known.  From a white supremacist viewpoint it had worked, the number of obviously Latino people in the street dwindled away as ever more energetic efforts were made to round up those remaining and deport them to the ‘right side’. For a while there were media reports of a rise in hospital admissions through botched skin bleaching procedures, then the reports died away and the news moved on.

 Jim had hoped that this might be the end of it, he’d voted for Trump, but wasn’t comfortable with how enthusiastic some of his colleagues were about the wall, or mass deportations. Unfortunately, life just seemed to get worse.  Jim blamed the Democrats.  His party had won the election fair and square, but those moaning Liberals wouldn’t shut up about it.  The war of words between neighbours grew ever fiercer.  Where cities once had Jewish or Black neighbourhoods, Democrat or Republican neighbourhoods sprang up to replace them.  Kingsbridge Heights had once been a Latino neighbourhood, but since the Latino people had been moved on, it was now proudly Republican.   Violence sprang up between rival areas that bordered each other, often encouraged by party activists.  Each party rushed to accuse the other of causing each public attack, and who came off worst was largely decided by the political affiliations of the local police chief and the local media.  

 Eventually, in an effort to stem the rising violence, Trump decided that if walls worked in Mexico, they could work in cities too.  Troublesome neighbourhoods had walls built round them with security checks at the borders. If you’d caused trouble in a neighbourhood that wasn’t your own, you’d get permanently refused access to it at the border.  If there were only two neighbourhoods bordering your own, and you got barred from them both, you were effectively incarcerated.  Ticket prices rose to pay for the extra security, and if you didn’t have ID and a paid up ticket, you weren’t allowed through.

 Jim had watched a documentary on someone who’d got trapped in a suburb of Boston, and it had redoubled his determination to hang onto his job and just sit through whatever happened in the future without drawing attention to himself.  Modern America was a place to conform.  

The announcement came at 3.30am; Magdread the Mighty was the new President of the Democratic Kingdom of Peasants with Torches.  His was an unprecedented victory over the Aristocrats, nobody could remember the last time a Peasant was elected, let alone one from the feared Warrior class.  Protesters took to the streets chanting “Not my President!”

 In the morning, the grey faced Aristocrats gathered to watch Magdread’s speech, their eyes darting from side to side.

Magdread spoke honestly to the fearful people, saying he’d unite them all - the Warriors, Farmers, Office Peasants and Aristocrats. He recognised the need for change that led to his election, but admitted that he hadn’t expected victory and would be asking for help.  This attempt at humility was his first mistake.

 When he returned to his cave, gilded with the spoils of a thousand battles and decorated with the skulls of his enemies, Magdread was informed that the Aristocrats had come.  Magdread was tired, he wanted to eat, drink and sleep in the arms of his favourite concubine, Woman the Silent, but he also knew he must not turn the Aristocrats away.  He sat in his great chair and welcomed the grey men, allowing them to sit in his presence, offering them the services of his women, which they declined.

“Magdread the Mighty,” the elder stated, “we fear you’d find running a country boring. There are lots of meetings and journeys to foreign lands where you could not take your concubines or drink wine.  You would have to make decisions over trivial matters.  We suggest you have another President behind the scenes to deal with these things. Then you could focus on the war with the Kingdom of Isis.”

Magdread stroked his beard, this sounded reasonable, he could focus on chopping off the heads of his enemies and raping their women; “Who will this be?” he asked.

A man stepped forward out of the shadows, immaculately dressed in a tailored suit; “I’m Derek.”

Magdread’s eyes narrowed, he distrusted Office Peasants, but at least it was not an Aristocrat.

“Don’t Magdread,” his least favourite concubine, Woman the Opinionated whispered, “this man is controlled by Aristocrats.”

“Silence woman!”  Magdread roared, “you are decoration not counsel!  Bring wine for Derek, he will be second President!”

 At first Magdread was pleased, he rode to battle against the Kingdom of Isis and when he got home he bullied his slaves and exploited his concubines.  However, one day he returned to find Derek with some documents for him to sign.  “You don’t need to read them, I’ve already done so.”

Magdread snatched the papers, read them and threw them into the fire.  “You were cancelling the things the people want me to do.”

“The people don’t really want to eat raw meat, Mr President,” said Derek, “they just say they do.  Making it law that every woman has a son is ludicrous; as is the burning of places that provide an end to unwanted pregnancies.  Further, the wall you want to build between here and the Unhappy Kingdom of Poverty is lunacy, how will the migrants get through?  The migrants are useful, they will work for next to nothing.”

“If we leave employment laws as they are and shout at them loud enough our people will work for nearly nothing,” argued Magdread.

“Magdread,” Derek said softly, “listen.”

The cave went silent, Magdread could hear the chants outside it; “Not my President!  Not my President!”

“If you put an end to these proposals, these people will love you as your Warriors do …”

“But the people voted …”

“They don’t know what they want.  Trust me, I know these things.  I am the second President and you swore you would listen to me.  I’ve written a speech for you to give tomorrow. I’ll be with you; I will stand beside the podium.”

 The next day Magdread reluctantly delivered his speech, telling the people they must cook their meat, that women could still get rid of unwanted pregnancies and that the wall would not be built.  Afterwards there was silence, even his faithful Warrior Peasants were glaring at him.

“Coward!” someone shouted.

“Liar!”

“You said those things so we would vote for you!”

Something caught in Magdread’s peripheral vision, he saw an Aristocrat shaking Derek’s hand.

“I’ve been tricked!” he cried, tearing up the speech, “I was told you didn’t really want these things, but you do!”

“Is it true there is a second President?”  It was the cunning voice of Woman the Opinionated.

“Yes!” cried Magdread, “they told me he would act for me so I could fight Isis!”

Derek began backing away from the edge of the podium, but in three great strides, Magdread had caught him; “Here he is, the Office Peasant!  The most elite of all Peasants!  He eats avocado for breakfast, he lets his woman advise him, he goes to the theatre in the evenings and insists that we treat migrants fairly!  He saves his gold and aspires to be an Aristocrat!”

A chant arose from the Warriors and Farmers; “Kill him! Kill him!”

The Office Peasants and Aristocrats tried to flee from the room, but the Warriors barred their way.

In later life, my father became a religious extremist.

No, not Taliban, not Jihadist, nor devotee of Islamic State, Boko Haram or any of the other zealots we hear so much about on the news nowadays.

What I mean is, he was a fully paid-up, mainline, hard-core, born-again Christian.

He didn’t just believe in Jesus and his teachings as laid out in the New Testament; he also considered everything he read in the Old Testament to be literally true. To him, Eve really was persuaded by the serpent to take fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and share it with Adam in disobedience to God’s command. He believe in the Fall of Man due to this Original Sin which has cast an evil shadow over every human being born since. Even me.

Perhaps, in his eyes, especially me because I was born out of my parents’ lust and fornication. My mother had paid the ultimate penalty for her part in this sin by dying in childbirth.

As a consequence, my father chose to hide us away from society, and we became recluses. He bought a remote property in the Scottish Highlands and stocked it like a survivalist - creating his very own Garden of Eden.

He taught me to read and write; naturally my main textbook was the King James Version of The Holy Bible. But in earlier days, my father had been a Classics lecturer, and had all the famous volumes of tragedy, comedy, poetry, history and philosophy, in both Latin and Greek, and this too he imparted to me.

Obviously we had no internet access, telephone, TV or radio, and no electricity or mains water supply. When we weren’t cultivating the land and preserving the produce, we filled our days with reading. We lived a simple, frugal life for many years.

One day, my father, now using a cane and able to get around only with the greatest difficulty, lost his footing at the top of the stairs and experienced the Fall of Man in a very real and personal way. I buried him next to my mother’s memorial stone.

Having pondered deeply over the question of what to do next, I decided to head off and see if the world was as wicked as my father had maintained. I filled a backpack with all that I could carry and stood in the garden. With no compass or map to guide me,  I simply chose a direction at random and set off.

I lock the door behind us, climb up into the van and take a last look before dropping the keys into your bag. I can see the house in the mirror as we reach the end of the road and take a left.   ‎ The place we move into is nice, spring turns into summer, we talk about the old house less. Every now and then we lose something, and come across a set of keys ‎to the old place while turning out drawers.  We mention it to each other when this happens, and neither of us say anything more, but a shadow passes across us both. ‎ ‎It’s autumn when the problems start. You’re working late a lot, I spend too much time by myself and fall back into destructive behaviours.  ‎ We move again, closer to your work, a smaller, more manageable space.  Things aren’t better. The new apartment is dark, we both feel confined rather than comfortable. The rows escalate and we sleep apart.   There are boxes we haven’t got room to unpack‎. Occasionally we move them in a frustrated search for some missing item and hear keys rattling at the bottom of a box.